You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Twenty Seven

Harry:

It was a date.

I hit send, turned the cellphone to silent, and chucked it onto the couch where I stared at it for a solid minute like a dope.

“I can do this,” I said to the empty apartment.

What this was, I had no clue.

Right up until Zayn’s text had come in, I was anything but okay.

Kissing him had been fucking everything.

Like a reward for surviving Alaska. And then my time there roared in to freeze over the heat of Zayn’s kiss and the feel of his hard
body pressed to mine.

The infinite fucking goodness of knowing how badly he wanted me and the miracle of finally touching him, his hair, that mouth. . . all of it had been blasted away by shame and guilt and the echoes of harsh voices that told me I was worthless.

I’d driven home from that kiss with a storm of emotions and memories ruining the perfection of the day.

PTSD flashbacks of being forcibly dunked in Copper Lake, of being shocked and beaten and berated, nearly drove me off the road.

Alaska attacked me with a ferocity I could hardly believe. As if the emotionless zombie they’d created in me was now fighting for its life.

Just die already. . . I’d begged.

Somehow, I’d made it to my apartment without killing anyone. I started a cold shower but didn’t get in it.

Taylor had left some wine behind, but I didn’t drink it. It took all I had to not pop a cork and guzzle it straight from the bottle.

Instead, I’d sat on the chair opposite the couch, trying to hold on to today and feeling it slip through my shivering fingers.

Then Zayn’s text had come in.

I did a pretty damn good job of pulling my shit together so I wouldn’t worry him. When we signed off, I was actually proud of myself.

And I did feel better, because that’s what he did for me. He made things better in every way.

Zayn’s compassion and honesty were first on the growing list of everything I loved about him.

Love. . .?

I sucked in a breath. The idea of having something as good as what I felt with Zayn seemed impossible. Out of reach.

But maybe. . .

Maybe we have something. Maybe it’ll be okay.

I poured every bottle of wine down the sink and went to bed, warmed by the memory of Zayn and full of something I hadn’t felt in a long time:
hope.

Then I went into work the next morning.

~~~~~

“Sylvia,” I said, passing her desk outside my office,

“Can you come in here, please?”

She followed me in, and I tossed my briefcase on the settee near the window while she shut the door.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said in a small voice that told me she knew exactly what I meant.

“All conversations stop when I get close. No one’s making eye contact. Is it because of that dickhead Azoff being named acting CEO instead of me?”