You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Forty One

Zayn:

I took the stairs down two at a time and then back up to the west wing.

I keyed into my room, grabbed my suitcase and started throwing my clothes into it.

I kept moving, not giving myself a chance to think. I called an Uber, then hit the bathroom, scraping my soap and shave gel out of the sinks, the shower.

Scouring the room of my presence.

I gathered my things in an armload, and when I came back out, Harry was there.

Tall, solid, dressed in casual but elegant clothes.

He looked beautiful, not at all like a guy who’d just had his guts ripped out, his identity—his humanity—shit on like it was
nothing.

“You left the door open,” he said.

“And you shut it behind you,” I said, then dumped my stuff in the open suitcase.

“No one will ever know you’re here.”

“I didn’t want this to happen,” he said, his voice rough. “You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that,” I snapped.

“But it doesn’t fucking matter. I should’ve quit a long time ago. I should’ve quit as soon as I recognized you. I should’ve quit the first time your father said the word ‘fag’ in my presence.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Then nothing would have happened between us. Is that what you’d prefer?”

I whirled on him. “Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t get to ask me that, Harry. You can’t put that on me. I’m not the one telling your father that what we are is nothing.”

Harry swallowed. “What did he say to you?”

“You mean, what did I say to him? Did I blow your cover?” I hurled a ball of socks into the suitcase.

“No. You’re safe. You can go back to your winter hibernation.”

“Zayn,” Harry said, his voice low. “Wait. Please.”

I stopped my violent yanking of the luggage zipper and put my hands on my hips, head bowed, my breaths coming short.

“What I’m feeling right now?” I said. “It feels like shit. It feels exactly how I promised myself I’d never feel again.” A harsh laugh burst out of me.

“I was kicked out of my house by my father for being gay. Seven years later, I’m being
kicked out of this house by your father for being gay. He can’t say that’s why. I can’t say that’s why, but it is. The fucking circle of life.”

I’m right back where I started. . .

The thought made me sick.

“Zayn. . .”

I raised my eyes to his. “He tortured you, Haz. Why the hell do you stay?”

He blinked and gave his head a short, baffled shake.

“Because he’s my father. Are you trying to tell me you don’t get that? What about your torture, Zayn? Your dad kicked you out. You were homeless, doing drugs. . . You had to sell yourself on the street to survive, right? And yet you’re still trying. Again and again, we keep trying because it’s family.”

“Yeah, I’m trying. One last time. I’m going to a dinner that you can’t come to because you can’t be seen with me—”

“What dinner? Where?”