Disguise♔ z.m

Forty four

What’s hope?

Imagine yourself making big plans on going to the beach with your friends, where everything sounded and looked perfect until the sky began to darken and the wind began to strengthen. At that point, there was a ninety nine percent chance of rain coming by, ruining and postponing your plans. And then, there was a one percent chance being left back. What was that one percent chance? Hope. That single number was Hope. It could have looked little, but damn does it make you feel entirely different. It fluctuates your point of view over things you know you should be pessimistic about. It sounds ridiculous to be hopeful over something that might happen, yet you keep driving through as though the ninety nine percent does not exist. And that was what I was doing right now; driving through and pretending the ninety nine percent does not exist. I had many things I hoped about, but what toped it all, was Zayn. Zayn, Zayn, and only Zayn.

I have called him several times, but with every call, I got back a decline. Even when my calls did not go through, I left voicemails. How many voicemails? Ten. Ten is not a big number. I really did not care about leaving ten voicemails, but you should have heard the tone of my voice. The first few were simple, beginning with me asking how he was and if he was alright and whether he would like to meet up again. But when the fifth voicemail came, my voice became harsher. I vaguely remember what I said, but I do remember saying “answer me, it’s important.” And then, I cried, cried and cried. I really didn’t know why I cried, but I did. Perhaps I felt rejected, but whatever I felt did not change the situation. I really should not blame him; if someone ever came to me with a ticket, saying I should travel with him or her, I’d definitely say no, so whatever Zayn is trying to do, is be nice, and I totally respect that, but I didn’t ‘expect’ that from him. With him not coming, I know I will have to face several questions from Alexia, who’s currently sitting by my side, blabbing about how she and her husband to be are going to spend their honeymoon. It’s not like I mind her talking, but she knows I don’t feel like listening; that’s my problem; I expect everyone to listen to me when I never listen to anyone.

“Is Liam coming?”

“Liam?” I surprisingly look at her. If she only knew how much of a ‘good’ boyfriend he was.

“Yes, Liam?” She laughs as though I sounded crazy. “Isn’t that his name?”

“It is and no. I am sorry you had to spend excess money on this ticket,” I pull out the second ticket that was left unnamed, though could be accepted since my father could pay off anyone; perks. “But there’s hope someone else would come.”

“Someone else? Another admirer?”

I shake my head and lean myself on the adjacent glass. Another thing I hoped for was this day to go by smoothly (that is, not engaging me in any argument with my mother).

When we arrive to the airport, definitely in a separate car from our parents, we get inside with some of our luggage, followed by some family friends and friends of the couple holding the wedding. My mother glances at me quite a few times, but neither of us can bring ourselves to speak to one another, which is sad. My father softly pats my shoulder and kisses my cheek once he approaches me.

“How have you been?”

“Well,” I fake a smile. “You?”

“Stressed out, but it’s worth it.” I did miss being his ‘little girl’. “I am so proud of you coming along.”

“Proud?”

“You know after all the time you spent away from us, your family. I am very happy you’re back.” I wanted to tell him that no, I wasn’t back, that no, I am not ready to stage that I belong to a very happy family in front of the other guests, but no, I wasn’t going to make his current smile fade away.

“Where’s Yves?” I ask.

“Over there,” he points to the boy standing by with some people of his age (perhaps the younger guests).

“Why didn’t you tell me about Yves?”

His brows twist in confusion. “I was the only one of our family not to know. Why?”

“You were too young to understand, Nora.”

“Don’t pull that bullshit on me, dad.” I groan.

“Look, when your mother found out about him, you were too young to know and as time passed, we thought that you didn’t have to know, which sounded okay until. . . “

“But Alexia knew about it all along.”

“Because she always saw your mother and I fight,” he frowns and I know they still do.

“What you did was wrong. We can’t change the fact that you have a son, but keeping that secret away from me was wrong,” I fold my arms and he stands by my side, staring at nothingness.

“I am sorry. I hope it’s not too late for a sorry, but I truly feel horrible. I keep forgetting that you’re no more my little girl.” I felt my heart break at the mention of not being his little girl. I look up at him and see the crinkles form at the corner of his eyes as he fakes a smile I’ve come to know too well. Wrinkles surround his face and it’s sad too, because he’s getting older and older and I don’t get to live his life with him. We have all done so many mistakes, I including, and those mistakes are the mistakes we can’t change. The only thing we can do is accept them and live with them.

“We can start submitting our tickets I think,” He tells me and I begin to panic. Zayn’s not here yet, which means that if he does appear, he won’t be able to collect the ticket. I barely believe he’d make it here, but I can’t do anything about it but actually fight myself for being so stupid to actually believe he’d travel all the way to Italy with a person he doesn’t know.

“Do have anyone else coming?” My father asks, turning to face me.

“Uh. . .  no.”

“Hey,” Alexia appears in a rush. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I was about to ask her if she had some problems with her memory. I clearly remember mentioning that my boyfriend wasn’t coming.

“He’s—“

“Here,” a foreign voice appears by my side and I feel a hand cup the small of my back.

Holy shit, this can’t be happening.

“This is your boyfriend?” Alexia’s eyes were open wide as she spoke. She kept on darting her eyes from me to Zayn.

I begin to articulate, so Zayn answers finally. “Yes.” I immediately gave him the ‘what are you doing?’ look.=

He gives me back the ‘calm down’ look, ‘I’m helping out’.

“He looks so differ—“

“That picture was a joke,” I smile nervously. “Dad, meet Zayn.”

“Zayn Malik, sir,” he shakes my father’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” My father impressively replies, pulling away. “Are we ready?”

“Yes,” my nerves were kicking in. “Tickets.” I hand him the tickets, waiting for everyone to leave before us.

When they do, I begin to stammer out my questions and rage about how many voicemails I left.

“I know, Nora, I know. I am so sorry for not getting back to you but I was trying to surprise you.”

“What kind of surprise is that?” I snap. When I come to focus at his crooked smile form at the corner of his lips, I feel my heart warm and the anger fade away. He blinks a few times before closing the space between us and hugging me tightly, saying “sorry” one more time before kissing my cheek and getting back to looking me in the eyes. I clearly saw ‘this is wrong’ written everywhere. It was wrong to say Zayn was my boyfriend, it was wrong to hug him, it was even wrong to let him give me a kiss on the cheek! But what topped it all, was me liking it and wanting more.