Fix You (Sequel to The Arts)

Chapter 8

Camila's POV

"I can't walk," I mumble and I take my tiny steps as I bounced off the bottom step.

"You could've worn dress pants, you could've worn the collared dress but no..." I hear my boyfriends voice trail off. Turning around, I catch his gaze fallen south of my back.

"Ahem," I force out a cough, smiling bashfully.

"You had to pick the tightest skirt," he drops his voice to a lustful, raspy whisper. His fingertips reach up to graze my neck and down the middle of my collared shirt. "If only you hadn't buttoned it up all the way."

Rolling my eyes, I push him away playfully and grab the trench coat he seems to like so much.

"Mom! We're going!" I call upstairs despite just bidding my goodbye.

"Alright! Good luck again!" she wishes from her bedroom.

Sensing my fear of leaving the house, Zayn practically drags me outside and to the car.

Both our interviews happened to be today, but mine was in the morning and his was in the afternoon. We stayed up until three in the morning just practicing answering the generic interview questions we found online and figuring out what to wear.

Despite my discomfort, I tried to tough through wearing a pencil skirt. I want to make a change. I want to experience something outside of my comfort zone. I want to get better. I'm going to. Before all those inevitable steps back.

I barely got enough sleep last night. Even after we said we'd go to bed, I couldn't help but toss and turn. I kept thinking about everything that could go wrong. Mr. Hemlock told me that he told his husband about my situation and that there's nothing to worry about but how does that help?

"Camila," Zayn reaches his hand out whilst driving and settles it onto my thigh. You'll do great."

Letting out a shaky breath, I nod and go to find the bottle of pills in the purse Dinah let me borrow. Just in case.

He kept trying to calm me down as we drove, trying to get me to sing along to the music coming from the radio. Yet my nerves were too high to allow me to get a note out. So instead, he finds a nearby Taco Bell and orders us food to eat on the way.

"I don't think getting diarrhea before my interview is a good idea," I mumble and I dig through the paper bag.

Shaking his head, he turns to me, "Shut up and eat."

As much as I tried to resist the urge, I slowly fell back into the habit of covering my mouth when I chew and couldn't help but think about if Zayn seemed to notice. I caste an eye to him but he only looks out to the open road with a taco in his other hand. Sighing, I just turn back to my food and scarf it down as quickly as possible.

Eventually, the dread within me reaches its peak as we pull up to the publishing building. I tilt my head back and let my eyes follow the glass panes all the way up to the top. The structure just towers over us – no pun intended – and makes me want to crawl back in a hole to hide.

Zayn reaches over to place a gentle hand on my shoulder. Flinching at first, I look over and send him an apologetic look. He does the same.

"Babe," he mumbles. "You'll do great. So great!"

"How do you know?" I question and I expect for his face to fall, but it doesn't.

"I don't," he grins even wider. "But are you going to just sit here and until your fear eats you alive and you miss your chance, or are you going to take it?"

"I'm going to make a fool of myself," I shake my head. "What if I stutter so much that he can't understand me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if-"