(Three Weeks Later)
Looking back on it, I should’ve remembered about the Brit awards. What they were, in essence. Divulge if I would be able to go and keep it together. I don’t think I would’ve agreed if I really thought it through.
Right now Zayn and I are in the limo, and he’s trying to convince me to go… again. It’s less intimate than when he convinced me (although he doesn’t know it) not to break up with him. You might ask why are the other members of his band not here? They took the other limo because Zayn wanted to have some “alone time,” and Louis said he didn’t want to see his sister get involved in PDAs in front of him.
“Please, Julianna?” He pleads, putting a hand on my knee. Unfair! He knows how much that affects me! I shiver and sink deeper into the space between the limo seats, crinkling my white dress. It doesn’t matter how nice this dress is anymore, really- it’s not like anyone on live television will see me in it. “Pretty please with strawberry-and-chocolate ice cream on top?” I look into his eyes resiliently.
“No.” I respond, sinking deeper into the cushions. My voice probably will be slightly muffled when I speak now… Whatever. He knows what I’ll say; he knows me.
“Um, what if Harry cooked for you? Then would you go?” He asks hopefully, and I can see hope in his brown eyes. I feel kind of bad I have to shoot it down like shooting a baby deer for food.
Wow, that was a really bad comparison… Sorry baby deer!
“No.” I think it over and realize I have a viable reason for saying so. “His doesn’t cook Filipino food.” I smile. There’s no way Harry will cook Filipino food. He can’t; I’ve tried to teach him.
“Um, he can take lesson to learn how to cook Filipino food?” I look into his eyes and shake my head. Zayn lets out a sigh and snuggles next to me. Well, as close as he can get next to me while I’ve wedged quite a good bit of myself in between the seats. He’s really warm and soft and smells good…
Julianna! Snap out of it!
“Julianna, please? All the boys are having their girlfriends there. Lou has Larissa; you’ve met her, and you like her! Harry has Maritza- you and her were laughing up a storm last time you two hung out. Why don’t you have fun with her again? And then of course Liam has Belle and Niall has Marie. You’ve known them for like your whole life! Please, babe? For me? I’ll be sad if you’re not there to see me win or lose an award!” He gives me a pout and I let out a sigh. He’s really using his good smell and very exceptional looks and overall attractive personality against me…
“Maybe.” I reply, my voice muffled as before. I can feel Zayn leaning in, closer and closer until he smiles softly and crashes his lips to mine with passion; he knows I’m going to go with him, even though I’m scared to. Somehow I manage to pull myself out of my hiding spot in record time and then we’re holding each other like if we let go the world will end. We don’t get far, though, because the driver interrupts us.
“Oi, you two! I told you both no snogging in the car!” Oh, it’s that driver… The one that caught us… um… doing stuff on our first date. Zayn and I chuckle slightly, but still we resign to just holding hands. When we get close to the carpet, and I can see it, I start measuring my breathing. Its huge massiveness, not to include the huge crowd that lines the outside, is intimidating. Very intimidating.
“It’ll be alright, Juli,” Zayn murmurs in my ear. “Everything will be just fine.” I smile and cuddle closer with him. Before know it, the driver has the door open and is saying “out with you love birds.” Smiling, Zayn walks out to face the throng, half-dragging me since he’s holding my hand. I’m sure I have a pained expression from attempting to smile. If you looked at me, you would think that my cat died or something; I had that bad of a grimace.
“Zayn, over here!”
“Is this your new girlfriend?”
“What was the incident at Hagen Daaz all about?”
Ugh, I thought they had forgotten about that. Just like before, the clicks and flashes go off. However this time I feel fine. Maybe it’s that I’m expecting it? Hopefully spending an extra three weeks away from Adam helped, too? Who knows. Zayn is pulled this way and that for pictures while I stand on the outside, smiling to the people who watch eagerly. But then a comment from one of the photographers caught me by surprise.
“Zayn, get your girlfriend in this one!” I stand still, shell-shocked, as Zayn pulls me abruptly into the camera’s view. Behind it is a brunette frizzy-haired twenty-year-old journalist who looks like a professional. I attempt a smile, although I’m sure it came out a scowl, and then there’s a flash. The cameraman tries to smile at me but I know he’s angry- I just messed up his chance of getting a front-page article/photo with one of the most popular superstars on the planet.
Oops.
On to the next one; on this one I try to stand a bit out of the way. I don’t want to ruin the poor person’s career, too! But this time, Zayn pulls me in with him. As the blonde, slim female photographer catches us together, smiling (sort of, on my part), Zayn whispers something into my ear;
“You’re with me now, Moore, and this is what you get treated as- an equal; never as a punching bag, or a slave. I love you, remember, always remember that. I love you forever.”
In the next picture, my grin is genuine.
Thank god for that, too; I can’t go around firing reporters and photographers by accident!
~*~
To tell the truth, the Brit awards have gone spiffy so far. Don’t ask me who says spiffy- it’s just the only word that comes to mind. Zayn was right- Maritza and I keep making each other laugh- that is when she’s not snogging Harry, which is about three minutes out of ten. Larissa, Belle, Marie and I talk about shoes, dresses (not really my forte), and then we move onto books (much more my forte!). Larissa confides in me that she’s an amateur writer, like me. She’s read my novel, Sight, and can’t stop raving about it. I thank her, and then Maritza joins us and we’re laughing over a joke I made ages ago about one of Belle’s previous fan fictions.
“The last time I jay-walked, my friend died for me. What about you?” Which you have to say in a very cheerful voice; trust me, it’s easy. It all happened when (in Belle’s book, Welcome to London) I pushed Marie out of the way of a moving car and got killed instead. Yes, we were jay-walking. Actually, we were jay-running, since we were racing. And before you ask, no, I’m not suicidal: I just decided to save one of my friends.
All of a sudden, the mood at our table changes from carefree to serious; they had just announced that the Best Band award would be presented soon. Swiftly Maritza clutches my arm as Will Smith- don’t ask me why Mr. Smith, but it is Will himself- walks up onto the stage holding a Brit award. Her finger nails sink into my skin as he reads the category: “Best Band of 2019!”
It seems like the whole table sucks in breath as the slide show that announces the nominee’s beings.
“Announcing the nominee’s for the Best Band of 2019- Coldplay!” A bit of their music plays, and then the next group is announced. I’m shaking; am I really nervous about this? “The Five Psychopaths!” Huh, I don’t know about them… but then again, until about two months ago I’d lived under a rock ten galaxies away. No, not really; it’s something Belle told me, since I never got out, listened to music, or watched the news. A few other names slip by, but I’m distracted by Belle mouthing something unintelligible to me. “And One Direction!” The slide show announces last.
The state of our table feels like a vacuum- not a normal one, but one of those there-is-not-air-in-here ones. All the oxygen has been extracted from the atmosphere and is being used by our helpless, anxiety-filled, lungs.
“And the winner is…” Will Smith begins. “One Direction!” We all stand up and cheer, hugging and kissing them like there’s no tomorrow. Ecstatically, the boys leave the table and make their way onto the stage. Will Smith hands Zayn, the first one of them up there, the red white and blue trophy. Spread across Zayn’s face is a ridiculous grin that I can’t help but snicker at.
“I would just like to thank all of the fans; every single one of them. I love you. I love all of you!” He exclaims, gesturing broadly to the whole stadium. I snigger quietly at the sheen of sweat collecting around his hairline. The microphone gets passed around to Niall, Harry, Liam, and Louis- but I can’t hear their speeches. All I see is Zayn looking at me, an expression of complete and utter joy stretched across his face. All I hear is Maritza and the girls screaming “YES!” and jumping up and down in happiness. All I can feel?
Like I’m in heaven. Like I’m in heaven with the nicest, the sincerest, the most attractive, and most sensitive guy in the world: that’s how I feel in this moment. In this moment I feel in complete bliss.
“Julianna!” Marie hisses. I look up, and Zayn is gazing at me with an intense stare, his mouth open- he’d been talking.
“-And Will, I just love her so much, there’s no words to describe it. But hopefully I won’t have to look for words anymore.” Zayn announces, smiling down at me. Oh, her- he was talking about me, wasn’t he? Shit. I didn’t hear him! Crazily I rack my brain to see if I picked up any of his previous words.
Nope.
“And why would that be, Zayn?” Will asks, but you can tell he’s slightly annoyed. I have a feeling they’re supposed to be announcing another award right now, and Zayn’s love for the girl with the ultimate amount of baggae is holding them up big-time.
“Because;” he begins, bending down on one knee, looking me straight in the eye. “I would like to ask Julianna Sofia Moore to be my lawfully wedded wife.” The stadium and my friends sigh, looking at Zayn dreamily. The only person who’s not awed by his display of a romantic proposal? Me. Frightened, I look around, trying to find a way to stall before giving my answer. Do I have to give and answer? Shooting everyone a tight smile, I look into my wine glass and quickly, tilting my head back, down the contents. When I do that the audience laughs, and I blush furiously; is there nothing I can do here without getting observed? But now with the slightest buzz running through my blood, I feel even more nervous.
What should I do?
To say I do, or not to say I do?
To be his, or not to be his?
I stare between Zayn and my bare left hand ring finger, back and forth, back and forth. It lasted for eternity and I can feel Zayn’s smile slipping. My fake one is slipping, too. I’m just awaiting him to hop off the stage and walk over to me, so we can talk this through and not in front of a full stadium of people. Please, Zayn? I plead with him in my mind. Please get off that stage? I beg, now. I want to say yes, I need to say yes- but I won’t. And I won’t, partly because we’re in front of all these people. All these people who don’t know about my baggage and why I’m not saying yes; that’s mainly why I’m not answering.
But not all.
Why?
Because I won’t say yes. Even if we were alone, I would never ever let himself tie me to his- it’s unhealthy for him. He needs to go out and find someone without weights- someone to fly with him. He deserves someone better than me. I don’t deserve him.
Maritza is looking at my side in worry. I mumble something, grab my purse, and stand up. Even though the crowd is basically booing at me, I turn and run frantically through the door.
“I love you, Zayn.” I whisper, dodging the huge guards on my way out. A single tear slips down my face and I hear Maritza’s heavy footsteps behind me, but then a buff guard sticks his arm out.
“What?!” She asks angrily- “I can’t go comfort my friend who was just proposed to and got freaked out? Some good security guard you are.” But then I hear him pull is arm down, and he begins to speak in a gruff tone.
“Fine, miss.” Her footsteps pick up again, pounding the hard concrete, closing in on me. I glance a bus approaching and do something I can cross off my bucket list: jump on in while it’s in motion.
I look over my shoulder, the wind in my hair, and I whisper again: “I love you, Zayn.” I look back at the full stadium where I left my proposing boyfriend kneeling.
“Which is why I can’t say yes, not matter how much I can, or want, to.” More tears are falling, and I approach Marie’s flat. “I’m so sorry.” I’m choking now, choking on tears. “But don’t come by again. It would be good if I wasn’t here- wasn’t anywhere- for you to find and tempt and love.” I stare at an exposed beam in my ceiling, and I get an idea.
I can remove myself from him, and the world, permanently. I can remove me weight from them so they can fly.