Published March 29, 2020
(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)
"I've been going out of my mind. I hope that you don't run from me."
Harry Styles | If I Could Fly
They played Bowie's Lazarus over the loudspeakers and I was surprised I already knew the lyrics. For me, it embodied something spooky. Something vague and unnamable, like preconceived notions of one's own death...or reanimated corpses. It put me in the mood for nighttime driving and—well, tequila. Somehow I saw myself rambling through the streets of a rural Mexican town in the wee hours; traversing roads that connected rows of drab buildings—unpeopled and spectral. Yes, I wanted to be a ghost for a while, and this tune would suit my exploits well.
At my urging, our table debated the irony of Bowie releasing a song called Lazarus days before his death. I held that nothing was coincidence when it came to that man. He'd planned this, and here we were falling into his delicately laid trap by arguing and not just recognizing it for the ingenious ploy it truly was. Several people popped over and escalated the discussion, making ours the liveliest table, especially since it housed the man of the hour.
Irving fielded more greetings and questions than the President of the Academy, and he did it all with a unwaning, nearly divine smile. Remaining jovial the entire evening, he never allowed his exasperation to be known. His expression was always one of warmth and humility—damn I was in love with that man. If I could emulate even the least of his grace with even a fraction of his success at his age, I would consider myself accomplished.
**********
We sat through a few speeches, the first by the President of the Academy and later a few performances. I couldn't keep my eyes off my phone. Glenne tapped my screen to let me know I was missing something, and I looked up to see Corden take the stage. He was ace at extempore speeches, so I didn't worry overmuch that he'd been drinking and might forget his lines. He talked about the new show and how his idea for carpool karaoke was initially ill-received, then ended with a light roast of the guests in the front row.
Later Gwen and Blake started going at it from across the room, so their tablemates deflected and suppressed nervous laughter. Somehow she had made her way to his lap, and they were so close to snogging that half the room was rapt and waiting on them to make a move.
Finally Irving was honored with the Merit Award for Industry Icons, presented by the President of the Academy. I watched his rosy nose drip as he gave an emotional speech from a few sheets of papers. I could tell how much his fingers were trembling by the way the papers quivered. Tonight, he seemed unequivocally human.
I always marveled at how small he was, for such a titan. Unlike most in his position, it was easy to imagine him as a simpler man in another life. He struck me particularly as a history teacher, or the bishop of a local diocese. Nothing too spectacular. Nothing scandalous either, since even in my weird alternative universe he proved shrewd, gentle, and considerate.
Suddenly James' voice was at my ear, his breath hot with tequila. The damn tequila I wanted and had denied myself for months. He was speaking through gritted teeth, so it took a while to decipher what he'd said, but when I did, the words gave me palpitations.
I sat my phone aside to keep from dropping it, and clenched my fists so that my fingers would stop their trembling (I fumbled a lot when I got like this). I scanned the room and—despite all the moving bodies—found him immediately. In a fraction of a second. It was as if hundreds of tables had parted to lend me an unimpeded vantage. As if a shaft of light had fallen to illuminate him in the distance—like a ship moored in the moonlit offing.
His white shirt glowed in the low-light, a beacon at the end of my tapering vision. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and the buttons were undone around the collar, lending the look a casual air. My buttons were done up around my throat, and I had gone for the full black jacket and trouser. He had skipped the former, and opted for a funky belt instead. For f—ks sake, I was already fixating on his clothes. I was already comparing us.
There was a woman with him, probably a manager, but there didn't appear to be anyone else. I waited, expecting HER to come strutting in and taking the seat at his other side, but she never did. At the mere thought of her, I grew overheated, the flush traveling down my spine and back up to burn my neck and the tips of my ears.
Tugging my collar away from my throat, I rasped and played it off with a hem. He was there. In real life; in the flesh. Just seconds ago, I had no f--king clue I would ever see him again, least of all here. But there he was. And I couldn't fathom why. This wasn't his thing. This wasn't his scene. What the hell was he trying to prove?
A quick recline in my chair ensured I was covered, since I intended to study him and not be seen. My eyes strained with the effort, since the lights in his area were low, but I refused to forfeit the opportunity. His hair was relatively long, since it always grew rapidly. The sides were faded from what I could see, and the front was quiffed and died as usual. Months ago, he had shaven it all off, down to a buzz-cut that hardened him and lent him the look of someone from the streets; and I had marveled at how good he looked bald. It was a drastic move implemented as the final nail in the coffin of "1D Zayn" or "Zayn from 1D".
This new Zayn? This man? I knew nothing of him. He was a free agent with a killer record deal—with lots of rings and a faultless wardrobe. From what I could see, he still worked with Caroline for major events, and she hadn't failed him yet. But there was something else I couldn't quite make-out in his demeanor. Disdain? Pride? Arrogance? He had always been vain, so I ruled that out right away. It must've been confidence. Newfound confidence, particularly after that crazy debut on the Billboard. Number f—king one. Blowing One Direction's Billboard record out of the water in a single try. Who knew this guy possessed that kind of power? Part of me did, so part of me was proud of him, but the rest of me had begun to see him as competition.
With him out of my life, he was dangerous. Intimidating, even. Outrageously good-looking, fashionable, in high demand, and his music was better than I imagined it would be. I knew in the months to come that everything I did, and everything I tried to create would be held under a microscope for him having done it first. We would be compared without remit by every opinionated fan and media publication looking for a hot take, and in that case, someone would always have to come out on the losing end. For the life of me, I couldn't imagine him losing, so that left it to me.
I envied him in the sense that he got to set the precedent, and it would be his bar that I aimed for, hoping to even come close. But I was also excited. I wanted our music to be mentioned in the same breath and compared for the rest of our lives, because even if we were estranged, our legacies could be remembered in conjunction with one another. And in that regard, I felt no envy. I longed to hurry in his wake. I didn't mind walking in his shadow. And maybe one day if I were lucky, he'd slow down and look back at me and smile. And he would tell me he liked my work just as much as I liked his.
When I felt myself getting choked up, I grabbed what was left of Glenne's martini out of her hand and swallowed it in one gulp. She fumed at me and took the olive before I could bite into it. I promised to get her another, though it was a lie. I couldn't bear to look up again, least of all rise and risk drawing attention to myself.
"I'm going to kill you if you don't get me another!" She hissed, glaring at the stage as another speech began.
"Later..." I promised.
I reclined again and took another appraisal of the impeccably groomed stranger in the white shirt. And whatever it was I couldn't distinguish in his carriage, seemed to be the very thing that had replaced all things familiar. Unapproachable, was the word that occurred to me now. My stomach knotted with the realization. Our estrangement had fallen far beyond the realms of a congenial reunion. Far beyond the awkward handshake and the "long time no see". Things had gotten so bad that it was best they just remain that way; entirely irreconcilable.
He grinned at something onstage, but I was too late to catch the punchline. Not that he would want me to anyway. I wasn't a part of this life anymore. I shouldn't be laughing at the things he laughed at now, especially not without his knowledge. There were no more inside jokes or remembering little things throughout the day to share with each other at night. He was an individual, entirely indifferent to whatever the hell we once were. A "solo artist". An emerging "R&B artist" with a smash hit under his belt, already being spoken of in the same breath as people like Frank Ocean and the Weekend.
I smiled a little when I realized I was stalking him, but I didn't care. I loved his hair. From where I sat it looked bright pink. The tips at least. Actually, I'm certain it was bright pink, based on the selfie he posted that morning...
He was starting to get fidgety. I knew that look. He was restless; becoming uncomfortable with the scale of the event. With all the ridiculous pageantry. Just about now he probably wanted to excuse himself to have a smoke at the backdoor. He whispered something to the woman, but she didn't seem to comply with whatever he had said. A cageyness had overtaken his body language, the kind I always sought to sooth in long car rides or in the greenrooms during press junkets.
I looked away, watching the stage unseeingly. Now I was scowling. How had I allowed him to alter my mood already? I crunched my toes in my shoes before shaking my leg beneath the table. When the glassware began to clink, Glenne set a hand to my knee.
"What's wrong? Did someth—" Before she could finish, she noticed my gaze and followed it to HIM. He was sipping from a short glass of who knows what. Probably not water. He smiled again when the woman whispered something in his ear. She had a remarkable grin that I could see even from where I sat. Large teeth and a high forehead—she definitely wasn't his date.
Every so often his fingers shot to his face out of habit, and in an attempt to ease his discomfort he scratched away at his eyebrow. I could never tell who was the more socially awkward of the two of us, but tonight he had me beat.
"Did you know he'd be here?" Glenne hissed to Jeff.
"I heard—but I had no way of actually knowing—"
"Don't turn around." I growled through clenched teeth. "F--ks sake, mate, what're you trying to do to me?"
Later, Earth, Wind, and Fire took the stage and it was like a religious experience. By the time they'd gone, Zayn still hadn't noticed me, and I wanted it to stay that way. Applause filled the room and I glanced back at the stage to see Manilow set to perform. I checked my phone and it was well after eleven. Noting the best exits, I devised a plan to leave without being seen.
"Harrrry!" A woman sang from across the room. "Harry?! 'arry, luv! Look 'ere, I'm 'ere!" Adele stood and laughed her ridiculous laugh and waved me over. I blew a few quick kisses in hopes they would suffice, but she insisted I come over still. I had to decide whether or not to disappoint her, or to risk it all and blow my cover. Soon she took note of my reluctance and pouted, tracing a fake tear down her cheek. I got up immediately and made my way to her. Crouching, I managed not to be seen. We hugged awkwardly because I was half squatting, and the entire table laughed at our stupidity.
When I returned to my seat and straightened my coat, HE was staring across the room...directly at me. I nearly swallowed my tongue. My stomach twisted. I couldn't catch my breath. We watched each other for a while, his face deadpan and unreadable, before he brought a few fingers to the top of his head in a lazy sort of salute. I lifted a hand and inclined my head in response. He smirked, but it was half-hearted. Then he dragged his attention back to the stage and seemed to forget he ever saw me.
Later when my table got up to leave, we locked eyes and he lifted a few more fingers in a sad little farewell wave. It was accompanied by that familiar half-smile—all his. In it I heard:
"Sorry I couldn't come over, but it was good to see you". That's all. There was nothing more to be had; nothing more to read into it. I knew he had made a concerted effort to avoid giving the impression that there was more. I couldn't bring myself to smile back, but as we watched each other on my way out of the room, I finally stopped scowling.
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