I Preferred It Before

Ever since I could remember, it was always me and Zayn. We were the type of mates who’d known one another so long we couldn’t remember meeting, the type whose mums had all but sent out the wedding invitations and named the grandkids. I once vehemently explained to my mother following a school dance at which Zayn ignored me the whole night that I was completely in love with him and I would never find anyone else, we’d been made for each other, etc. She looked at me all doe-eyed and I immediately dropped the subject. I didn’t want her thinking she’d been right all along because she hadn’t been. Mums don’t need more self-satisfaction than they’ve already got.

Zayn and me were more like siblings than mates. I was an only child and he had sisters so it wasn’t like he needed another one or anything, it just sort of happened that way. We argued constantly and over everything: he’d ask to copy my maths homework the morning after he stayed out all night with a girl and get mad when I denied him; he’d “forget” to pick me up for college and give someone else a lift instead; he loved blowing smoke in my face after I specifically asked him not to, and god forbid I ever told him what a pretentious arse he was. But then he’d come round to mine for family dinner on Sundays or I’d go shopping with Doniya and Patricia while he was banished to sitting at home alone. Regardless of what was going on between us at any given moment, our friendship made little sense to anyone on the outside. We liked it that way.

Then he went off and got famous. I’d been the one to drag him out of bed the morning of his X-Factor audition and the most thanks I’d received for it was a postcard from New York, postmarked the day of the band’s show at Madison Square Garden. It didn’t say much, just a quick “wish you were here!” in Zayn’s unmistakable scrawl and a promise to get together once he was back home. We never did.

But I couldn’t blame him, however much I tried. Zayn had always been too big for Bradford. He should’ve been off modeling in Paris or Milan or mucking up London with graffiti. Mum used to warn us against getting attached to one another because even as a kid, it was obvious Zayn was meant for bigger and better things. I was happy for him. Even if it meant getting left behind, I was proud to call him my best mate.

Life went on without him. While he was recording chart-topping albums, I enrolled in university at Manchester Met. While he was touring the world, I spent my days studying pharmaceutical chemistry. He and the lads made a movie while I struggled to make passing grades, and girls from all over the globe fawned over him while I told myself it wasn’t worth expecting a call or text because I’d wind up disappointed.

Life in Manchester felt foreign. I’d never spent time away from my parents and I missed my mates (the ones I had that weren’t Zayn, anyway). But I made new ones: ones who didn’t know I was friends with a member of One Direction and just wanted to get together on Tuesday evenings to study or grab a pint at the pub near campus. Although most of my tuition was covered because of my grades, I begged my parents to foot the remainder of the bill once I was granted my own flat. They agreed without much hesitation; even they knew I was unbearable to live with, and they didn’t want to be responsible for ruining some poor girl’s year by forcing us together.

But overall, I couldn’t complain. I only had one year left before I’d be graduated with a Masters and out in the real world, doing drug research and generally sounding more brilliant than I was. While life had thrown a few curveballs at me, over time I’d been able to adjust and was finally comfortable.

Until Zayn ruined it.

“Oh my,” was my brilliant line as the door swung open. I was in no condition to be seen by the outside world, and that included the very famous boy band member standing on the other side. I didn’t have to ask to know my mother had given him my address, but why he was visiting me I hadn’t a clue.

Zayn grinned cheekily as he thrusted a large bouquet of flowers in my direction. “For you.”

I stared for a few seconds, trying to digest what was happening. I hadn’t seen Zayn in almost a year. We hadn’t spoken in almost three months. That was a big deal for two people who may as well have been Siamese twins until one of them had to go and get all famous.

“Are you gonna invite me in?” he asked, pushing on to the tips of his toes to see over my shoulder. I flushed immediately. My flat was also in no condition to be seen by the likes of Zayn Malik.

I snatched the bouquet from him and glared. “You’ve got a lot of nerve just showing up here.”

“I know,” came his reply. He grabbed me by the shoulders and moved me gently to the left, leaving just enough space for him to brush by me and into the flat. I directed my glare at his back and intensified it, though it was of no use as it didn’t produce rage lasers or anything of the sort.

I stomped into my tiny kitchen in search of a glass large enough for the flowers. A ten-gallon tank wouldn’t have been big enough and I cursed Zayn under my breath for giving me such a stupid gift. What on earth did he think I was going to do with it? I’d have to beg my parents to rent me another flat just to have somewhere to put them.

Regardless, I threw open every cabinet in the place in search of anything. “You’re a fuckin’ pillock, Zayn Malik.”

“Now that ain’t nice, Nor.” I flinched at the nickname, looking over to where Zayn stood. He took up the entire archway that led to my minuscule dining room and I found myself wondering if he’d grown a few inches since I last saw him or if he’d always been that much taller than me and I just never noticed.

“What ain’t nice is you showing up out of the blue after not speakin’ to me for months.”

I saw him shrug out of my peripheral vision. “We’re both busy.”

“Don’t gimme that, Zayn,” I snapped, slamming shut the last cabinet. I turned my attention back to him, flowers in hand, and rounded on him. “I’ve always made time for you. Every single time you’ve called — which hasn’t been often, may I add — I’ve made time for you, and you’re sayin’ you’re so busy you can’t answer any of my texts? Aye, that’s rich.”

He sighed. “I didn’t come here to have a row.”

“Then leave!” I shouted, not realising what I’d said until it was already out there. Zayn looked just as shocked as I did. “I didn’t—”

“Forget it,” he said quietly, shrugging again. He rubbed the outsides of his back pockets before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Is it cool if I smoke in here?”

“No,” I answered.

Ignoring me, Zayn fished a cigarette from the pack and stuck it between his lips. “People might see me outside, y’know?”

“Not my problem.”

I slipped by him and into the living room, where my textbooks and notes were spread all over the place. It was a mess. I used to study in my bedroom until I routinely began falling asleep beneath a quilt of college-ruled paper and organic chemistry handouts. Things weren’t much different now, though napping on the couch felt nostalgic.

As I began piling everything into my schoolbag, Zayn entered the room and brought the weight of his enormous presence with him. It was mind-boggling how much had changed. Zayn was a big deal now and he had the swagger to prove it. “What class do you have?”

“Language.”

“You need languages to be a chemist?”

“Are you staying here while I’m in class?” I asked, ignoring his question. I slung the bag over my shoulder as he stared. The cigarette was still unlit between his lips.

“Is that all right with you?”

I threw my hands up. “What is this, twenty fuckin’ questions?” Zayn just stared, unwilling to point out the obvious. “I don’t care if you stay but so help me God if I come back and this place reeks of smoke—”

“Why don’t you just skip?” he asked. He produced a lighter from his pocket and looked me in the eye as he lit his cigarette.

I couldn’t decide what infuriated me more: his blatant disregard for anything I said, or his suggestion that I skip my course to be at his beck and call. His eyes widened as I stormed over to him and grabbed the cigarette between his lips, immediately heading for the kitchen to run it under the sink.

“Aye!” he shouted after me. “What’re you doin’?”

“What am I doing? You’re the one who thinks he can do whatever he wants just ‘cos he’s some hot-shot boy band lad! You can’t just come here and think everything’s fine between us!”

Whatever Zayn had been planning to do before I spoke, my words stopped him in his tracks. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him; I already knew what I’d done. “It’s not?”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “We haven’t spoken in months and barely at all since your audition and you think we’re the same chummy ol’ mates we were a few years ago?”

He shrugged and diverted his gaze. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Because everything’s changed! Because our lives took us in different directions and now I can’t even log onto Twitter without fifty fuckin’ girls with names like ‘letmalikyouupanddown’ calling me a minger and asking why you’re following me!”

Zayn cracked a smile. “At least I’m followin’ you, though.”

I rolled my eyes. I already knew I was too late to make it to my course on time, and I had a thing about being late, so I shrugged off my bag and tried not to think about offing myself. I pulled out my mobile to fire off an apologetic email to my professor before I even dared look at Zayn.

“Seriously, why did you come here?”

“Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I wanted to spend it with you.”

I snorted. “Right, like you don’t have some tabloid girlfriend to hang out with.” I planned on waiting for his reaction until I realised what he said. “And piss off for assuming I’d be spending it alone.”

Zayn moved closer until we were inches apart. I still couldn’t believe how different he was, all tattooed and expensive and adult-like. I knew I couldn’t think of him as my childhood mate forever, the one who thought no one saw him sticking boogies under his desk at school, but that’s exactly who he’d always be to me.

“You’ve spent it alone every year since I’ve known you, which is every year you’ve been alive. I’d say it was a safe assumption.”

He had a point. I never thought Valentine’s Day was anything to fuss over. My parents were the only ones to buy me gifts (my mum always gave me a box of homemade chocolates and my father bought me roses) and I usually spent the day gorging myself on conversation hearts.

“Then what was with the stupid gift?”

Zayn chuckled. “The pink ones were from your dad.” I side-eyed the bouquet, which I’d given up on and stuck in an inch of water in the sink. Lo and behold, there was a mixture of pink roses amongst an assortment of other-coloured ones. “Your mum gave me chocolates to give you, but I got hungry on the drive and may’ve eaten them.”

I gasped and whacked him in the chest. “Who gave you the right?!”

“I’m sorry!” he squealed, scrambling backwards to avoid the fury of consecutive whacks I aimed in his direction. Once he calmed down, he went straight for the fridge. “I’m starved.”

“I’d offer to buy you takeaway but you ate my chocolates so I’m not buyin’ you anything.”

Zayn feigned offense. “You’d buy takeaway for me? Gosh, Nori, that’s so sweet of you. Thank you so much!”

“I just said I’m not—”

“I want chicken!” he called over his shoulder. I stood there dumbfounded, and all I could do was dig the menu out of a drawer and place an order for delivery. I could barely hear the woman on the other end over the sound of Zayn’s laughing at the telly.

Forty minutes later, Zayn had tidied up the living room enough to be suitable for dining and had found a Top Gear marathon to use as background noise. He’d been talking forever about the lads’ last tour — all the places they’d gone and everything they’d been lucky enough to see. (For comparison, I’d only been out of Bradford once before going to uni, and that was to Surrey on a business trip with my mum.) As jealous as I was, Zayn had a knack for storytelling. I could listen to him talk for hours.

Zayn shoved a forkful of rice in his mouth. “How’re things here?”

“Fine, I s’pose,” I said, locking my gaze onto the telly even though the volume was turned all the way down.

I should’ve known that just because we hadn’t spoken, Zayn could still read me like an open book. He didn’t acknowledge that I’d said anything at all, just kept on waiting for a response.

“That’s really immature, you know.”

“So’s lyin’.”

I scoffed. “Who said I was lyin’?”

“Me.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Zayn. Things are normal here. Boring.”

“I just wanted the truth is all.”

I tucked my feet beneath me and crossed my arms over my chest. My appetite had suddenly gone missing and all I wanted to do was drown in the comfort of my bed. “Well, there you have it. My life’s boring and I can’t wait for this chapter of it to be finished.”

Zayn set his empty container on the table. Leaning back into the cushions, he swung his legs in my direction and settled them in my lap. “You know what I’d give for normal?”

“You know what I’d give to get the hell away from here?”

His brown eyes softened. “You’re almost done, Nor, just hang in a bit longer. Plus, it can’t be that bad ‘ere. Surely you’ve got mates to spend time with or a boyfriend or somethin’?”

I felt my face contort as he spoke. “You know Greg Donovan was the last bloke I dated and he broke my heart.”

“Aye, but that was ages ago and he was a complete tosser. Don’t know what you were thinkin’ with that one.”

“It wasn’t ages ago,” I countered. “It was two years.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s still a bellend.”

My jaw hung open stupidly. Zayn looked entirely too satisfied with himself as he began laughing, and it wasn’t long before it became contagious and we were both howling with laughter for no real reason at all. My stomach began cramping and Zayn hushed me multiple times, saying he shouldn’t have eaten so much and that laughing so hard was going to make him vomit. Tears leaked from my eyes, and by the time we managed to calm down I couldn’t remember why I’d ever held a grudge against him.

I occupied my hands with the sleeves of my jumper. “I’m sorry I acted like such a twat.”

Zayn sighed. “I deserved it. I should’ve called more often.”

“You’re busy being a rock star,” I reasoned. “You don’t have to answer to anyone, especially me.”

Zayn swatted me. “That’s not true. You’re the only one to keep me honest. You don’t let me get away with actin’ like I’m some huge fuckin’ deal.”

I scoffed. “Well I’d certainly hope not. What kind of gigantic arse eats someone’s homemade Valentine’s chocolates?”

He got a chuckle out of that before a comfortable silence enveloped us. This was how things used to be, a long time ago when things were normal and not boring. It felt good to laugh with him again. Beyond that, it felt good having him near me…having him home.

“Zayn?”

“Hmm?”

“You remember that school dance we went to?”

He didn’t have to think very hard to remember. “Was that the time you didn’t realise your skirt was on backward the whole time?” I nodded. “Oy, that was a mess. What made you think o’that?”

I shrugged. “It was just somethin’ I said to my mum afterward.”

“Oh?” Zayn asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Anything you’d like to share with the class, Miss Norwood?”

I shook my head. “It’s silly.”

“Can’t be worse than the time I asked my mum when I was gonna get my period.”

Although I could hear him laughing at his own anecdote, I was a million kilometres away and underwater when I spilled my deepest secret. “I…told her I was in love with you that night.”

There’s something inherently terrifying about silence. Perhaps it’s the not knowing part that’s so terrible — not knowing if you made a mistake, if you ruined everything, if the person sitting with his feet in your lap is ever going to sit with his feet in your lap again. Fear spread through me rapidly, from the top of my head all the way to the tips of my toes. I wanted to scream, to do like they did in the movies and shake his shoulders and demand he answer me, but I felt paralyzed. Oh god, what if I ruined everything? Why didn’t I just keep my bloody mouth shut and—

“Are you still?”

I managed to sigh, though it felt like there were twenty elephants sitting on my chest. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“I think you can only choose one,” Zayn mused.

“Why do you care?” I asked, tired of feeling patronised. “It’s not like it matters to you. And it was a long time ago.”

“It does matter to me. My best mate being in love with me is kind of a big deal, you know.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be. They’re just feelings.”

Zayn paused. “Does that mean you still are?”

“I don’t know, all right? I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

Zayn tapped me with his foot, drawing me out of my reverie. It took all the courage I could muster to look over at him, and when I did I felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. It hurt. Looking at him, feeling everything I felt toward him, physically hurt. My airways constricted and my palms got all sweaty. It wasn’t fair.

“You know what I think?” he asked, pulling his feet back to him. I missed his warmth immediately. “I think,” he began, putting his elbow along the back of the couch as he leaned in, “Greg Donovan was a dickhead and didn’t deserve you. I think he should’ve gotten the shit kicked outta ‘im and I’d do it myself it it wouldn’t cost me a lawsuit.”

He moved in until I could smell the cologne stuck to his shirt. My body twitched as I fought off breathing him in. “I also think you should’ve told me about this sooner.” His breath ghosted across my ear. “No one likes to be left out. Louis and Liam have their girls, have someone to go home to, and the rest of us, well…”

There it was again — the struggle just to breathe, to keep myself together while Zayn did what he did best. No part of him was nervous, was anticipating denial, rejection, and it drove me mad. That would never be me. But in that moment, I didn’t care. If Zayn wasn’t going to take no for an answer, why should I? I’d already done so much without him, gained a sense of independence that made my mum proud, that even if he left for good and never spoke to me again, at least I tried. At least I told the truth.

His breath was still dancing along my skin. “Zayn?” I asked, putting every ounce of strength I had into that one word. It wasn’t the predicament I found myself in that made me weak; it was him. He hummed an acknowledgment that rumbled against my collarbone. “Are you going to kiss me?”

Just as quickly as he’d invaded my personal space, he took it away. All of a sudden it felt like I’d been hit by a train, like I’d been under some sort of spell. I felt foolish, my skin burned in embarrassment, and every doubt I’d ever cast upon myself occupied my head at once.

“No,” he said, safe and sound on his end of the couch, “I don’t think I will.” I hoped my face didn’t register the disappointment I felt. “I’m not going to toy with you like that, Nor. I can’t. I shouldn’t have done what I just did, but I’m not going to apologise for it because I’m not sorry.”

My eyes narrowed. “Then what are you?”

Years of being famous had trained him for moments like these — being asked the tough question, having to choose your words wisely. “I’m going to do this right. Slow. Patiently. Give you time to decide if this is what you want.”

God help him if he thought I was the one that needed protecting. “Zayn—”

“You need someone who’s not Greg bloody Donovan and right now that’s not me, but if you’ll just be patient, it will be.”

I know it’s me who’s supposed to love you.