Wedlock - Harry Styles A.U

three

Edora

Waking up, I'm not even aware of the warm body tucked into my side until I'm having to push him away in a desperate search for the bathroom. My head is spinning, vision blurred, body aches and the need to throw up intensifies with every waking moment. I feel it rising as I move around my clothes, kicking a belt as I race towards the nearest bathroom door and just in time, I'm on my knees spewing up the contents of my stomach - the contents being neat tequila and too many cocktails.

Just when I think it's over, I'm gripping onto the toilet seat and heaving until more alcohol is spewing out of me. In some ways, as much as I hate being sick, I'm glad it's happening now so it can be over and done with. I hate being hungover, needing to be sick, but not being able to because I'm then on edge all day.

Now wide awake with a pounding headache and a sore chest from throwing up, I'm trying to figure out what the fuck happened last night, where I am but more importantly, how much I drank to be throwing up this profoundly. I need to know if I should see a doctor now or if I'll actually survive.

I close my eyes and take a breath, groaning as I feel myself needing to be sick again. One thing I do know for sure is that I slept with a stranger last night because; one, I woke up beside him, two, I'm in his clothes, three, I'm in his apartment and four, I'm sore. That's a good start.

When I finally manage to peel my eyes open, taking a moment to adjust to the sudden light change, I'm met with my finger bearing an expensive looking pearl ring. At first, I think nothing of it, figuring it was probably a birthday gift I have no recollection of getting, but as I'm looking around this luxurious bathroom I'm suddenly realising what hand and what finger the ring is on.

Left hand. Ring finger.

My heart starts to race as I quickly pull myself up from the floor, frantic as I stare at that ring. There's no way that I'd do something so irresponsible. There is no way in hell that I'd marry a stranger.

Trixie. I need to talk to Trixie.

I flush the toilet and wash my hands, rinsing my mouth out with water as best as I can before I leave the bathroom and walk out of the bedroom. My eyes stay pinched shut, the light not helping my head in the slightest, as I grip the wall to wander the apartment. I just need my bag. I press my palm to my forehead as I walk, trying to remember something...anything. I've never been one to drink irresponsibly but I guess legally drinking must have some kind of kick to it.

An overwhelming amount of memories punch me in the gut when I find myself standing in the open floor plan of the apartment; windows that reach from floor to ceiling, grey hard flooring, white furniture but it's the entrance to the apartment that has both my stomach swirling and fluttering.

I was pinned up to that door last night, lips all over him, his lips all over me. My face screws up in disgust when I remember myself begging him to touch me. Since when do I beg?

My eyes land on my bag discarded to the side of the door and I'm immediately making my way over. Crouching down, I hold onto the wall to steady myself before I unzip my bag and snatch my phone. A groan slips past my lips when I'm trying to turn it on, pressing buttons, tapping the screen, but falling short when the screen lights up to indicate that it's dead.

That's fucking brilliant.

Just as I'm about to drop my phone back into my bag, a folded up piece of paper catches my eye. Instantly, I'm frowning. I have no recollection of having anything other than my phone, a card holder and my lipstick tucked away in my bag so dread is washing over me as I pick it up.

Somehow I just know what it is before I even have to open it up.

A marriage Certificate. Edora Winters. Harry Styles. Dated in the early hours of this morning. Lucky Little Chapel. Signed by the both of us.