Page 66 of A Love That Broke Us
“Babe,” I say as quietly as possible, breaking the silence.
“Hmm?”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “I have to shit.”
A laugh bursts out of her, and she quickly covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh my God. Shocker!”
I glance over, catching that beautiful smile, her dimple deepening.God, I love her.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” she says, shaking her head before turning to meet my eyes. “Good luck with that. You’re gonna have to hold it.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sigh, rubbing a hand over my stomach. I swear to God, every time we’re somewhere without a bathroom, this happens—fast and fucking terrifying.
She unzips her belt bag. “I have an activated charcoal. You want one?”
“Can’t hurt at this point.” I hold out my hand, and she drops a pill into it.
I look at my empty cup, realizing all that’s left is sludge. “Shit. You got any coffee left?” I ask, knowing full well another sip might make this worse—but desperate times.
She hands me her mug, and I gulp down the pill, praying it’ll help—because I’ve got the full-blown shit scaries, and it’s a problem.
My hand drifts to my knee, rubbing at the ache.
“Your knee hurting again?”
“Yeah. It’s acting up.” I wince. “You don’t have anything in your bag, do you?”
“No.” She frowns. “I left the ibuprofen back at the hotel. You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” I wave her off, even though the pain is sharp enough to make me grit my teeth.
“You really need to get that checked out.”
“I know. But it only hurts when I overdo it. Hasn’t even hurt on basketball nights lately.”
Honestly, it hasn’t hurt much over the past few months. The last time it was this bad was those few weeks after that ski trip. After I was a complete jackass and got so drunk I made my fiancée question her life choices—made her question me.
I’ve been careful since then, only having two, maybe three drinks. Just enough to catch a good buzz—never more. I drink to relax and loosen up, not to forget. I’m not like her dad. I’ve never met the guythough, so I don’t really know why he drinks. I guess alcoholics don’t always need a reason. They just do. I’ve never understood it.
She’s been talking about her dad a lot this week, bringing him up here and there. Telling me stories I’ve never heard before. It’s like she misses him, maybe even regrets not having him at our wedding. And that makes me sad for her.
I can’t imagine not having, orwanting, my parents there on the biggest day of my life. It was the best day ever. Not sharing that with them? Not having them see me that happy? I can’t wrap my head around that.
Damn.I’d have to hold some serious resentment to do that to them. Which tells me just how deep this cuts Alley, because she’s nicer than I am. Better than me, in so many ways.
“Well, we can take it slow on the way down. Just promise me you’ll rest if you need a break,” she says, concern in her voice.
“Promise,” I say, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
Twenty peaceful minutes pass, with only the occasional quiet exchange between us as we talk about plans for the day.
A trail guide’s voice slices through the now chatty crowd, their voices soft and reverent. It’s time to head back down. I look around one last time, committing this to memory, and steel myself for the long trek down. Every fucking step is going to suck.
The soundof Alley’s toothbrush muffles through the bathroom wall as I pull my swimsuit up and over my ass.
After that tumultuous hike down this morning and the long drive back, all I want is a lazy pool day. Soak up the sun, swim in salt water, sit in the sauna—rest my fucking knee. Every step was killer, and I grimaced the whole way. Still, it was cool, even with the pain—steam rising from the volcano, and little shithead monkeys everywhere you looked.
I chuckle to myself. The monkeys are assholes. They’ll snatch anything loose right out of your hand if you’re not paying attention, but they’re cool as hell at the same time. Some even look old, wisebeyond their years. They’re all over the resort grounds, too. If you leave a patio door open, you’ll find one inside, digging through your shit.
