When I exit the ladies’ bathroom a modest five minutes later, Zayn is leaning against the opposite wall, waiting for me. My steps falter at the sight of him looking sexy as sin with his hands in his pockets, but I manage to rectify it quickly and pass it off as an alcohol induced misstep, even though the wine from Anna’s house has well and truly worn off by now.
“You didn’t have to come find me,” I say as I pass him, popping my lipstick back inside my purse and clasping it shut. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
He pushes off the wall and falls in to step beside me as we weave back towards our table. The journey back is much smoother as most of the guests have now found their seats and the lights have been dimmed in that ‘the show is moments away from starting so sit your ass down’way that everyone understands.
“Had to make sure you weren’t running again.”
My stomach lurches. He has so little faith in me he thought I’d bail and leave him looking foolish in front of his colleagues? A flush creeps up my neck as we pass by the DJbooth, where a cute young guy is setting up his decks, ready for what I’m sure will be a dance-floor after the formalities end.
“Running from what? Yourlady friend?” I smile demurely over my shoulder at Zayn, who meets my eyes with his own unamused glance.
He doesn’t deny it, which twists the knife, even though I’m loathe to admit the silent confirmationhurts.
“I haven’t run from your past.”
The fake smile falls from my face. “You are my past.”
“Not all of it, unfortunately,” Zayn says, careful to hide the ice that drips from his every word. “There’s a rather noticeable speed bump along the way.”
“At least it’s only one,” I retort sweetly, my eyes landing on the back ofMonica’sglossy head as we approach our table. How many more are there? Do I even want to know? Are there any more of them wandering around this ball room tonight?
The knife twists.
Getting through the night unscathed suddenly isn’t going so well, and I’m only five minutes in to my resolve, for fuck’s sake. How does this man get under my skin so damn easily? When women would flirt with Daniel blatantly in front of me, I never even used to bat an eyelid. One of Zayn’s (hopefully past) lovers sits next to him and I’m ready to pick up my butter knife and stab her with it.
I take my seat and make a point of leaning as far from Zayn as humanly possible, putting me in the unpleasant situation of leaning against David’s arm instead, but I guess I’ll have to pick my poison. David isn’t capable of hurting me like Zayn can. I’m in fight-or-flight mode now, and I will not flight.
David, the gross asshole, slightly pushes back against meto make our contact even more noticeable. His date Laura is none the wiser, gulping back what I hope but suspect isn’t her first glass of red wine.
The lights dim further so that we’re plunged into near darkness and a spotlight appears on stage, highlighting the podium and the portly man in a waistcoat standing behind it.
Zayn uses the distraction to grab a hold of my chair and yank me towards him, making his point. I make mine back when I ensure not even an inch of my body connects with his.
Monica, I notice, doesn’t have the same qualms as she drapes an arm right up against Zayn’s, which he has resting on the white tablecloth.
He moves his hand to his thigh, and I actually wait for a moment to see if she follows him there too.
She doesn’t.
The ceremony is long and arduous, and I spend it sitting still as a statue for two hours trying not to make contact with either of the men sitting beside me.
Zayn takes home a collection of awards, more than anyone else, and despite my conflicting feelings for him, my heart swells with pride every time his name is called out and he moves to the podium to accept his awards. I break my no contact rule after the fourth accolade and give him a hug, congratulating him for making his dreams come true.
He responds with an unexcited ‘except the one that counts’and I wonder which award takes that place and if he’ll win it tonight.
Loud applause greets him with every return to our table, louder from the harlot on his right and noticeably more quiet from the man on my left, who I might add has won no awards this evening, but Zayn doesn’t respond withoverzealous enthusiasm at his achievements. In fact, he may as well have been told he’s next in line for a root canal for all the enthusiasm he showed, bar a few strategically placed smiles where necessary.
The ceremony finally concludes with an announcement from the MC of ‘Enjoy the dessert, it’s creme brûlée!’As the high of the wins dwindles and the music becomes noticeably louder, I regain my composure and go back to avoiding touching Zayn like he’s succumbed to leprosy and attempt to eat my dessert with my elbows tucked into my waist.
“Zayn, come on over here. There’s someone on table thirteen I’d like you to meet!” Martin, now a few wines deep and exceptionally jovial from the esteem Zayn’s success this evening has no doubt brought to his firm, waves at Zayn frantically to follow his lead then stumbles off.
“Will you be okay if I leave you here for a minute?” Zayn says softly into my ear as I lick custard from my spoon. Thebrûléeis truly delightful.
“You’re leaving me alone for a whole minute?” I ask, mock outraged. “How ever will I survive?”
I know I sound like a snarky bitch, but I can’t help it withMonicasitting mere inches from me. Although when David sniggers at my words, shame floods through me. No matter how badly I need to maintain distance from Zayn, I’m still on his side over David’s.
It seems Zayn heard him too.
