“Cupcakes, cupcake. I told you I’d be pushing you today. Think I forgot?” He drops back and gets directly behind me. Another slap and I’m arching away from him, hissing in pain. “Move it. Or you’ll get to explain to Reese why you let me spank you. I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
Laughing, I pick up speed and put some distance between us, but it’s fleeting. Joey catches up within a few seconds and we continue our run with him on my heels. I’m rewarded with a few more slaps when I absentmindedly slow down, but I’m not used to this pace. This is the speed which renders you unable to speak to your running buddy. My legs are burning, as are my lungs, and I’m sweating more than I ever have in my entire life. And it isn’t even sixty degrees out yet.
But I don’t complain.
I don’t quit on Joey and give up even though my body is screaming at me to do just that.
I have a dress to fit into, so I muster up every ounce of willpower in my body and push through my run. Because let’s be honest, the chance of me sneaking another cupcake before I walk down that aisle is looking pretty good right now.
I’m dripping sweat after what feels like the hardest run of my life. After saying goodbye to Joey, I head upstairs and expect to see Reese still passed out in bed, but it’s empty. I see the light creeping from under the bathroom door and kick off my shoes before I make my way into the kitchen. As I’m pulling a bottled water out of the fridge, I hear the reason behind Reese being out of bed. The unmistakable sound of him throwing up has me rushing to the door, twisting the locked doorknob.
“Reese?”
The toilet flushes and then I hear his gravelly voice, barely above the noise. “Yeah?”
I jar the knob again, tossing my bottled water onto the floor. “Open the door.”
“No. I don’t want you in here.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” I scoff, grabbing one of my kitchen chairs. I climb up on it, skimming my hand along the top of the door jam and feeling for the key I keep up there. Once I grab it, I jump down and move the chair out of the way. “I’m coming in. I can handle vomit.”
“Dylan, please don’t come in here,” his raspy voice begs me.
I wiggle the key around until I feel it unlatch the door. I turn the handle freely this time and swing it open, spotting Reese on his knees. He’s slouched over the toilet, shirtless and only in a pair of boxers. His head is resting on his forearm and he doesn’t bother to lift it when I enter the room. I place the key on the bathroom counter and crouch down behind him, placing my hand on his back.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I begin rubbing my hand along his clammy skin.
He coughs a few times, dropping his head and spitting into the toilet. “I asked you not to come in here. Why would I want you to see me like this?”
“In two days, I’ll be vowing to be with you for better or for worse. Or did you forget about that?” He tilts his head to the side so our eyes meet. “You took care of me when I was like this. Now it’s my turn.”
He’s either too weak to give me a rebuttal, or the fact that I’ve reminded him of how many days we have left is soothing him. I run my fingers through his hair, which is sticking out every which way, feeling the dampness of his sweat on my hand. He looks thoroughly exhausted, with bags under his eyes and his complexion looking paler than I’ve ever seen it, but somehow, he pulls it off. Not that I’m the least bit surprised.
I place my lips to his shoulder. “You’re beautiful even when you’re hung-over.”
He drops his chin, smiling. “You’re beautiful even when you ugly-cry.”
His words have me wanting to feel his mouth against mine, even if he has been puking his guts up. But I bite back the urge and settle for a wink instead, which prompts his smile to grow the tiniest bit. I stand and grab a washcloth from the cabinet, wetting it at the sink. “I’m going to get you some water,” I say as I lay the cool rag on the back of his neck. He acknowledges me with a subtle nod before closing his eyes.
I grab the bottled water I had discarded and return to the bathroom just as a wave of nausea hits Reese. He arches over the toilet, gripping the seat with his hands. His back goes rigid, every muscle flexing as he proceeds to vomit and dry heave. I kneel behind him and hold the rag against his neck, rubbing his upper arm with my other hand. This round lasts several minutes, and when he slouches down, seemingly finished, I pick up the water bottle and unscrew the cap.
“Here.”
He looks over his shoulder at me and takes the bottle. After swishing the water around in his mouth, he spits it into the toilet and repeats the action several times. He tries to stand, but I stop him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Are you done?”