This Thing Upon Me [Order The eBook] [Harry Styles]

Chapter 8

"It was more like his assistant got in touch with my assistant sort of thing...and then they left a voicemail, and then eventually I heard about it."

"Sooo...no one actually spoke?" He asked, just short of calling me pathetic. My embarrassment was mounting.

"To be honest, no. It was all voicemails and secondhand sh-t."

"And that's what you're smiling about?" He puzzled, sneering. "Really dude?"

"Mate, c'mon." I shook my head and grabbed a hold of my glass, but didn't drink. I was relieved when the waitress came and took our orders, but still mortified that he wasn't impressed. But it's not his fault. He had no clue of what had gone on between us. No one knew what it was like to love him the way I do.

I lost my appetite halfway through realizing how fragile the Zayn connection was. It was dependent on multiple third and fourth parties and tons of circumstantial factors that had the potential to fail and separate us for another six months. I had to be proactive. Before I could even ask Jeff to reach out for me, he started up again.

"I'm hearing good stuff about the Nolan thing." And just like that I was onto something else.

"Already? That's incredible! To be fair, I thought I f--ked that up. Mate, I was so nervous..." He laughed, scrolling through his phone which he held up in front of his face.

"They said we're still in talks. They said they liked you for the bit you read, and for something else they had in mind. They said—well, they asked about your schedule." He smiled to himself before reading the next part. "Then they said: would you be willing to cut your hair if the part required?"

"What'd you tell them?"

"I said: hell no!" I threatened to dip my finger in his wine.

"Jefferrrrry...?"

"'Course I told them you'd do it! I told 'em we'd cut pubes and all and send 'em proof if they want."

"Dirty bits of hair in a Ziplock." I snorted. "I'm so fooking down. I'd cut it all right now, I swear."

"We'll get there." He set his phone aside with a devious grin. He kept it unlocked to keep an eye on an active thread.

The salads arrived and we scarfed them down with too much bread. A few more fans approached and I began to regret eating outside, especially once the sun became direct. I ordered wine with my entrée and realized too late my stomach was still a little weak from last night.

"What's wrong? Indigestion?" Jeff asked through a mouthful of penne, noticing me holding the top of my gut. I belched into my fist and tried to straighten up. I couldn't be sick again. Not now. I had a sh-t ton to do and had already wasted the morning in bed.

"I'm good...I'm good."

"You ever gonna finish telling me about this Zayn thing?" I met his eyes over my wine and they were curious, but mostly impassive. He was feigning interest on my behalf, having realized the subject was an obsession for me. Classic Jeffery. He was a decent guy.

"Nothing to tell really..." I shrugged, affecting indifference. "We used to be really close, but then we weren't...and now we're here."

"Right...speaking through voicemails?"

"Speaking through voicemails." I nodded.

"But wasn't he like a dick to you or something?"

"No, not really..." I chewed my upper lip when his eyes zeroed in on me. Damn if he wasn't a human polygraph, just like his dad.

"But didn't he leave without telling you guys or something, like mid-tour? That's...well: A dick move."

"Yeah...but there's a lot more to it, y'know?"

"Like what? More douche-baggery?" I let out a weak chuckle. He was such a prick sometimes.

"Look, mate, I knew him for a while. He's a decent guy. I'm not gonna suddenly deny all that. I'm not gonna sit here and let one f--k-up redefine someone's entire character for me. It's like...I think..." I stopped to gather my thoughts, watching traffic for a bit. 

"I've seen way too much of who he really is, y'know? Way too much to judge him based on one bad day—or more like a bad week. So, I can't exactly condemn him for leaving...not after how it all played out...leading up to it."

"Regardless of what happened leading up, he didn't care enough to be respectable before he left. After everything you'd been through together? Forgive me, Harvey, but I've known you since you were what? Eighteen? You're an incredible kid, and I wouldn't dream of treating you that way. Not even if you fired me."

While I understood his frustration with how bad it all sounded, he (like most people) didn't understand how it really was. Asia had become a nightmare for our relationship—especially Japan. With each country we moved on to, it became harder and harder to pretend onstage. I regret now that the fans didn't see the best of me, but there was far too much going on behind the scenes for me to be my best in front of thousands of expectant strangers. I really did try, though. Each and every night.

During the Asia leg, I could barely look at him. I sensed the changes in his personality as if he was slowly shedding an outer layer of skin or removing a mask he had worn dutifully for five years without fail. It was nerve-wracking. There were new aspects to his character that hadn't been apparent before, each lashing out at me and demanding space. 

His cousin accompanied him in those final shows, and since then, he never came back into my reach. Singapore was the final straw. He started slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate, and from that moment forward everything I did was just a lousy attempt to cling to what was left of him (until finally I was grasping at nothing but air).

He just didn't want to be there, and this sometimes translated into him undermining our appearance onstage and undercutting our energy as a band. And the fans could see that sh-t too—which is what pissed me off the most. He was becoming cold and increasingly unconcerned with anyone apart from himself—becoming more and more absent while we performed.

In retrospect, he probably didn't know how to feel. He was caught between wanting to pursue his own happiness and letting down millions. No one could understand what that pressure was like, least of all me, and I was grateful that the ultimate outcome (unprecedented solo success) lent credence to the idea that pressure indeed made diamonds. And the guy I'd met last night was a diamond if I ever saw one.

Before he left, Zayn had been cornered by two frightening choices, both having chased him for years like two hell-hounds nipping at his heels. He could either stay and play to the masses and be miserable and ill, or he could leave and walk into a grave unknown, entirely alone. (Alienated, disoriented, having zero guarantees of success, and just hoping he'd eventually find his way). He was one of the bravest and most divergent bastards I'd ever known, so of course he chose the latter.

It upset me to look back on how insurmountable it all was for someone his age, (now that I was capable of removing myself from the apprehension I felt over losing him). He had no one to turn to and I didn't make things any easier for him. Not for a second. I wish I could go back now and reassure that 22 year old Zayn and apologize for contributing to his stress at the time, but these things always seemed more feasible in hindsight.

I thought back to his face that day and remembered there were no tears. He had been scarily unemotional—just done with everything and everyone around him, including me. And I guess I had enough emotion that night for the both of us. I remembered being on my knees in front of the door in his hotel room, blocking him from leaving once we fought. I grabbed his hands and they had been cold—much like the rest of him. There were no words left in Hong Kong. We had said all that needed to be said days before in Thailand. 

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