Wish You Were Here - Part 2

Chapter 22

HARRY'S POV

I slam my front door shut, my strides are long and deliberate as I make my way to the kitchen. I left the second I saw Liv run off down the street with that guy and I haven't been able to shake the feeling that my nightmares are coming true.

My hand reaches into my back pocket for my phone and I flick my thumb to scroll through the numbers in my contact list, if she doesn't want me I'll call someone who does.

Maybe I just need a blowjob or a pretty, little blonde to fuck me until I forget how her body feels in the morning or the way her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles.

Maybe I'll call Kristie? That would really hit Olivia where it hurts. Maybe then she'd feel a fraction of what I'm feeling.

I pull out a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard and the glass decanter hits the counter with a sharp bang, the obnoxious noise ringing in my ears and making me wince.

I smack my phone down next to it, nearly breaking the second one in a week as the memories of me drunk for months on end and the facility in California come flooding through my mind. She was here for me, when I was at my lowest, when I gave her nothing, when there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

She was there. She loved me. It was real, I know it was. I know.

My hands cover my face as my forehead rests on the marble of the kitchen bench and I start to sob from the guilt of nearly turning to sex and alcohol again to numb the pain.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry," I wail to no one.

I put the bottle away after I have controlled my breathing, never ending tears still streaming down my face and I wonder if Tyler's plan with the fan footage will work.

Just as I'm about to call him the doorbell rings.

OLIVIA'S POV

I have to admit the exercise did make me feel a little better, I was so tense from suppressing all my feelings I didn't realise how much just getting the blood pumping a bit would help.

Of course, after about half an hour, my body which hadn't had a proper meal in a month started to cave in and Doug let me get away with going home early, promising that I would make up the session next week.

As I walk back to the apartment I think I see Harry everywhere, I see him in shadows, in cars, waiting to cross the road. But it's never him.

I collapse onto my bed the minute I get home and my exhausted mind and body falls into a deep sleep. Vivid dreams of Harry fill my head, piecing my broken heart back together only to be shattered into a million grains of sand the minute I wake up again.

I once read that Jerry Hall said she could get Mick Jagger to quit drugs but not other women, yet she stayed with him for more than twenty years. Was it possible to love someone enough to share them with others? Does that mean you love them more than anything or you don't love yourself enough?

The thought of my life without Harry makes my stomach churn and if I had eaten anything I'm sure I would vomit at the vision. Is this the sacrifice I have to make to be with him?

I don't know if I'm that sort of person. I would never have fathomed that I could kiss someone good morning each day knowing they had slept with someone else the night before but as the days go on, it becomes clearer that I can't live without him. I need him. I love him.

Can I let myself be that person? Can I abandon all my beliefs, all my morals, all my ideals to have a part of him? It has to be better than not having him at all.