The Worst

Chapter 45

Zayn’s POV

Two

Fucking

Weeks.

Two long weeks of hell, is what I’d call it.

I take another long, burning swig from the vodka bottle. It’s been two God damned weeks and I haven’t so much as heard from her. She hasn’t brought Marley by, she hasn’t called, texted-nothing. So the burn of the vodka, while it’s up there, really doesn’t compare to the burning hole my stupid cell phone leaves in my hand, where it’s been permanently glued since she left. At first, I couldn’t even bring myself to dial her number. Call me selfish, but I wanted her to be the one to reach out to me.

But once I started drinking, all of that went out the window. Calling, texting, calling, voicemail after voicemail...

So one more shouldn’t hurt, right?

And for the fourth time this morning, the phone goes right to voicemail without so much as a ring. “You know…you can’t do this. It’s not fair,” I slur through the receiver, sounding a lot less confident and angry than I had on the other messages. And as far as being uncomfortable, I passed that stage a few swigs ago. “I want to see my kid. I want to see you. Fuck, it’s not fair. I’m sorry…it’s just…he was making me mad. So mad. And he hurt you. And that’s not ok…it’s not ok.” I let my head fall to the back of the couch, hiccupping. I better not fucking throw up. “I don’t regret it though. I’d do it again, and I think we both know that. All of it, I’d do it all again,” I sigh, nearly dropping the phone into my lap. “Especially meeting you. Yeah, I’d do that again. Please, babe. Just…I miss y-”

With the voicemail cutting me off, I let my new iPhone 6 fall to the couch beside me.

To say I miss them is an understatement. To say I’ve kind of fell off would be an even bigger understatement. I’ve done nothing but smoke and drink myself right into numbness, blocking it out like I’m used to doing. But none of that helps; it hasn’t been enough to take away the dulling sting that’s ripping me apart. God, imagine what I’d be like if something actually happened to them? Like, if she was actually leaving me?

Like, she’s not even my fucking girlfriend yet and this is how it feels? What the fuck’s happened to me? Why do I care so much? When did I get to the point where I started to care so much? God, what a weakness; feelings and what not. It’s just so much easier to close yourself off.

I’m about to fire up a cigarette-screw going outside (although I have been going outside, thinking that Marley would be back), when the doorbell rings. It’s probably Harry and Eleanor again. They’ve been here a few times to check on me during the past couple of weeks, and each time I’ve been more and more of a mess.

“My goodness, Zayn.” Eleanor and Harry step in the apartment, El being the first to comment on my appearance. It’s only been three weeks since we came back from Bradford, but my hair’s gotten significantly longer; I’ll have to get it cut soon, before Christmas, I guess. The fringe keeps falling into my eyes, and I look like a caveman with the whole beard thing I’ve got going on. But that’s irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, really.

“Boyfriend! You know, I’m really gonna need you to do something with yourself. How do you expect me to go out in public with you like this? I refuse-I won’t have it. No Harry time until you--”

“Shut up, your hair’s greasy today,” I mutter, not really in the mood for his jokes.

He runs a hand through his freshly cut mane before shaking it out. “I’m gonna let that one slide because I know you’re particularly fragile right now.”