Un-Tying the Knot {h.s.}

Chapter 47

As Harry stands in the doorway awkwardly, he's sure that the rapid palpitations of his heart can be heard all the way to San Diego. He felt on edge, unsure of what to do.

His mind is still reeling, remembering every torrid detail of last night in high definition while I sit a few inches away. He can't stop his mind from playing last night on repeat:

After we had dressed and she had stammered her goodbye, he sat in the stairwell for a good hour, just staring at his surroundings. What had he done?

Thoughts flickered in and out of his mind, excuses and explanations stumbling over one another -- but it was no use. His brain was fuzzy and sated, his body still humming from the pleasure. He hadn't had sex with Eleanor in what -- five months? Six? Seven? It didn't matter, it was longer than he could remember, and Olivia -- well. Olivia.

Frustrated with himself, he had walked home until it was late enough to force him to grab an Uber. The travel distance still wasn't long enough, and when he finally arrived at his building -- their building, he reminded himself as he stared up at it -- the guilt was enough to eat him alive.

How could he have done this to Eleanor? His girl was probably upstairs by now, in bed, waiting for him after he had text her hours ago to tell her that he went for a walk -- and he had gone and fucked some girl in the stairwell of her office building. And what was his excuse? Just that he hadn't had sex in awhile? That he was trying to comfort Olivia after Eleanor hurt her feelings?

God, Livvy.

He shivered, trying to banish the thought from his mind; but it lingered, his head swimming -- barely treading water.

The apartment had been quiet when he finally mustered enough courage to walk in. The lights were dim, and every single step he took up the marble staircase felt like he was marching to the gallows. He had wiped his hand across his mouth as he reached their bedroom door, as if he could wipe away the kiss or wipe away what he and Olivia had done -- but there was nothing he could do.

Eleanor had been in bed, a book in her lap. When she looked up at him, she gave him a small smile of acknowledgement -- the moment she did, his stomach turned so quickly that he had no choice but to run to the bathroom, his knees bruising as they slammed against the floor, allowing him to retch into the toilet.

He had insisted he was fine, telling his future wife that it was just the flu that had been going around lately. He quickly muttered something about not wanting her to catch it before he closed the bathroom door and stepped into their shower. He stood there for what seemed like days, scrubbing his skin raw as he let the water scald him, but he couldn't cleanse his conscience.

Worse, he could never take back what he did.

After finishing in the shower, he had banished himself to the guest room, curling up on the hard mattress and begging for sleep to come. But it didn't. His stomach was too upset to give him an ounce of peace. There was no sleep for the wicked, after all.

He stared up at the ceiling for hours, his guilt holding him hostage. But worse than the guilt was the memory, replaying over and over again in his mind, of the rip of Olivia's nails and the sound of her moans. His body had responded against his will, which only made him retch again -- anger and helplessness ripping his chest to shreds.

But something else burned inside him besides the guilt, something deep in his chest that he refused to acknowledge. And that was the tiny hole from the piece of himself that he'd given away that night. Even then, in his most tormented state when he wanted to hate her, wanted to blame all of this on her for being so fucking perfect -- he couldn't. He cared for her too much, and the tenderness he'd always felt towards Olivia was deeper now, evocative and fierce.