I wasn’t tired anymore. In actuality, I felt wide awake and ready to run a fifty-mile marathon. It was funny what adrenaline and stress did to a half-awake body. I asked Lisa to bring me a cup of Yorkshire tea and a bowl of fresh fruit; I wasn’t very hungry, but the stress was causing me to get mild munchies. I mixed sugar into my tea, nearly five spoonfuls, and took deep gulps of the hot liquid. I cringed as it burned the roof of my mouth, but continued nonetheless. It was nearly nine in the morning on Sunday. The house felt unusually empty and quiet; everyone was frantically worried about Master Zayn Malik. Everyone was concerned about him. Was I also worried or concerned about him? Probably, but I would never admit it to myself.
After finishing my tea and throwing all the fruit down my throat, I sat on the piano bench and played a few melancholy pieces. They managed to soothe my mood a little, but only by a fragment. I was still an internal mess and no substantial amount of piano playing could fix that. I spent a decent amount of time reading a section from the book I had working on since yesterday, Mysteries of the Mathematical Genius. I even made a few notes on a notebook, in case I decided to look up some more topics of interest in the library. I felt like a zombie, however, as I flipped through the pages of the book. It wasn’t until around four in the afternoon that I felt a substantial change in emotion.
I was jotting down a bit of what I had just read in the book when I heard the front door open. I was in the sunroom adjacent to the door, so I was first to jump into action. I threw open the door and stared wide-eyed at Zayn. He didn’t seem like he had been kidnaped, or beaten, or molested, as the maids and butlers had been projecting all afternoon. Matter of fact, he looked the same as he always did- nearly perfect. However, upon further analysis, I noticed, his buttoned shirt was hanging loosely over his black dress pants and he looked entirely too tired. I let him in without a word, watching him cautiously as he dragged himself up to the bedroom. He wasn’t drunk; he was only tired. I stood at the doorway until he resurfaced, out of the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a red-collared shirt. He was yawning as he hurriedly marched down the stairs and rounded the corner, out of my sight. He wasn’t going to tell me where he was? Fine, I wasn’t going to care.
At least that was what I was planning. I didn’t last ten minutes of brooding in the kitchen before I raced into the living area, where he was flipping through channels on the television, and addressed my concerns.
“Where were you all this time?” I asked, trying not to sound too concerned as I seated myself on a couch.
He yawned, flipping down another channel.
Why did he never answer my questions? “Zayn, I’m talking to you.”
He glanced over at me and frowned. “Why do you care where I was?”
That was the question I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “The maids and butlers were bugging the hell out of me. If anything, you owe them an explanation.”
He turned back to the television. “Then I’ll give them an explanation.”
“Give me one, too.” I leaned forward, eagerly.
It was only a few moments before he gave me the answer I had been waiting for. “I was at Rebecca’s.”
A strange sensation overwhelmed me over mention of her name. “Rebecca Bronston?”
Zayn merely nodded.
His lack of concern for my concern was burning me from the inside out. He was with Rebecca this entire time and he didn’t bother to tell me or anyone, for that matter? “What in God’s name possessed you to do something so stupid?” I felt myself yell.
