This Thing Upon Me [Order The eBook] [Harry Styles]

Chapter 23

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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"Sweet creature...wherever I go...when I run out of road...you bring me home."

Harry | Sweet Creature

Noon arrived the following day, and I pulled over on a road somewhere northeast of Bel-Air to read his latest text. There was a change of plans. He had arrived early to the place he'd chosen for discretion, yet was instantly recognized by the staff. He grabbed the coffee anyway, and now wanted to meet at his place instead to ensure privacy. Moments later, he sent over the lower Bel Air Roscomare address, and I felt sick. It was happening. He was unstoppable. I was falling into him again, and he was dragging me feet-first directly to his lair.

Although the meeting was purely platonic, I felt unnerved, as if it were a first date with a stranger, or the first time visiting a new friend's house in school. The sort of occasion where you anticipated the way things would play out, moment by moment, until you were assaulted by so many converging possibilities you felt dizzy. Would the house rise-up to judge you? Would it make you feel inferior for having different customs? Lesser decor? Would they have a more sophisticated way of living? Were they more cultured?

In many ways, venturing to a stranger's place tended to result in a commentary on your own (with the boundless comparisons and self-consciousness it was sure to evoke). I had to prepare myself for the sights, smells, and inner workings of an alien domain. A new Malik residence, entirely foreign to me. My stomach did flips at the mere thought. Meanwhile he would be at ease, rendering me more awkward and desperate to belong. All I could think was, What if his friends were there? Normally that wouldn't present an issue, because I was highly sociable and got along well with strangers of diverse backgrounds, but something about the idea of his friends daunted me in ways I couldn't define.

Worse yet, what if SHE was there? What if I saw her things strewn about? I might feel sick then (more than I already did) and might have to leave abruptly. Then he would be off-put by how cringy I was, and then we may never speak again. He might come to realize that, in truth, he was much better off without me. With a growl, I leapt out of my head, swallowed my reservations, and simply replied OK to his text. For him, I'd go anywhere and endure anything. I just needed to shut the f—k up about it already.

For a change, I was alone and doing all the driving, so I plugged the address into my navigation and allowed the robotic voice to guide me to either my salvation or my damnation (I wasn't sure yet.) Now he was twenty minutes away, and it took me a mere fifteen to get to him, based on the way I drove (like my life depended on it).

Roscomare was a quiet, heavily wooded street with two inactive lanes. The properties were steep, many of them hedged about so deeply that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Zayn's place was just so, lost among deep shadows and hillsides and great neighboring facades. 

Located hundreds of yards down a private drive—the approaches were locked behind a tall, white gate; more like a wall. If it weren't for the GPS, I would have missed it nine times out of ten because it was just that shrouded. I deduced he must have a hell of a time finding it at night. Before long, I turned near a post which displayed the address in white letters, and stopped near the intercom.