Sage

48

This last week has been difficult for everyone.

Ever since we went to the police station, Harry has been on pins and needles, and rightfully so. He and Gale have been interviewing nonstop. If they weren't doing that, they were trying to balance their actual work projects on top of managing publicity. Not to mention they were still trying to figure out what happened with Quinn. Detective Braden refused to give any information, and it was driving them crazy.

It didn't help that the detective seemed to appear everywhere Harry went, following him around like a curious shadow. When Harry thought I was asleep, I'd overheard the heated conversation he had over the phone with Jim, where he shouted that he'd go mad if he saw that man's lurking silhouette again. There was nothing he could do from a legal aspect. And even if Braden wanted to come to the funeral and loiter behind a tree, he couldn't stop him.

While the restless affairs occurred, all I was left to do was hopelessly watch from Harry's bed. There wasn't anything else I could do. The baby has been kicking nonstop for the last couple of days, and each time I felt their little head or foot move, it felt like my insides were being violently stirred around in a blender. It's cost me a couple of decent nights' rest that I've had to make up in small increments throughout the day.

So, when I wasn't fighting the urge to hurl over Harry's toilet, I was scrolling through social media, reading each article and post written about him.

For the most part, they were all vile dissertations and conspiracies insinuating Harry wasn't the grieving ex-husband he made himself out to be, and he was likely bitter after the divorce, so he set Quinn up to be killed. I knew Harry was reading the articles as well, considering they were pretty much trending, and the thought made my chest ache. He didn't deserve that.

I guess this is just another reason on the long list of reasons Harry came home every night and immediately headed for his bottle of whiskey.

The other night, he didn't get home until nearly eleven. I was up because I'd been in the kitchen for a bottle of water after practically filling his toilet with throw-up. I already accepted that I wouldn't get any sleep that night, so I found myself on my phone, reading more articles while sitting at his island top. The sound of the open front door made me snap my head toward the archway.

"Tiki was the only option," Harry's sharp voice hissed through the phone while closing the front door behind him. His back was toward me as he gestured his hand wildly, his other hand pressing the phone to his ear. Something was said over the phone, and he scoffed.

I furrow my brows at the mention of the name. Tiki was here before.

Harry flickers the light on, and I watch as he makes his way to the large window. He placed the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could use two hands to pour himself a glass of whiskey from the small table. His movements are jerky, and his posture is rigid, telling me he's not too fond of whatever he's being told.

"You know what? Fuck that, I gotta go, I gotta go- no, I'm not fucking drinking," He rushed out angrily, still managing to keep his voice low. He tosses the drink back without so much as a wince. "Alright, yeah. Bye."

I watched him from behind as he paused, setting the glass down with a heavy sigh and placing his palms on the table. His head hung, and he murmured under his breath, something I couldn't hear, before huffing and grabbing the bottle to pour another glass.

"What are you doing up?" He suddenly mumbled.

I know he'd seen me through the reflection, which I somehow felt embarrassed for.

"I wasn't feeling good,"

"You shouldn't be up; it's late,"

My feet carried me toward him until I was a few feet away. He turned around and faced me, his eyes sunken in and his face ashen with exhaustion. I inhaled a soft breath at his appearance. This shit was really taking a toll on him.