You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Eleven

Zayn:

Harry walked away from me for the second time in two days.

That’s called a hint. Take it.

I’d been on my way to my lunch break when I’d heard piano music—haunting and melodic—coming from one of the Styles’s ten different living areas.

At first, I thought it was an audio recording of a professional player. I could hardly believe what I was seeing when I peeked around the corner and there was Harry, sitting at the baby grand. I had to blink twice; he looked so different.

His usually impassive-yet-perfect face was softened by the music, and his elegant, long-fingered hands flowed like water over the keys.

I should’ve slunk away but I’d have been fascinated by anyone who could play an instrument as Harry did that piano.

It took a kind of genius, I thought, to be able to speak the language of music so fluently.

And I hadn’t wanted to stop looking at him.
Not that anyone could blame me. I’d teased him about being a demigod, but holy hell, Harry Styles was simply a stunningly handsome man. The kind you found in magazine ads for expensive cars or clothes or cologne.

Worse, he was smart, funny when he wanted to be, talented. But with a vein of ice running through him. Just when I thought we’d taken a step closer, he snapped back, cruel as ever. Why did I bother? I was like the little kid who kept putting his hand on the stove, thinking this time it wouldn’t get burned.

Not burned. Frostbitten.

The next day, I wasn’t on duty until three p.m. I decided to get out of the house and into the city. I needed some new clothes, maybe pick up a book.....

Maybe stop thinking about Harry every minute of my life.

After years of talking about my drug abuse in recovery meetings, nothing felt truly honest until I said it out loud to someone else. I showered, put on my other uniform—jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket—but before heading out, I called Perrie.

In San Francisco, I’d been a sponsor to a vivacious dancer and recovering addict. I was only supposed to be her sponsor, but Perrie Edwards was impossible not to love and our relationship instantly morphed into a deep friendship.

“Zaynie!” she said, picking up on the first ring. “I am so happy to hear your voice. Or I will be once you say something.”

I laughed. “Hey, Per. How are you?”

“I’m fabulous,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m pacing my room in a huge manor house, having an existential crisis. You know, the usual.”

“Yikes, sounds serious.”

“First tell me about you.”

We chatted for a few minutes about her latest dance gig and how she was still clean, going on two years now.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you’re a huge part of why I’m doing well,” Perrie said. “Sometimes, if I’m having a really bad day, I just think of you waiting for me at the bus depot that day I
arrived in San Francisco and I instantly feel better.”

“Thank you, Perrie,” I said, blinking hard. “I needed that.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice downshifting to concern. “What’s this about a crisis? Are you okay? Boy trouble?”

“No, not really. Sort of. Yes.”

“Spill it.”

I leaned against the window and stared down at the grounds that were green and white under a brilliant sun.