Chapter 7 (Part Two)

A week passed. Seven days without seeing Zayn. No talks, no texts, no phone calls. No hearing his voice, no listening about some crazy customer he encountered at work. Nothing to make me chuckle and grin with delight as he held me in his arms, and it was killing me inside.

Had I made the right decision by ending things so soon without a second thought? Breaking it off without a clear explanation from Zayn?

No, that wasn't true. He had given me a completely reasonable answer, I just hadn't accepted it…and why not? Stupid, stupid Liam, I thought. You weren't thinking straight.

No logic.

No rationale.

Nothing but your stupid, clouded mind and your ridiculous feelings.

You had it all, and you managed to screw it up like always.

It brought back a handful of memories of my past. Year twelve of my schooling: my first boyfriend. Kisses, hugs, everything Zayn and I had. Only, when he left me, he took something else with him. Something meaningful.

I could remember the night vividly, painful remembrance seeping back into my mind.

I could remember the pants, the whispers, the touches. The oh-so-believable "I love you," after it was all done. He told me he had to go; that he would be back.

He lied.

He left, stealing my innocence as he slammed the door behind him. I struggled for the rest of that year in coming to terms with the fact that my virginity had been lost to a good for nothing piece of shit like him. Much, if not all, of my time was spent in my room, tearing myself apart at my own stupidity for believing his words.

But that was done. Years ago, and I had moved on. Yet, still…

Was that the reason I felt so suddenly scared of my relationship with Zayn?

I drummed my fingers on the armrest of my couch as I bit my nails. I needed to fix things, but I didn't know how. It was like I was searching for a way out of some deep, dark cave, blindfolded and tripping over rocks and slipping on loose pebbles. I would take a few steps, lose my footing, fall, and be back at square one all over again. I had no idea of how to gain forgiveness from Zayn. I was absolutely and completely clueless.

How was I supposed to take back the harsh words I had said to him? The things I did? I told him it was done for good, practically spit it in his face and walked away. The state of suffering I had left him in was unbearable to think about, even now. My eyes grew red, brimming with tears that threatened to spill over, and it was all a downward slope from there.

I quickly relapsed into the same depression as before, and the one before that, and so on. It had come at random, unannounced times during the day and had overtaken my body for the past week. There was no escaping it; no way of halting the rooted despair and desperation that so often now plagued my heart. I was shattering like I had years ago.

But this time was different. This time, I wasn't the one rejected. I was not the one used and thrown away like a piece of trash.

I could still fix this.

Poor Zayn. I winced as I thought about my actions; the sorrow and the agony that he undoubtedly felt. I pondered once again ways in which to bring him back in my life. Did I go and see him at work? No, that would be uncomfortable; far too public. Did I call? No, this was something that needed to be done in person.

It was tough to come to a decision, and hours passed. Ideas were written on sheets of paper, all crumpled up, and then tossed in the trash. Pens ran out of ink, notebooks were emptied. Until finally, finally I came to a conclusion.

It would all start with a bouquet of roses. They would be delivered to his door, and the card would read: Let's talk. Love, Liam. Simple. Effective.

He would reply, in some way shape or form, and even if he didn't, I wouldn't give up there. I would text him, call him, knock on his door, wait for him to get home from work; I would try so hard he would be forced to give me another chance. And then I would apologize: tell him I was sorry for all of the unintelligible things I had said to him. I would beg, if need be, despite the embarrassing notions that accompanied it.

Just one last chance. That was all I needed to make things right.

Morning came and, as it did every day, the sun pilfered in through the half-closed shades. My head jolted up out of a deep sleep, and I looked down to find that I was still sitting at the table in my kitchen. The pen was still in my hand, sentence on the paper unfinished. I glanced at the clock, and it read: 10:30 AM.

Almost time for work.

I arrived and clocked in, as usual.

"Liam." It was my boss.

"Yeah, boss?" I turned, facing the short and pudgy man. His hair was thinning, the bald spot on the back of his head growing with every passing day. He held a clipboard and a pen in his hand, fat fingers gripped tightly around them. His stomach proceeded past his belt, hanging over his khakis.

"You don't seem like you're doing too well, today."

I'm not, I wanted to say. And I haven't been for the past week.

"I'm hanging in there," was my reply.

He sighed. "I can't have you looking like that, Liam." He glanced up at my mop of poorly styled hair and frowned even more. "Just go home, and when you come back tomorrow, make sure to get rid of your sour mood." He quickly waddled away, leaving me no chance to object to being sent home.

I really did not want to go back to my apartment and sit in the bleak melancholy that all but suffocated me. My job, though quite pitiful, was the only stable and organized thing in my life at the moment, and it was nice.

I made my way towards my car sluggishly, nearly being run over twice. I was thankful that I always kept an extra pair of clothes in the trunk of my new car (I had already forgotten the name of that, too. I really was not a car person). It was some blue piece of junk I had picked up for a few thousand dollars at a lot selling used automobiles. Of course, I had some help from my mum and dad with the payments.

There was nothing to be done at home, or anywhere, for that matter, and so I headed for the one place that could, more than anything, have a chance to bring me some solace.

The pavement was smooth and pale, just as before. It was sprinkled with families and people of all ages, screaming and giggling as they won prizes and ate ice cream with their loved ones. I looked out across the blue of the ocean and a fraction of peace finally penetrated the thick layer of depression that outlined my mind. It started to clear, the fog fading from my thoughts. Not completely, and not swiftly, but it was a start.

I watched the sapphire waves of the sea drift as they glittered in the sunlight. A faint smile perched my lips, and I moved to a tall slab of concrete and sat, surveying the sands and the Pacific Ocean. My feet hung off its edge and the cool coastal breeze carried the scent of salt through my nostrils. For the first time in what felt like much, much longer than a week, colors and sounds seemed clear; thoughts and visions were distinct, not all just a big, hazy blur. It was like looking out at a bright blue world after moving out of the industrialized city, where clouds of smog permeated the skies.

Suddenly, a small boy around the age of five came running towards me, fast as he could. I recognized the curly blonde locks of hair that fell around his face, the familiar green eyes.

"Hi Liam," he said, "Whatcha doin'?"

"Just watching the waves. Aren't they pretty?" I pointed to out to the expanse of deep blue.

"Lemme' see" he said, not tall enough to peer over the concrete. He tried to climb it himself, but I was worried he would fall and get hurt. I lifted him up and set him in my lap securing my arms around his waist.

"Whoaaaa!" he exclaimed. "You can see so far!" he turned to me, eyes lit with amazement.

"Isn't it neat?" I asked. My voice was more shrill than normal; appropriate for a young child.

"Yeah!"

He looked back to the ocean, Amy finally catching up to him. She panted hard, resting her hands on her knees.

"Jackson!" I told you not to go running off like that!"

"But sis, I'm okay. I just wanted to say hi to Uncle Liam," he said, facing her.

Since when was I his Uncle?

Amy pouted. "Next time you want to say hi to Uncle Liam, let me know before you take off. Can you do that?"

"Okay." He said, returning his eyes to the waters.

"I'm sorry, Liam, but I need to use the bathroom. Can you watch him for a minute?"

"Sure," I told her.

The silence between Jackson and I was short-lived, as it always was with young children.

"Liam, where is Zayn?" he asked, innocently. He had once met me when Amy stopped by, and Zayn had been there, by chance. He was cute, Jackson; wondered why we were holding hands. He didn't know two boys could be dating. He was only five, after all, and so his questions were out of pure curiosity. No judgments, no harassment.

"He's not here because I told him to go away for a while."

"Why did you do that?"

"We got into a little fight."

"That's not very nice of you," he said. "You should always be nice. Zayn is special to you, isn't he?" he asked.

"Yeah, buddy" I chuckled and ruffled his hair playfully. "He is."

"You should talk to him again. And tell him I say 'hi'."

I smiled. "Okay, I will."

Amy had returned now, and our conversation was quick; she had to get back to her apartment to make Jackson dinner. He recently had moved in with his older sister, as their mother was put in jail for drug abuse and their father died of cancer. I spent a lot of time with Jackson, acting more like a role model for him to follow (an Uncle, in his words); Amy said he needed that right now. She was going through a far more difficult stage in her life than I was, and we had talked about it quite a few times. She was strong, Amy.

She thanked me for looking over him, and they were off. Jackson waved his little hand in the distance and I waved back.

Why couldn't my life be so simple, so easy, so carefree, like Jackson's?

I stayed in the same spot, legs dangling, until the stars were visible overhead. I had watched the sunset as people came and went. I was alone, but it was nice having to time to think; to sort out my thoughts.

I made several decisions while on the plain slab of concrete. The first: I was going to get Zayn back as soon as possible—that had technically already been decided, but my determination was stronger now than ever—and the second: I would stop being so closed off.

He would hear my past, and try, at least, to understand why I acted so hurtful, so… detrimental. Screw the flowers and the fake romance. It would be the truth, the honest to God truth, and then, and only then would I ask for his forgiveness. I knew that it was unlikely he would take me back, and I knew that I would probably be rejected, and forced to move on. And it would suck, it would really, really suck, but I had hope, and that was reassuring enough for now.

I headed down the Boardwalk on my way back to the parking lot. I passed the attractions that flashed in the same patterns as when Zayn and I had been here. Together. My hands were in my pockets as my feet dragged along, and I knew I must have appeared lonely and grief-stricken, but I was in fact quite the opposite.

I was calm, serene; even a little optimistic, and I was thinking of Zayn and his beautiful personality. The way that he was so bashful and shy, and how the littlest and simplest of things could put his soul at ease. "Fancy is great," he had once said, "But I love nothing more than a quiet night at home with you." How I missed the days when those things could be said. The days before the tension, before the distance, before Zayn's father. I had blamed him all for this ordeal, Yaser, but in truth, the problem had begun much sooner than his entrance into our—into Zayn's—life.

I had never wholeheartedly trusted Zayn. Whenever he was not with me, I would worry. I would stress and I would pace and I would question whether or not he was even coming back. I had no reason to distrust Zayn (at the time); he was never unfaithful and would never hold anything from me. We used to tell each other everything. How our day went, what we did at home, what we ate for lunch.

When did all that change, exactly? When had I been the one to cower away in fear of our progressing relationship?

I was unsure, but I was willing to accept the responsibility of my actions. Willing to admit to myself that all of this wrongdoing, from the start, was my fault; not Zayn's, not Yaser's, not anyone's but my own. And that was strangely okay with me.

Because I had already put it behind me; had already moved on and decided I would be a better boyfriend. I would be more caring, more accessible, and more loving than ever to try and restore the broken pieces of what we once had. I was ready to heal my connection with Zayn.

I only hoped he was ready, too.