The Worst

Chapter 11

Charlie’s POV

I’m beyond late. I might as well just throw in the towel at this very moment, because there’s no way he’s going to still want to go out with me. And I was actually looking forward to this date, so this sucks.

Zayn didn’t really seem too fazed by my sudden panic attack back in American Apparel, and it felt like it took him forever to pay for stuff while I went out to hail a cab (and no one stopped for me, so I had to wait for him anyway.)

Hopefully he didn’t spend too much money on Marley.

And speaking of Zayn, I’m not sure what was in the process of happening back there, but whatever it was-this was the second time. And I wasn’t going to stop it-also for the second time. I think it was just a heat of the moment kind of thing, though. Again. Just....two coincidences, really. 

But the really scary part was how much I wanted him to kiss me. And how I find myself wanting to know even now what his lips taste like. Because let’s be honest, they tasted of nothing but alcohol during the party where Marley was conceived. But I feel like they would taste like mint and probably nicotine-a weirdly tingly and soothing combination (I know from the past couple of days from living with him, that he does, in fact, like to keep a clean mouth.)

I shake the thought as the anxious feeling becomes more intense. But no matter how hard I try, Zayn snakes his way into my mind. The look he held in his sunset-colored eyes right before his lips were to connect with mine was the look that told me that even if for just that moment, it was me he wanted. And weirdly enough, that didn’t freak me out. 

Still I hate when this happens because it leaves the both of us in a weird place-where I don’t know to do next and neither does he; which is definitely why he’s been insanely quiet the entire cab ride. My eyes lock with his from time to time, but neither of us says anything. Besides, one of us always looks away before the other even has the chance to speak. Even now, as I find my eyes subconsciously drifting over, his perfect facial silhouette rests limply against the window, lost in thought, eyes geared towards what’s on the other side of the glass.

And then it hits me. 

He made me late on purpose. He knew exactly what he was doing, while I'm over here feeling like an idiot, trying to figure things out.

"You knew I was gonna be late," I whisper, but I know he heard it-I just know. 

"I didn't--"

"Stop it! You purposely made me late for this date because you don't want me to go and actually have a good time, for once."

"Uh...no," his eyes briefly fix on me, seeming to be filled with guilt. 

"Wow, that's a low move. Even for you..."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Even for me?"

I cross my arms in front of me. "You know exactly what it means." 

"No, I don't, Einstein. But I'm sure you're gonna tell me all about it since you know every fucking thing."

I don't even bother to answer him. I already know he made me late, anyway, so what's the point of arguing over it.

"You see, this is what makes me so fucking mad. You think you can figure shit out so easily and that you know exactly what I'm thinking, but you don't know the first fucking thing about me, nor do you even care to learn. So do me a favor and quit acting like you do," he spits, his eyes still fixed on the window. But his hands are now balled up in fists resting against his thighs. And I don't know if he's talking about acting like I know all about him, or acting like I care. Or both.