stars and terrain (zayn malik)

Chapter 37

Charlotte

I'm starting to get used to the paparazzi. It's a weird sensation, when you start being able to ignore strangers knowing your name and screaming it in an attempt to snap your picture. But when we leave the restaurant where we stopped to grab take out for lunch and they seem to appear out of nowhere I'm not even fazed.

I'm getting better at keeping my head down, and it's much easier when my paparazzi pro of a boyfriend is there to lead me by the hand. He gets me into the car first before rounding it to drive us out of the madness.

"That's just a preview of what's to come," he winks at me once we've safely maneuvered out of the parking lot. I can't imagine a place where it's concentrated and sanctioned to take millions of pictures. But at least we'll be on the carpet and they're a safe distance away. And it's organized and not utter chaos like it usually is.

We drive along the ocean on the way home and I make him practice a speech in case he wins tonight. He teases that he will only thank God and "Charlotte Emily Ray" and I giggle.

"How many are you up for?" I ask. I know I read it in an article yesterday but I can't remember. I got too hung up on the way it mentioned his "model girlfriend" will be attending, and how sources said Zayn arranged for her to buy "anything she wanted" to wear to the awards.

Thanks to some loose lipped Saks employees.

"Three," he replies, so nonchalantly.

"And how many do you already have?"

"Two," he replies, just as blandly.

"So winning isn't exciting?"

"I didn't say that," he said, shaking his head. "The year I won those two was one of the greatest nights of my life... Until I met you, of course."

I roll my eyes. I'm nothing compared to the single biggest achievement in music and he's silly.

"You just don't care if you win this year?"

"I would love to win," he says seriously. "I really want to win. And now that I'm writing, next time if I can win singing my own songs... then I will really want to win. You know?"

I nod. I vaguely remember the year he won. It was two years ago, and his name was everywhere. He was the biggest thing in the world.

It's surreal to think it's the same person driving the car and holding my hand as we wind up to the house we sort of live in together. And that back then he didn't know me and I only knew him as a massive celebrity.

"Is there one that you want to win more than the others?"

"Record of the year. I'd rather win just that than the two others," he replies, nodding to the air like he's affirming it to the universe.

"I see," I say softly, not really knowing what all the categories mean. They all sound so similar. But I trust that the musical expert beside me must know.

"Man I missed this place," his voice is soft as he parks the car in the garage.

We settle in the kitchen and eat our Chinese take out like we're a totally normal couple and one half of us isn't the favorite to win a huge award on international television tonight.

After I catch him up on the reality show we're addicted to that he's been missing on tour, I push over the last half of my orange chicken towards him.

His eyes bug out of his head. "What's this?"

"Did you see the dress I need to put on in an hour?"

"Do you realize how perfect you are?"
I drop my eyes and mumble a thanks. I've never been good at taking compliments, and he dishes them out so often.