"My parents are in town in two days."
I look up from the glove compartment of his car. "Say what now?"
Harry glances at me. "They're coming to see Tessa. They mentioned they wanted to meet you. If you're free to do dinner."
I bite my tongue. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? You just got back and I—"
"Don't want to freak out on me already?" His lips quirk on one side. "Okay." He parks the car, grabs his bag, and then takes my hand as we get out.
A cool breeze blows off the water of Elliott Bay as we walk along the waterfront. A few boats bob in the gentle motion of the water, the ferries docked and ready for their next journey.
"I have to go away for another shoot this week," Harry says, breaking our silence.
"Oh." My heart sinks. "Where to?"
"Down to California. Santa Barbara. Where you shot last time?"
I nod.
"Come with me." He stops and stands in front of me. "You have Day's hen party in L.A. this weekend. My shoot is on Friday. We can stay over until Saturday. Then I'll fly to Vegas and meet Aaron for his stag party."
"Really? You'll let me come with you?"
He nods and brings me in for a kiss. "Just...don't run out mid-shoot again, okay?"
I open my mouth and close it again. "You might have to tie my legs together to guarantee that."
"Can't do that. I like them open too much," he teases.
I bat his chest and walk again. "You're so bad," I sigh.
"I'm sorry," he says, resting an arm over my shoulders. "What would you like to talk about?"
"I don't know. The time you bashed your pantry door in, maybe?" I glance at him.
His jaw ticks, and I smile. I nudge his side with my elbow, and he grumbles his sister's name.
"She's such a cow," he mutters.
"Cow? Are you Brit-talking me again?"
"Would you like me to Brit-talk you?"
"You're changing the subject."
"You mentioned the Brit-talking."
"I asked you if you were. It wasn't an invitation to Brit-talk me."
"Bollocks," he whispers in my ear. "Knob. Trousers. Knickers."
"Say 'knickers' again."
"Knickers," he whispers, his breath seemingly hotter this time.
"That's the sexiest damn word in existence."
"Knickersknickersknickers!" he says louder.
I clap my hand over his mouth and laugh. "Hey, don't go shouting that shit. I don't want every girl here getting excited over your Brit-talk. That's mine. You hear that, Harry Styles? Your Britspeak is mine."
"Just my Brit-speak? I'm offended, my little American bitch."
"You and your Brit-speak are mine." I reach up and kiss him. He drops his arm to my waist and pulls me closer.
He drops his arm to my waist and pulls me closer. "Good," he murmurs. "As long as you know that."
"Me? You're the one who needs to know it, shouting 'knickers' all over the place!"
His grin turns playful. "Watch it or I'll have all these girls wanting to drop their knickers for me."
I roll my eyes. "That ego." I step from his arms and walk along the pier.
I rest my forearms against the railing and close my eyes against the gentle breeze. It's noisy from the restaurant just behind us, but the sound of the wind drowns most of it out into a dull buzz.
My lips curve into the light chill, and I tilt my head back slightly. My hair teases around my cheeks, and I sigh happily.
Warmth covers my back, and two elbows rest alongside mine. Harry's mouth brushes along my cheek.
"You're beautiful." His words are a whisper but seem like a scream to me.
I run my fingers down his arm to where he's holding his camera. Without saying a word, he tilts it so I can see the screen and brings up his last pictures. They're of me leaning here, looking out at the water.
He rests his chin on my shoulder. "See? Beautiful. I could watch you do nothing all day."
My lips twitch. "That would get boring after a while."
"No." His mouth touches my jaw. "Believe me. It's not boring at all. I watch you even when you think I'm not. I can't help myself. I have to know the exact curve of your jaw, the flutter of your eyelashes, the shape of your lips, the shade of your eyes. I have to know and I have to remember it, because when you're not there, the memory is all I have."
I lift my arm and curve my fingers around his neck from the front. "At least the memory can't talk back."
"Baby girl, the memories of you have nothing on the real thing."
My heart pounds with his words. The honesty in them is overwhelming—and too much. Way too much.
"Who knew a sex addict could be so romantic?"
"And who knew a love addict would be the one to break the moment?" he teases right back, his chest vibrating with laughter.
I look back at him with a smile. "Come on, crazy stalker Brit. I need food."
"Worked up an appetite, have you?" He tucks his camera back inside his bag.
"Yeah. Pulling all that plastic off those chairs was hard work, you know?"
He smacks my butt and grabs my hand right after. "Bitch."
I grin.
-:-:-
"This is such a covert mission. I seriously feel like we're back in high school."
"Shut up and just do it, okay?"
"I'm not the one doing anything!" Dayton gives me a firm look and walks into the store.
I slink down in the seat of the car and nibble my thumbnail. My eyes focus on the door like a predator stalking its prey. My foot is tapping repeatedly against the floor.
I mean, hell. She's right. This is so fucking high school.
She walks out of the store, the white, plastic bag swinging from her hand, and gets into my car. She dumps the bag in my lap. "This is irrational, even for you."
"Oh, thanks. I just... I feel odd." I put the bag—and the box inside—into the pocket in my door. "And it's no odder than when you had to get me one because I thought Gary Coombe came when we dry humped."
"You were wearing pants!"
"I was seventeen and they were down by my knees!" I pull away from the store. "But it doesn't matter. Like I said, I feel strange. I shouldn't have broken down like that over the weekend."
"You sent me to buy a pregnancy test on the basis of your breakdown this weekend? One that was caused by your addiction?"
I don't reply. Okay, so it sounds a little crazy when she puts it like that. And, really, who can deal with falling in love and a pregnancy test in, like, three days? Not me, but here I am anyway.
Because being pregnant is a far more rational explanation for my crazy-as-hell emotions.
Even if addiction would—for once—be the preferable answer.
"You aren't going to make me sit in McDonald's while you do it, are you?"
I cut my eyes to her. "Lick a dick, Black. Lick a fucking dick."
She laughs loudly.
"No," I answer seriously. "I'm going to do it at home. He isn't there."
"You aren't going to tell him?"
"That I'm pissing on a stick because I'm fucking insane? No."
"But what if you're not insane? What if your breakdown was because you are pregnant and it was your addiction telling you to listen to your body?" she reasons. "Then what do you do?"
"I tell my sex-addict boyfriend that the object of his desire is about to balloon by forty pounds and get a permanent tiger-esque makeover and an enlarged vagina. Oh, and we get an adorable peeing, pooping, screaming, up-all-night baby at the end of it." I pull up outside her apartment block and look at her. "I have no symptoms, okay? None. Just a strange gut feeling I'm not sure I can trust."
"It could be gas."
"Get out the car and I'll go and find out."
She pushes open the door and glances over her shoulder before stepping out. "Wait. Did you pee already today?"
I clench my legs together and give her a tight smile. "No, so move your fucking ass!"
She gets out without another word and waves to me as I pull away. I'm not joking about the pee thing. My bladder hurts like a bitch.
I break the speed limit on almost every street on the way back to my apartment. Again, I thank my lucky stars that I didn't get pulled over. I tuck the bag into my purse as I go upstairs... just in case. You never know who's going to be around here, and both my neighbor and the old bat downstairs are the biggest gossips in the neighborhood.
They see me with a pregnancy test and, by next week, I'm going to be having triplets with a Latino stripper I met during a photo shoot in Zimbabwe.
Luckily, I make it to my apartment without seeing anyone, and I all but run inside.
Desperately hoping Harry will be here so I don't have to pee on this stick.
Silence greets me though, and the door shuts behind me with a thundering click. "Harry, you here?"
Nothing. I check every room, clutching my purse to my chest. Again, nothing. Not even Angus.
I'm one hundred percent alone.
I have to take this test, although I think my gut knows the answer.
I walk into the bathroom thinking how ridiculous this is. Day is right—one breakdown and a random gut feeling five minutes after waking up this morning don't justify the need for a pregnancy test.
I dump the box on top of the toilet seat and stare at it. Long, rectangular... The answer to my question.
Shit. I'm not seventeen anymore.
I tear the plastic off the box and open it. The test is long and thin, and I pull the cap off, showing the absorbent tip. Taking a deep breath, I pull up the toilet seat, pull down my pants, and sit.
And so begins the awkward How To Pee On The Stick dance.
Opening my legs as wide as humanly fucking possible—Harry would have a field day if he could see this position—and leaning forward, I shove the stick between my legs and pee.
Hit the stick first time. Bingo.
After the obligatory five seconds of peeing, I recap the stick and pee like a normal person.
Thank fuck. I think my pelvis almost snapped right then.
I put the stick on the side, ignoring the way the little hourglass is turning in the bottom corner.
Ignoring? Who the fuck am I kidding? I'm stalking that bitch like it's Channing Tatum walking into my apartment.
I finish my business and shove the stick up my sleeve. I'm alone, no one is here, but I'm hiding it anyway.
Then, like a totally rational human being, I shove it in my knicker drawer and slam it shut.
Shit. I'm even saying 'knicker' now.
And I pace. To the front door. To the kitchen. To the sofa. To the bath. To the spare room. To Angus's food bowl.
To my bedroom.
I sit on the bed and stare. At the drawer. Accusingly. Tapping my foot. Sighing. Chewing my nail. Flicking my hair. Rocking my legs.
Has it been three minutes yet?
I don't know.
I'm too afraid to look.
I stay sitting and count to sixty in my mind. I rationalize that it's surely been three minutes by now. Surely.
Deep breath, Liv.
Deep breath.
I open the drawer and pull the test out. My eyes are screwed shut. Aw, hell. Where are my lady balls?
Mind you, if I had balls, I wouldn't be staring at a stick covered in my urine.
Okay. Shit. Time to look.
I open my eyes and look at that motherfucking hourglass, which is flipping itself up and down, up and down.
"You bitch," I hiss.
That had to have been three minutes! If not, it was sure as shit the longest two of my life.
"Change. Change." I chant, over and over, staring at the tiny screen. "Change you fucking—ooooh shit. Oh. Shit."
Pregnant. 3+.