A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Cause I Cant Help, Falling In Love.....

He Spotted Harry In The crowd before the gymnasium doors swung closed behind him. He was conducting a chorus of children dressed in various costumes, some of whom were in wheelchairs, while a pianist accompanied them up on the stage.
Mesmerized, Zayn stood there, listening to the sweet sound of his voice, watching his incredible smile, and the shattering tenderness he felt made his chest ache. Clad in jeans and a school sweatshirt, with his hair pulled into a ponytail and tied with a scarf, he looked adorable . . . and thin. His cheekbones and eyes were more prominent now than before, and Zayn swallowed over the knot of guilt in his throat when he realized how much weight he’d lost. Because of him. The cab driver said Zayn had shamed him in front of the town; he was going to undo some of that now if he could. Ignoring the startled glances and exchanged whispers beginning to circulate around the room as people in the bleachers and on the floor noted his presence and recognized his face, he started forward.

  “Okay, you guys, what’s the problem?” Harry said, when several of the older children stopped singing and began to whisper and point. Behind him, he was distantly aware of the hush falling over the cavernous room and the echo of a man’s footsteps on the wooden floor, but he was preoccupied with the increasing lateness of the hour and his students’ flagging attention. “Willie, if you finally want your chance to sing, then pay attention,” Harry warned,  but he was pointing to something behind Harry and whispering furiously to Johnny Everett and Tim Wimple. “Miss Timmons,” Harry said, looking up at the pianist who was also gaping open mouthed at something behind him. “Miss Timmons—let’s run through it again.” But when Harry looked back down, part of the children’s chorus was breaking up and moving forward in a small group being led by Willie Jenkins. “Where do you think you’re going?” Harry burst out as they passed him. He spun around. And froze.

  Zayn was standing fifteen feet away from him, his hands at his sides. He’d finally read Harry's last letter, he thought wildly, and he’d come at last to get his car. Harry stood there, afraid to speak, afraid to move, gazing at the sternly handsome face that had haunted his dreams and tormented his days.

  Willie Jenkins stepped forward, his gravelly voice loud and belligerent. “You Zayn Malik?” he demanded.

  Zayn nodded silently, and suddenly several other boys moved forward, fanning out in front of Harry, three of them in wheelchairs—all of them ready to defend him against the monster in their midst, Zayn realized.

“Then you better just turn around and get outa here,” the one with the bullfrog’s voice warned, thrusting out his chin. “You made Mr. Mathison cry.”

  Zayn’s solemn gaze stayed on Harry’s pale face. “He made me cry, too.”

  “Guys like you don’t cry,” he scoffed.

  “Sometimes they do—if someone they love hurts them very much.”

  Willie glanced up at his beloved teacher’s face and saw tears sliding slowly from his eyes. “Look at that! You’re making him cry again!” he warned with a ferocious glower. “Is that why you came here?”

 “I came here,” Zayn said, “because I can’t live without him.”

  Everyone in the auditorium gaped at the famous tough-guy movie hero who was humbling himself by making these astonishing admissions in front of them, but Harry didn’t notice their stares. He was rushing forward through the children, walking fast, then running . . . running into the arms that were opening wide to him.
They closed around him with stunning force, hand cradling his tear-streaked face against his chest, shielding him from their audience as he bent his head and whispered hoarsely, “I love you.” Harry's shoulders shaking with sobs, he slid his hands around Zayn's neck, face buried against his chest, holding him fiercely.

  At the far end of the auditorium, Ted put his arm around Katherine and drew her close. “How did you get so damned smart?” he whispered.

Herman Henkleman was of a more practical, albeit equally romantic, mind. Winking at Flossie, he shouted, “Rehearsal’s over folks!” Then he slapped the light switches off, plunging the room into total darkness, and trotted off to get his taxi.

  By the time someone found the light switch, Zayn and Harry were gone.

  “Hop in,” Herman said with a grand gesture of his general’s hat as they raced out the school doors, hand in hand. “Always wanted to drive a getaway car,” he added, shoving the accelerator to the floor and sending the cab jolting away from the building. “Where to?”

  Harry was past all rational thought for the moment.

  “Your house?” Zayn asked.

  “Not if you want to do any smoochin’,” Herman said. “Whole town’ll be comin’ by and callin.”

  “Where’s the closest hotel or motel?”

  Harry looked at him uneasily, but Herman was more blunt: “You tryin’ to tear his reputation up or fix it?”

  Zayn looked down at his face and felt speechless and helpless and desperate to be alone with him. His eyes told Zayn he felt the same.

  “My house,” Harry said. “We’ll take the phone off the hook and disconnect the doorbell if we have to.”

A minute later, Herman pulled the cab up in front of the house, and Zayn reached into his pocket for more money. “How much do I owe you this time,” he asked dryly.

  The man turned in his seat and with a look of wounded dignity handed Zayn's hundred-dollar bill back to him. “Five dollars, round trip, including picking up your pilot. That’s a special rate,” he added with a startling boyish smile, “for the man who wasn’t afraid to admit he loves Harry in front of the whole town.”

Oddly touched, Zayn handed him a twenty-dollar bill and said, “I left a suitcase and another briefcase on the plane. Would you bring them back here after you take my pilot to his motel?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll leave them at Harry’s back door so you don’t have to answer the doorbell.”