You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Twenty Two

Zayn:

A soft knock came at my door as I finished changing into flannel sleep pants and an undershirt.

Taylor Swift was there, her eyes glassy but sharp, wearing a dark coat over her red dress.

“Hey,” she said. “Wild night, eh? And that’s not even the worst dinner I’ve been to at Chez Styles.”

“How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” she said with a coy smile.

“I asked Ramona. We’d better be careful, or they’ll think we’re having an affair."

“I doubt it.”

“No, that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”

“What do you want, Taylor? It’s late.”

“Indeed. The others have gone to bed. Jeff Asoss or Azoff or whatever his name is has oozed home, but Harry is in the sitting room. I can’t get him to come with me and I
don’t want to stay the night.”

“What do you want me to do? He has a room here.”

“He’s drunk as hell, and I’ve never seen him like that. He’s usually so careful, and lately he hasn’t been.”

She looked at me pointedly. “I’m worried about him, but I don’t think I’m necessarily the person he wants to see right now.”

I stiffened, folded my arms tightly across my chest.

“What makes you think—?”

“Come on, Zayn,” Taylor huffed and sagged against the doorframe.

“Neither of us are stupid, so let’s not play
pretend. Just check on him, would you? Make sure he gets to bed okay without drinking himself sick or burning the house
down.”

“Yeah. Sure. Is someone driving you?” I asked after I grabbed my key and closed the door behind me.

“Is that your subtle way of telling me I’ve had a little too much of the bubbly myself?”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “My escape vehicle awaits, thank you for asking. And I’m sorry for all of this. I know I’m not the person you want to hear that from either.”

The house was quiet but for Taylor’s soft humming as we made our way to the foyer. She craned up to give my cheek a champagne-tinged kiss in the dark.

“Thank you.”

While she went out to the waiting sedan at the drive, I went to the sitting room, my heart pounding louder with every step that brought me closer to Harry.

He sat in front of a low fire in the gas fireplace. It cast the only light, making long shadows dance. A bottle of vodka sat at his feet, a glass dangling from his long fingers.

“Harry,” I said, moving in front of him. “Hey, man. Let’s call it a night.”

He peered blearily up at me. His eyes traced the lines of me, down the V-neck of my shirt, and then he looked away.

“Come on,” I said, taking the vodka bottle and setting it on the nearest table.

“It’s late. You’re done. Time for bed.”

“Leave me alone.”

“To drink yourself sick? Nope. Let’s go.”

I took his hand and tugged him to his feet.

He yanked free of my grip and stumbled back.

“I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me, my friend,” he snarled. “I’m engaged. To a woman.”