Page 86 of One Last Thing Before You Go

I groan, throwing myself back on the bed, burying my face in my favorite pillow. “Go away,” I moan, not wanting my super-hot, young… friend-with-benefits? Situationship? Casual boyfriend? God, who even knows at this point—to see me like this.

“Not a chance. Open the door.”

I take a deep breath through my nose, exhaling through my mouth. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to.” I haven’t been able to move from this spot for the past two hours. The nausea combined with the pain have made it so bad I’m scared to get up. A problem, seeing as I stupidly left my pain medication on the counter of my bathroom.

Though I know inviting him in probably isn’t the best idea, the temptation of my prescription grade medication far outweighs my mortification. “The key is under the mat,” I call out, rolling onto my back, cradling my swollen abdomen with both hands.

Back in the days when I was still trying to get pregnant, I’d get through the worst of my period pains by doing exactly this. Imagining that I was growing a child inside me, that I didn’t get pregnant that month because it would be the following one when it happened. I told myself it was the universe’s way of getting us to want this even more, so when the child would inevitably come, it would be loved more than any kid ever had.

I looked at every possible silver lining I could think of so as not to feel the absolute crush of failure at not being able to conceive, and resentment toward my body. But none of it mattered, in the end.

Positive vibes and “manifesting” aren’t what get you pregnant. It’s fucking biology.

I hear the slide of the key into the lock, the click as he turns it, and the soft way he enters my loft before gazing up into his concern-stricken eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, his brows pulled together as his blue eyes trail all over my body, curled up under my favorite fuzzy blanket in a fetal position. “You okay?”

All the shits I swore I didn’t give suddenly make an appearance. Mortified by how I must look—matted hair, no make-up, puffy red face from crying, and, god, so bloated he must think aliens impregnated me between now and the last time he saw me.

“Super. I’m super.” I adjust the heating pad under my blanket and over my stomach, hoping it helps hide the big bump.

Knox removes his shoes, tossing them by the rack at the door before walking over with purpose, a man on a mission, to my bed. He kneels beside it before speaking. “I got worried when you didn’t show up this morning.”

“Oh my god, I completely forgot! I’m so sorry. I should’ve texted you.”

“Shh, it’s okay.” The back of his hand comes gently to my forehead, a look of deep concentration on his face as it does. His scent and touch and mere presence are soothing, like a balm. It’s not enough to make the pain disappear, but enough to give me a small boost of energy.

Enough to want to stay awake for a moment longer before I very kindly ask him to fuck off.

“I’m not—I’m not feeling well.”

He nods and rounds the front of my bed, pulling the blanket up, slipping in beside me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, horrified.

“Uh, settling in?”

“You cannot settle in.” My voice rises an octave, the panic creeping in.

“Are you contagious?”

In spite of myself, I laugh. “No, but you shouldn’t be here. We… This isn’t part of the deal.”

“The deal?”

“Yeah, I mean…” I scratch my forehead, trying to form the words, but the exhaustion is getting to me. “Like, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Plus, I have the universal cure right here for you.” He wiggles his eyebrows, that lopsided grin on his face.

Irritation courses through me. “God, why is it that all men think their sperm is this universal cure? The last thing I want is⁠—”

“Whoa, Lottie, hey.” Any hint of humor disappears from his face, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, fingers digging into my hair. “I was just joking. I’m not here to offer my magical cure. I’m here because I was worried about you. You didn’t show up and— I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Maybe take care of you if you needed it. Make you some soup, get you some cough syrup. Though…” He looks down at the long cable poking from under my blanket, the Dove Dark Chocolate wrappers everywhere, and the empty cans of ginger ale lined up on my nightstand like fallen soldiers against period pain-induced nausea. “Though I think your thing isn’t a cold, am I right?”

After a moment’s hesitation—because aren’t all guys scared of periods?—I say, “You’re right. So you can leave now. As you can see, it’s shark week and I’m closed for business.”

He looks affronted by this, almost recoiling at my words. “Periods don’t gross me out. And I’m not gonna stop talking to you just because you’re on it. I’m not that kind of guy. Plus, the relationship we have goes beyond that.”

I shrug, considering his words. He’s not wrong; we are business partners, after all. Friends, even. I feel like nowadays he’s my only friend. My best friend who has sex with me and stays over and wakes me with soft kisses in my neck, pulling me into him every morning like he’s scared of letting me go. Totally normal, friendly relationship.