You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Thirty

Harry:

I cried like a goddamn baby till I felt like my guts were going to literally fall in Zayn’s lap just as I’d predicted.

“I can’t fucking. . . stop,” I managed through gasping breaths.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn said. “You shouldn’t. Let it go.”

It felt as if I’d never be done purging Chisana from me, but the sobs finally ceased. I felt turned inside out but better.

The wound lanced open and the poison spewed out.

“Come on,” Zayn said, helping me to my feet. “Where’s the bathroom in this high-rise mansion?”

I jerked my chin down the hallway and he led me to the guest bathroom. He turned on the faucet in the sink and I splashed handfuls of water over my face.

“Christ, I’m a mess. Snot everywhere. . .”

“You’re in luck,” Zayn said. “As a nurse, snot is one of my stocks-in-trade.”

I sniffed a laugh and saw myself in the mirror. The robot, the Frankenstein’s monster that had always stared back at me, was gone. What remained looked like shit, with puffy red eyes that were bloodshot and still shining with tears, but I was fucking alive.

For the first time in years, it was me staring back.

And standing next to me in the reflection was Zayn.

He was busy rinsing out a washcloth and then reached up to wipe my face. I caught his hand and turned my gaze from the mirror to his.

A thousand words piled up in my mouth, most of them variations of thank you and I owe you everything and please stay with me forever. But I was wrung out and afraid of losing my shit all over again.

Because it was Zayn, I didn’t have to say a word. “Come on,” he said.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

I introduced Zayn to my favorite Chinese place by ordering take-out, and we put on the baseball game. Zayn sat on the couch at one end and I stretched out against him.

My back to his chest, my head on his shoulder, his arm slung around me.

Protectively.

We ate and watched and didn’t talk much
about anything. And I’d never felt so comfortable.

As if I were sinking into my own skin.

The game ended, and the leftovers were stowed in the fridge.

“Do you want me to stay or get the hell out of here?” Zayn said. “It’s been a lot for you, so tell me what you’re up for.”

“What happens if you stay?”

“We sleep,” Zayn said.

I tried to come up with a joke or a come-on, but I was too damn tired. “That’s it?”

“That’s it, Haz, ” he said.

“We don’t have to cram everything into one night. We have time and you need time. And sleep. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I want you to stay.”

He smiled. “Then I’ll stay.”

I gave Zayn a pair of my pajama pants with a drawstring.

He wore them with his white T-shirt, and we climbed into the master bedroom’s king-sized bed. Like we had the other night, we lay side by side, facing each other.