Ice cream. Chocolate sauce. Strawberries. Banana. Sprinkles. And a whole lot of other so-badit's-good-for-you crap.
I haven't vomited for four and a half hours, which, in my meagre opinion, gives me free range to devour this calorie-laden beauty in front of me.
And if it comes back up later, then at least I got to enjoy it.
I fill my mouth full of the goodness and close my eyes. I hum low, licking the sauce off the spoon appreciatively.
Dayton laughs. "Do you need a room, Liv?"
I half-groan, half-moan, and look at her. "You have no idea how good this tastes after two days of plain pasta and toast!"
And heartbreak. And crying. And despondent staring into space.
Oh, shit. Someone build me a bridge so I can get over it already.
This is Day's weekend. It's about her. And my ice cream. Oh, crap. The ice cream.
"Seriously. If there were such a thing as snogging ice cream, you'd be doing that right now," Tessa muses. "It's both intriguing and horrifying at the same time."
"No." I shake my head. "Horrifying was you getting the wax earlier. No, I take it back. Your scream while getting the wax earlier was horrifying."
"So I'm a Brazilian virgin. Shoot me."
"How did you...you know." Day waves her hand.
"Seriously. The ex-call girl can't say 'shave your pubic hair'?" I raise my eyebrows.
She shoots me a look. "Fine. Tessa, tell me. How did you keep your vajayjay pretty before today?"
I grin when Tessa spits out her drink.
"I shaved," she answers.
"Oh, effort." I muse. "Not to mention time consuming. Plus, those little cuts? Why are they always on the inside?"
We all contemplate this for a moment. No, seriously. We do.
"Well, it doesn't hurt as much as waxing," she reasons. "So I guess it's worth it."
"Ahh," Day interrupts, waving her own spoon around. "But you won't have to get it done again for around six weeks. If you'd shaved, you'd be in the bathroom with your leg on the side of the bath in an awkward sex position with your fingers pulling your lady parts in ways that only a man should."
"For someone who swears by wax, that was an awfully accurate description."
Day shrugs. "We were all wax virgins once. Except my aunt pinned me down while we stood by and kind of laughed at you."
I snort, licking my spoon again. "Kind of? If I were at the other end of this pregnancy, I would have given birth I laughed so freakin' hard."
Tessa flicks some sprinkles at me. "It's always nice to know the mother of your future niece or nephew has your back."
"Don't anger the hormones. They're evil."
"So I hear," a smooth male voice says behind us.
I stand and spin. "The hell do you think you're doing here, Styles?"
Aaron grins playfully. "Our plane got...lost."
"Lost? Despite the fact we're farther south than your destination, hmm?"
"Air traffic control messed up the coordinates," he tries again. "We ended up in L.A. What were we supposed to do?" He holds his arms out to the sides, but his words are what have caught me.
"We? You mean—oh shit. No." I drop my spoon in my sundae glass. "I'm done. Someone take me to the airport."
"Liv," Day says, standing.
"Easy." Aaron gently grabs my arm. "He doesn't know what room you're in and every member of staff has been told if they tell him, they're fired."
I narrow my eyes and look up at him. "Why would you do that?"
"Because this weekend is about me and Day, not you two. Besides," he adds, "you're impulsive but not irrational. You wouldn't have broken up with him if you didn't feel like it was the right thing to do."
"We're not...broken up. We're on a temporary break." The words sound flat even to me. Like I'm trying to convince myself more than him.
"Yeah?" He leans in. "Then you should probably tell my cousin that, because today was the first time I ever saw him cry."
My mouth feels like it got in a fight with a desert and lost.
"He did what?" I whisper scratchily.
"He protested an allergy for a while before finally disappearing into the bedroom for the remainder of the flight. When he came out, no one but me would have been able to tell."
I swallow, the lump in my throat suddenly too big, too painful. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you making a weekend for you about me?"
"Because he's integral to my happiness the way you are to Day's. He's in room 1583. If you wanted to continue the conversation you began yesterday."
I take my arm away from him and look him in the eye. "I don't. And you shouldn't even be here to give me the opportunity."
"Touché. I'll still make sure he doesn't find out your room number."
"Considerate of you. Perhaps you should have extended the same courtesy to the hotel." I grab my phone from the side. "Are you guys ready to head back into the spa? I don't want to be responsible for murdering the groom on the party weekend."
"Wow," I hear Aaron mutter as I walk away. "They really are evil."
I stop by the door of the restaurant. "This isn't evil. This is normal. You should be very afraid, Aaron Styles. Very fucking afraid."
I catch Day's shrug before I turn away again. "She's right," she says. "And to think this is a good day. Now, I'm going for a massage, and when I get back, I want you and Harry out of my frickin' sight, Mr. Styles. Got it?"
+ + + +
I lean against my hotel room door and breathe out a long sigh. Every corner I turned, I expected him to walk around. Every time the elevator doors opened, I expected him to be there, waiting. Hell, when I got to the room, I expected him to be here.
This weekend, not that it ever got off to a good start, has been ruined. Just by him being here, the heavy cloud that lifted somewhat in the presence of Dayton and Tessa has descended once more.
I feel the pain so strongly, wrapping around me and squeezing, like its only goal is to draw all the life out of me. Knowing that he's here, close, two floors up and three doors down, is like an echoing plea. A beg to take me there, to drag me to him.
A desperate plea for my heart to rejoin with my body.
For everything to balance out.
If only it had been balanced to begin with. It wasn't. Away from him, I can see it more clearly.
I can see how the needs of his addiction outweighed mine. Fuck now, talk later—it's all good until the talking doesn't happen.
When it doesn't happen repeatedly, questions have to be asked. 'We'll get through it together.' 'We'll do this.' 'We can cope as long as we're together.' They're all good. They're all ambitious, realistic statements.
Until there's nothing to back them up with.
How?
How are we going to cope with our addictions and the way they hurt us? Are we going to continue down this path, clinging desperately to the other person while we battle our way through, only to inevitably hurt the other? Are we going to wake up each morning to the sun filtering through the windows and decide that this is the day we separate the emotion from the addiction and live like that?
Or are we going to call, talk to people, lay it out? Are we going to deal with therapy and the highs and lows? Are we even going to try?
Are we going to look past the idealistic thoughts we have, or are we just going to sit around like a couple of teens waiting for the answer to fall into our laps?
I know Harry's answer. Believe. Try. Wait. Hope that some little fairy will come along and wave their damn wand and make it better.
That's not how it works. Maybe we have to be apart to make it work.
We might not have anything to lose when we're apart, but we sure as hell have everything to fight for.
And the fact that you might not win the fight is a far scarier thought than losing something you never thought would go.
Maybe the key is to be together but not. Maybe seeing each other, talking, but not really having one another, is the key. Because then we'll remember, every day, what we're fighting for. We'll have something to work toward.
Maybe it's a coffee date, breakfast, or dinner. Maybe it's a movie or a doctor's appointment.
Maybe it's even a sleepover.
Just something small, mostly insignificant—the little things that change everything.
I don't believe for a second that Harry will haul his ass willingly into therapy. For him, I would. I hated every second, but if therapy means managing this and if managing this means having him, I'll go through hours of hell and hurt.
All of it. For him. For me. For the baby.
Without a second thought. Because we're more than addiction. It's hard to remember sometimes; we're stronger than the ties that bound us in the beginning.
We're not addiction. We're love in its strongest, purest form, no matter how wrinkly or rough it is. We're indestructible, and I truly believe that, one day, we'll be able to weather any storm.
Right now, we're the eye of the storm. We're the tornado touching down on the ground, and our relationship is in a whirlwind, destructive spin above us. If we try hard enough, we can slow the spin and the devastation.
If we try hard enough, we can erase the storm and pave the way for the mess to be fixed.
+ + + +
My bed dips as I roll over, yawning. I snuggle back into the covers and reach for the quilt. It feels like something hard, something warm, though. And then fingers link through mine and lips close over mine.
Soft, wet lips. Lips I know.
Lips I know. They're tender, and I tilt my head back to take more of the kiss, because warmth spreads through me at it.
They're salty, like endless tears are streaming onto them.
I take my hand and reach up, my palm resting against familiar stubble, and wipe at the wet cheeks. I don't want to open my eyes, because if I do that, it's not a dream any more. I'm awake but asleep right now.
As soon as my eyes open, I can't pretend. So I fight it, fight to keep them closed. Because if I'm dreaming, I'm not contradicting everything I said to myself earlier.
The addict in me wants to destroy itself. Just a little more. One last time.
Harry sweeps me against him fully and takes my mouth once more. Each touch is like drizzly raindrops falling on dry ground. Slow, easy, light. Every sweep of his tongue is explorative, leaving no part of my mouth not touched, and mine does the same, drinking in him like he's my life elixir.
His hands, as tender and sweet as his tongue, caress my curves one by one. They stroke and they slide, and his fingers splay, brushing my skin. Every touch is slow and easy, filled with more than anything before.
I want to hold on, because tomorrow, this more will be broken again.
Harry sweeps his hand down to my thigh and eases my leg up and over his body. Our hips come together at his urging, his hardening cock between us. I ache, too. I ache to feel him once more because I don't know when the next time will be.
I ache for him to fuck me as softly as he's kissing me.
I ache for him.
I sink my fingers into his hair and push myself against him. It won't hurt, I tell myself. It won't make a difference when the sun rises.
Because this is a dream, and dreams aren't real, and they don't come true.
He sweeps two fingers along me, easing my underwear out of the way, and settles his cock against me. I push down as he pushes up, our bodies coming together in perfect sync.
The power shifts.
It's not about him or me. It's not about tying up or positions or fantasies.
It's about us. It's about the emotion that lies beneath it and expressing that the only true way we know how to.
And it is, because he moves slowly and torturously inside me. My hips grind slowly, in time with him. But our kiss never breaks. Our grip never wavers and our tears don't stop falling.
Because pain and love are one and the same. To love, you must feel pain. To feel pain, you must love. They go hand in hand.
It's endless, these movements. They go on forever, neither wanting to let go because we know that, when we do, it's over. It's back to the pain and loneliness of the past twenty-four hours.
Finally, it builds inside. The heat prickling across my skin and the tension clenching my muscles erupts, shuddering through my body. But I don't cry out, I don't scream, I don't shout his name.
I whimper. Just a tiny whimper, one that mingles with the salty taste of tears on my lips.
He's quiet, too, as his release hits. Almost silent. I know though. I know because he grips me tight, his kiss turning desperate as he holds himself still and empties inside me.
I don't want to cry anymore, I realize. I can't. It hurts more than the pain.
So I keep my grip on him, kissing the tears on his cheeks, and he kisses mine, and I bury my face into his neck.
I know that, when I wake, he will be gone.
But when I fall asleep, he'll be here.
For one last time, I want us to fall together. To spin dizzily although it's only into sleep. I want to remember this moment for the pureness and the love flowing through my veins. Not for tears and heartache.
Because sometimes, pain can be just as beautiful as love.
No matter how ugly it really is.