Something About You

Eleven. April, 2010, continued.

'I think I'm gonna die.'

'What?'

'Isla, I'm going to die.'

'Hold on, slow down,' her sheets rustle, she's sitting up in bed. 'What's happened?'

'Nothing, I just—' phone pressed to his ear, Niall keeps pacing. He's at his mom's house: she lives closer to Dublin and she can drive him out tomorrow morning first thing, so they can get a good spot in line at Croke Park. It's nearly two in the morning and he hasn't slept a wink—in fact, he doesn't think he's stopped pacing his bedroom for the past two hours. He must've walked a full half marathon by now. 'I can't breathe.'

'You can,' Isla says it gently, but reasonably, and Niall calms down, just a notch. She's right. He's talking to her, which means he can definitely breathe. 'Where are you? Are you safe?'

'Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm just in my room at my mam's. I'm just. I dunno. I feel like I can't breathe. And my heart, it's, like, beating a million miles an hour. Feel like I'm gonna vomit but I've not even eaten since this afternoon. And I can't stop pacing, like. I dunno what's happening to me. I think I'm dying? It feels like I'm dying.'

'You're not dying, love. It sounds like you're having a panic attack.'

'But,' Niall sits down on the edge of his bed, bouncing his knee. 'Don't you have to, like, get diagnosed with that?'

'No,' Isla yawns on the other end of the phone, and Niall feels a pang of guilt for calling her at two in the morning to tell her he's dying. This probably isn't the best wakeup he's ever given her. 'Anyway, I'm diagnosing you now. Does that make you feel better?'

'A little,' he laughs, because it does. 'Thanks, doc.'

'Anytime, baby. Want to tell me more?'

'S'alright, you sound tired. I'm sorry, petal, I should've thought before calling ya at this hour.'

More rustling, Isla getting comfortable in bed. He thinks about lying next to her, his back pressed up against her chest, her arms around his middle, her fingers tracing over his abs the way she loves, and he feels his heartbeat slow down a little more. He lays back in his own bed as Isla says, 'Glad you did. I'd rather you call me than have a panic attack alone. Are you nervous about tomorrow? Or is it something else?'

'Tomorrow,' Niall's got one arm slung over his eyes, his phone lying next to him on the bed on speaker. Like this, he can kind of pretend that Isla's next to him. 'I just... what if I'm horrible?'

'Then no one has to know,' says Isla, in that matter-of-fact way she always does. 'But you won't be. I know you think I'm biased because I love you and all that, but you know I don't bullshit, Niall.'

'No,' Niall lets out a little laugh, thinking of all the times Isla has been straight with him in a way no one else can—the time she told him she hadn't come yet and he was going to have to try again, the time she told Mully and Emilia to go home in the middle of a movie night because it was clear they wanted to fool around, and she and Niall did too. A million more. 'You definitely don't bullshit.'

'And if I thought you were going to embarrass yourself, honestly, baby, I probably wouldn't encourage you to go through with this.'

'Appreciate that,' Niall's still laughing, but it is reassuring.

'I really think you'll smash it,' Isla's lowered her voice a little, to that soft, slow cadence that's just for Niall, for when they're alone together. It makes his stomach stir, his face flush up. 'You're so, so talented. If they don't see that that's their mistake, but it wouldn't take away from how talented you are. And it wouldn't take away from how much I love you... or from how much of a ride you are, honestly.'

Niall snorts out a laugh, and he can hear Isla giggling on the other end of the line too. He scrubs a hand over his face, exhaustion finally settling in. 'Fuck, I wish you were here,' he says, letting his eyes droop closed. 'Always feel better with you.'

'Me too. But I'll be there tomorrow, yeah?'

'If you want to be.'

'Course I do. As if I would miss the day that makes my boyfriend famous.'

'Ah, let's not get ahead of ourselves, pet.'

'Too late,' Isla yawns. 'I'm a seer. I'm telling you now.'

'Alright then, I believe ya.'

'You're just saying that to shut me up.'

'Maybe so,' Niall bites back a yawn, and a smile.

'You wanna go to sleep now?' Isla's voice is slowing down too, and Niall curls onto his side, tugging the duvet up to his shoulders.

'Yeah,' he murmurs. 'Stay on the phone with me?'

'You read my mind.'

'Maybe I'm the seer.'

Isla giggles sleepily, and Niall can imagine the way she's rolling her eyes at him. It makes him feel warm and safe all over, and he's already halfway asleep when he hears Isla, a million miles away, 'goodnight, rockstar.'

--

Niall'd always thought that the monumental moments in life would be impossible to forget. That when big things happen to you, like getting married, or having a baby, or getting through X Factor auditions in front of thousands of people at Croke Park, you'd remember every second of them—that they'd be something you'd replay in your mind for the rest of your life, something that would overshadow everything else. He thought a moment like this one would be legendary.

But the reality of it is that it was all a blur: cameras, lights in his eyes, people screaming for some reason he couldn't quite grasp. It was loud and it was fast and it was too much, too quickly, for him to fully process—being up on that stage was a rush he'd never experienced before in his life but it was only a moment, only fleeting, in the grand scheme of the day.

When he tries to remember it it's in bits and pieces: his mam wishing him luck, Louis Walsh asking his age, the long, long pause before Katy gave him his final yes. But, mostly, it's Isla: the way she fixed his hair and gave him a kiss before sending him out on stage, the gentle smile she flashed him when he looked over to her, the way she and his mam clung to each other while Katy deliberated, Isla biting her nails, his mam mouthing a prayer. And then it's the aftermath: screaming, running, his mam all over him, showering him in kisses and congratulations. Isla had waited back, given Maura her moment with her little boy, but she was on Niall as soon as he was free, her face buried in his neck, wet against his skin. He'd asked if she was crying and she was: big, fat, happy tears, red cheeks, boundless smile. He'd cupped her cheek and pressed his thumb into her dimple to make her laugh and she was saying 'I knew it, I knew it. I love you so much,' and Niall thought he might cry, too, until some production assistants shuffled the three of them out of the way so the next contestant could come through.

Outside Croke Park his mam suggested ice cream to celebrate. He remembers the taste of coffee ice cream on Isla's lips when he kissed her, the feeling of her hand in his as they walked along the Tolka River through Griffith Park, the way she looked with the late afternoon sun in her eyes, a permanent smile on her face, a tiny smudge of ice cream in the corner of her mouth. But, mostly, he remembers how excited she was when they talked about what would happen next, the way she gushed at the idea of going down to London to see the show tape, and the way she laughed, squeezed his hand in hers, and said, 'just don't forget about me when you make it big, rockstar.'

And he remembers how he laughed, too. How he pressed his lips to her hair and shook his head and said, 'never, we're doing this together, petal.'

He remembers that he hadn't intended for that to be a lie.