Where Have You Been

Chapter 13

Niall’s POV

  “Niall’s got a girlfriend,” The four sang, reading my texts with glee.

“Yes” I replied matter-of-factly, “And her name is Adrienne” I said this mainly to displeasure Louis, Harry, Zayn and Liam, and show them how quick-witted I could be. I wasn’t actually so sure who my girlfriend was, at the moment. Not because of a rare case of teen Alzheimer’s, rather because Zoe and my texts were so flirty, it was hard to tell what our relationship was becoming. I know, I could hardly call it a “relationship”. I had just met her yesterday, and I didn’t want to come off like a creeper. (She’s already had enough of that this week.) But Zoe was already brightening my life. There weren’t many people who could do that after a mere 2 days (unless you count a nice cheeseburger. That brightened my mood in a matter of seconds). I face-palmed for comparing Zoe to a cheeseburger. I did that sometimes when I was hungry. My stomach growled loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Sounds like someone is getting hungry….” Liam laughed, with a mysterious (and somewhat evil) glint in his eye. He nodded knowingly to the other three, who confirmed their evil plot with a round of conspicuous winks.

“Grab your jacket Niall. We’re going out!” Oh god. For some reason, I didn’t feel in the right mood to face Paparazzi, and hordes of screaming fans. Not to be cocky, but they seemed to be everywhere these days.

“Don’t worry.” Zayn sighed with exasperation, again, seeming to read my thoughts. (My bet was on gypsy. Louis, Liam and Harry thought evil-robot) “We’ll try to steer clear of Paps.” (His fancy short-term for Paparazzi. It seems everyone was using it these days; I was out of the loop. Well, technically, I was part OF the loop, but I’m not going to be cocky again)

I could almost hear “James Bond” theme music playing in the background as we snuck through various back-alleys, clad in vision-blurring sunglasses, and heavy black coats. My recent experience with back-alleys was anything but fun, so I tended to stray closer to the lit streets.

“Liam, what are you doing?!” I cried in horror as he opened a sketch looking fogged up glass door. A shrill tin bell rang as he opened it, and all my worries were suspended. The pacifying sent of warm bread and pasta enveloped me, nullifying all my fears.

I was lead through a labyrinth of generic white-hatted chefs, and wisps of fragrant smoke. The metal counters were dotted with condensation from the plumes of steam that erupted from boiling pots. It was pure “Ratatouille”.

When we finally reached two large double-doors with circular porthole windows (Also very stereotypical), my heart began to race again. I had watched enough movies to know that the restaurant that the kitchen was attached to lay beyond these doors. And so did more fans and Paparazzi. I didn’t think I could face any of the hype right now. Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans, but there was a time and place for screaming. A nice restaurant on a Sunday evening was not one of those.

“And…. Tada!” Liam sang, as he pushed open the doors dramatically. I wrung my palms with sweat, and opened my eyes. The whole restaurant was empty, not a soul in sight. All the white linen tablecloths lay untouched by food, or plates. Except for one table in the back. It was hidden in a candlelit corner, and was no doubt meant for romantic couples. In our special case, 3 more chairs and another table were squeezed in.

“This way please” a mustachioed waiter called, pointing us with his arm, which had a napkin draped elegantly over it. I laughed, trying to keep the obvious grin of off my face. They must have noticed my mental absence in the past few days. It had been rough. Concerts are always crazy, but add 1,000,000 more people (it’s New York!), a rapist, and a cute girl who I can’t date… I was practically over the edge.

I slipped into my velvet-upholstered seat, pursing my lips and sliding my napkin over my lap fake-properly. The rest of the guys did the same, and we sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the small table. Romantic candles almost fully obscured the table, making it hard to find room for our large, gold-leaf plates.

“Where are the menus?” I pouted, my mouth watering already. One of few TRUE rumors about One Direction is that I love food. Thank god for my metabolism. We can’t have a fat pop-star now can we?

“Don’t worry. I’ve already ordered everything on the menu” Harry beamed, ushering over a cart-carrying waiter. (As if they don’t know who it’s for… reality check, we’re the only people in the room, Harry!). Metal domes concealed the large plates, the only thing stopping me from grabbing food right off the cart. One-by-one, in a painstaking process, the waiter set each dish on the table, and gave us a glimpse of the food under the domes. His taunting made my mouth water profusely, causing me to look like a rabies-infected squirrel. (As Louis so kindly pointed out to me). All traces of my “fake-manners” were gone. As soon as every dish was set on the table, I flung the domes off like a caveman, and shoveled food onto my plate. Don’t worry, my mom taught me good manners, I managed to eat with my silverware for most of the meal.

“We thought you needed a pick-me-up” Liam nudged me, eating his food in a much more civilized fashion.

“You were right” I garbled, but with my mouthful of food, it came out something like: “oo ah ight”. Everyone was in hysterics at the sight of me, noodles falling out of my mouth, fork and spoon propped up in my hands, and tomato sauce circling my mouth like lipstick. It was refreshing to be worry-free. And I cherished it like it was the last moment I would ever live.

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