You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Forty Eight

Zayn:

I  turned around and my heart crashed so hard against my chest, I thought it was trying to break free.

Harry was here, looking like an Adonis, wearing dark gray slacks, a black turtleneck, and a dark gray long coat.

His brown hair was still wet from a shower, and against the black of his sweater, his eyes were more emerald green than I’d ever seen them.

The men at the table stood up, myself on weak legs, to greet him.

Angela stared.

Doniya stared.

Everyone in the restaurant stared at Harry, tall, reeking of power and wealth, devastatingly beautiful, and fully inhabiting his body.

He was powerful in his confidence, and no one could tear their eyes away, least of all me, as he strode over and kissed me on the
mouth.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.” He pulled me in for a hug and whispered,“Am I too late?”

“No,” I managed. “No, God, Haz. You’re not too late.”

He gave me a final squeeze that felt as if he were reluctant to let me go, then turned to the others.

“Roger? Good to meet you. Doniya, heard so much about you.”

I met my sister’s eye as Harry greeted our mom, then Angela, making his way down the table toward my father.

Are you kidding me? Doniya mouthed and pulled her maroon blouse away from her skin a couple of times as if the temperature in the room had increased twenty degrees.

Brent and Jamie both had their hands out across the table, waiting for their turn to shake like the grown-ups.

“Double trouble,” Harry said to the twins. “Which one are you?”

“Brent,” Brent said and hooked a thumb at Jamie. “This is Jamie.”

“Why did you kiss Uncle Zayn?” Jamie wanted to know.

Loudly.

Harry didn’t blink an eye. “Because I’m his boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. . .

I sank down into my chair, and Doniya kicked me under the table.

Roger, on my right, socked me in the shoulder.

“Boys can be boyfriends with other boys?” Brent wanted to know.

“Sure, they can,” Doniya said. “And girls can have girlfriends. There aren’t rules about love.” She didn’t look at our father, but the words were for him. “Or shouldn’t be, anyway.”

Brent thought about this for a moment, then shrugged.“Okay.”

I smiled at my nephews, amazed that the six-year-olds accepted this basic human concept of love that my sixty-two-year-old father had been wrestling with for decades.

Because hate has to be taught. You’re not born with it.

Harry had finished greeting Ted and Angela and had made it to my father, hand outstretched. “Mr. Malik? I’m Harry Styles.”

“Harry,” my father said, looking him up and down with a strange curiosity. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Harry said politely but not overly friendly.

The two men let go, and Harry took off his coat and gave it to a passing waiter to hang up.

He sat in the chair on my left at my mom’s right hand. The black turtleneck clung to his body, both elegantly conservative and completely drive-me-out-of-my-mind sexy at the same time.