Complementary

six

well, people will talk - drowners

zayn

I drove myself nearly crazy analyzing the first interaction I'd had with Carlie in a week. It was not how I had planned it to go and it was not how I had wanted it to go.

I do not really know for certain why I had told her I didn't read her article. Because I did read it. Two times yesterday and four times today, to be exact.

I just thought telling her I didn't read her work yet would get to her somehow, because she took her piece so seriously and I put effort into it as well, with my photos and all. It seems as if that did bother her, though. Her face had fallen slightly, seemingly looking disappointed.

Well, I was disappointed too when she stumbled out of her room in nothing but that guy's tee shirt, sporting a fat hickey on her neck.

I might be going insane. I have a juvenile crush on my best friend's stepsister, and here I am brooding over the fact that she has slept with someone else. She doesn't even know how pretty I think she is, or how I spend hours thinking of her words before I go to sleep.

I don't matter to her. I am simply her stepbrother's friend, someone who did her a favor.

I groan though I'm sitting on my couch by myself after a long day of working at the convenience store, with no one around to listen to my problems. It seems as if that's all I do; go to class, go to work, smoke, and complain about my shitty life. I guess that is all I do. But right now, Harry is on yet another date with Niall and I cannot exactly talk to Louis about all of this.

I rake my fingers through my dirty hair and go out on my balcony, a pack of Marlboros in my right hand and a lighter in my left.

Smoking is not exactly what I should resort to when I have problems, but it is usually my go-to solution. The nicotine turned out to be more addicting than I had anticipated at the age of 18, so here I am two years later, chain smoking and staring out at the dark city.

I am brought to a moment of peace, simply listening to the sound of cars beeping and driving in the streets below me. The sun has set and the sky is black and I am alone in this apartment building of full of people, and I cannot determine whether or not that is calming or lonely.

I'm just putting out my second cigarette when I hear a knock on the door inside. I glance at my watch, confused. Maybe Harry and Niall have decided to stop by after their date.

I peer through the peephole anyway, but standing there is not Harry, nor is it Niall.

It's Carlie.

I step back, panicking a bit. My place is a depressed mess and I reek of cigarette smoke. My hair is dirty and I have been wearing the same clothes for two days.

"One minute," I call out, running to my bedroom to pull a beanie over my head.

I return to the door and open it, engulfed by Carlie's familiar scent. She wears black jeans and a black turtleneck. She doesn't even greet me before walking into my apartment like she lives here.

"Uh, hi," I mumble, shutting the door behind her.

"I can't take this anymore." She ignores my greeting and sits down on my couch, glancing at the numerous beer cans on my table. I see her gaze linger on the small bag of weed I've left there and I curse myself mentally for being so careless.

"Take what?" I finally ask, standing not too far from her.

"You have yet to tell me what you think of the article."

I blink. She has come all the way from her unnecessarily large mansion to the shitty side of the city to hear about what I think of her writing. And the worst part about it is that I was let down by her article.

"You came all the way here for that?" I stall.

"Well, it appears that you wouldn't have texted or called me when you read my piece. Surely you have read it by now and I still have heard nothing from you." She purses her red lips, leaning back against the beat up leather of my sofa.

"Uh," I tear my eyes off her. "It was good, yeah. I liked it."

I don't look at her for a while, and she is quiet for this whole time. Then she stands up, walking toward me. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you liked my writing."

I don't lift my gaze from the floor.

"Zayn," she sighs, sounding frustrated. "I really do not appreciate people who lie to me, especially when it comes to something I am passionate about."

"Do you want me to be brutally honest?" I blurt.

Carlie nods.

"I was disappointed when I read your article."

"Why?" Her face hardens a bit.

"Because," I groan, running my hands over my face. "You were so serious about this piece, but then I read it, and it was basically a friendly letter to this blog's readers! You chose such a wide topic yet you only scratched the surface of it."

She steps backward, her facial expression blank. I stare at her until her lips form a smirk.

"I take my writing seriously, Zayn. But not all of my writing has to be serious. That is the beauty of literature."

I exhale heavily, staring at the floor. She has stunned me silent yet again.

"But, you have just made me extremely happy," she adds. "All I ever hear from everyone around me is how flawless my writing is. My professors, my friends, my family - all of them only seem to tell me how talented I am. You are the first person who has ever been disappointed with my writing."

I grimace. "And that makes you happy?"

"Of course it does," she scoffs. "You were brutally honest, just like you said. You were critical instead of commendatory. Every writer needs someone like that, Zayn. How else is one able to improve, then?"

I feel myself smile at her for the first time since we took those photos last week. And she smiles back, genuinely and widely. That alone gives me the guts to say what I feel. So I do.

"We make a good team, I think." I tell her.

She laughs softly. "I think so too."

We fall silent, simply standing in my living room. She takes this opportunity to look around once more, her nose scrunching up at the sight. "You're quite the slob, by the way."

I nod, agreeing. "I know."

"Anyway, I should probably get going," Carlie says conclusively. "I still haven't eaten anything."

I swallow thickly. "We could go grab a late dinner or something."

She smirks as if she is amused by my suggestion. For a moment, I worry that she's going to laugh in my face or reject the idea. But she nods, leading me out of my own apartment.

I can't stop myself from doing a bit of a victory dance while her back is turned.

-

a bit of a filler, i apologize. 

but if you are enjoying this story, please let me know! it may be a bit slow-moving, but i am trying to illustrate the idea that love is not always a fast, easy process. i'd like to think this book is a bit more realistic than my first one, so please keep that in mind!

thank you for reading, don't be afraid to vote or comment x