stars and terrain (zayn malik)

Chapter 43

Charlotte

I've gotten spoiled by the Mercedes, so much so that I forgot what it's like to drive so low to the ground in my shitty old beater.

But I couldn't stay in that house and I couldn't risk him coming to find me and continuing the fight so I needed to get out of there and taking the Mercedes he bought seemed hypocritical.

Putting his black cut off tank top back on was probably hypocritical too, but I was wearing that and yoga pants and driving aimlessly down Pacific Coast Highway with country music blaring loud.

Country music is the perfect genre when you're mad at someone. Almost everything is about cheating men and doomed love and I'm not disappointed by the upbeat tune bursting through my shitty speakers.

My phone is on the passenger seat and it's lighting up intermittently with calls from Zayn that I don't answer and I want to call Alli but I don't want to rehash the fight again. I just want to clear my head.

I know I'm booking things because of my newfound notoriety. I get it. But I didn't need to be reminded by the reason I'm getting the attention. I don't need to feel like I not only owe him for the place I'm living and the car I usually drive, but even for the money I'm making.

Everything in my life is Zayn right now and I'm about to leave with him for weeks and live in a world where everyone else's life is Zayn and I'm having doubts as to whether I'm ready.

I find myself heading towards my favorite ice cream shop in Brentwood. The one where everything is organic and I originally laughed and made fun of it because even if it's organic you're still eating ice cream, but then I tried it and I was converted.

So even though I have been offered a bikini shoot in two days, I stand in the long line out the door and wait to get a scoop of my overpriced, fancy ice cream.

My phone keeps lighting up and for the first time I register how many other calls besides Zayn have come through. My mom. And Alli. And Josh. And random other people I care less about. And numbers I don't even know. And then I remember how many pictures were taken of me last night.

I must be a pretty big story.

Then I hear the buzzing, like I'm used to hearing with Zayn but it's only for me. A couple of girls in uniforms who probably just got out of the local high school are giggling and pointing and doing a really bad job of taking discreet pictures of me.

I shuffle on my feet awkwardly, and realize the black tank top emblazoned with an MTV logo is pretty easily identifiable as being his and now I'm mad. Because I'm mad at him and this is the reason why.

My life is different because I'm identifiable as his, and even when I'm trying to run away from that these girls probably recognize he wears this shirt on stage a lot and I'm just helping them.

Fortunately none of the other bourgeoisie ice cream goers seem to notice me aside from the girls and another group of high school aged kids.

I get to the front, order my scoop of mint chocolate chip and then run to hide and eat it in my car. As I scoop the last bite in my mouth my phone lights up with a text.

"Can you bring me home some ice cream too?"

I groan. I don't know how he found out but I have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with the amateur paparazzi in line.

~*~

"How did you know where I was?" I ask, two hours later after I've driven around aimlessly some more and ended up back in our driveway.

I find him in the room we deemed his man cave, wearing a black t-shirt lounging back on the black sofa and playing video games.

He looks too happy to see me, like he wasn't sure I'd be coming back. He should know I'm incapable of staying away from his stupidly beautiful face.

"I was just playing because I was going crazy," he says instantly standing up and scrambling to shut off the PlayStation, like I'd be mad that he's playing games after our fight. "Like actually crazy. I didn't know if you were coming back and I didn't want to fuck up anything or break anything else and I needed something to do with my hands."

"Anything else? What did you break?" I ask, biting my lip from where I've stayed rooted in the doorway.

"A wine glass," he says sheepishly. "I knew you wouldn't really care..."

I groan. Because he looks up at me through those lashes and he's got his feet propped up on the table and he's sitting like such a normal human but he looks so inhumanly beautiful. And of course he would only break something he knows I wouldn't miss.

I cross the room and fall down beside him. "How did you know where I was?"

"Twitter," he offers with a shrug. "Just punched your name in. Some girls spotted you in line."

It's unsettling, but I need to get over it. Like he needs to get over modeling gigs.

"Can you hear me out, about the modeling thing? I've spent the last three hours trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding like a psycho dick."

He's calm, really calm, and I appreciate it. I'm glad I left to clear my head because I feel calmer about it all too.

"I have to give up a lot because of my job. And because of that, just because you're around me you are going to have to give up a lot too. And I'm already proper fucking terrified that one day that's going to be what makes you run."

He pauses, his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and I follow it greedily, reminded we haven't had sex since he landed yesterday morning.

"You're already going to have a weird level of being known, which, I mean, I just gathered where you were from twitter so I think you know that," the left side of his mouth rises in the sad way I've become familiar with. "No one told me what this life was going to be like, and I love you and I have a chance to tell you. You start doing these big shoots, especially the kind that the blogs will love to run with like a bikini shoot, and... there goes your privacy. There goes whatever you still have left after deciding to date me. And I feel bad enough about taking the first chunk from you and I just... I just want to protect you."

Framed that way, less jealousy and more concern, which sounds much more like the Zayn I know, it's a lot easier to digest.

"And selfishly, I already have to share almost everything with everyone and I would just like to keep you for myself."

He gives me adorable puppy dog eyes and they look up at me through those dark lashes and I sigh. How can I deliberately do something that is going to make him look like that?

"So, if I get an offer for a clothing line, you're okay with that?" I ask caving and trying to sort out the blurry lines. "You just think bikinis and lingerie shoots will be the wrong kind of attention?"

"I think anything where you're not wearing a lot of clothing the blogs will have a field day with, and it will tie you stronger to me because people are fascinated by our relationship."

"That sounds like Jane," I say, referring to his publicist. I spent enough time around her yesterday to pick up on how she frames things.

"I called her," he admits bashfully. "I asked to see what she thinks of the offers... to see what she would tell you to do."

"She didn't think it was a good idea either?"

"Jane is Jane, she thinks differently than all of us. She originally said wait out for a bigger brand. But she said she'd consult with you if you'd like."

"Can I call her?" I ask. It sounds like a good idea. I have no idea what to do and my agent is trying to push me to capitalize on everything that comes in.

"Sure," Zayn finds her contact info and hands over his phone. "I'll leave you to it if you..."

He gestures to the door and stands up lamely. I can tell he's treating me like glass, unsure if I've forgiven him yet or not. I grab pathetically at his arm as the phone rings twice and Jane answers and Zayn settles back on the couch against me, an adorable smile lighting up his face.

I still don't really know if I really have forgiven him yet, but I suspect since the thought of him leaving my side sounds awful I probably have.