Was it All an Accident? (A Harry Styles Fan Fiction, Book Three)

Part Twenty-Six: I'm A Terrible Person

(Whytnie’s POV)

“Good morning, Mrs. Styles,” Harry whispered in my ear. Groaning, I turn away from him and try to bury myself underneath the weird pillows on the huge hotel bed. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. I really don’t want to be this close to him. I know its mean, but that’s how I feel. Dumb hormones like to play games on you. Makes me love you and then five seconds later I hate you. “Want me to go get you some chocolate?”

            Wow, he really does know me!

            “Yes, please,” I reply through gritted teeth, faking politeness. He chuckles in my ear before kissing my cheek and getting up. I don’t look at him, but I hear him put on his shirt and change out of his pajamas. His shoes scuff against the floor as he slips them on. One more kiss on my cheek and a farewell before he leaves. I breathe out, feeling this rage all of a sudden. Man, there’s seriously something wrong with me right now.

            Sighing, I push the pillows away and they fall off the bed making a soft thump as they hit the hardwood floor. My stomach starts cramping up and I’m really craving some chocolate. I moan really loud as something in my stomach does flip flops that make me want to throw up.

            What is taking him so long?

            I know he just left but he obviously doesn’t understand how I feel.

            Exhaling loudly, I stroll slowly into the bathroom and freeze in horror at what I see in the mirror. My hair is a nappy mess and it’ll take me a while to get it semi-nice looking. And I didn’t feel like a shower, so instead I brushed my teeth and washed my face, not wanting to put any cover-up on. My face is a bright red color but I don’t feel like making myself presentable. I’m already married (and man, does it feel weird to even say that), and you know what they say after you get married: you stop shaving your legs and armpits, stop caring what you look like, and gain a few pounds.

            No, I don’t want to stop shaving, but that’s mostly for me. I don’t care about what other people think or say (well, for the most part, at least). And my weight? I’m so self-conscious about my weight and I freak out if I gain a few pounds after Thanksgiving. So no, I don’t see myself losing that much control and eating away with whatever’s around. I hope I won’t ever get to that point.

            As I start to untangle the mess on my head, the door opens and shuts. There’s footsteps moving around and stops, and then begins again moving towards me. My hands are up, still trying to get a hold on my hair, when the door opens and in walks Harry, totally faking nonchalance at my appearance. I know he sees me and how horrible I look. He shouldn’t try to pretend he doesn’t.

            “Hello, beautiful,” he says before walking up to me and wrapping his arms around me. “I brought breakfast.” He gives me a quick kiss on the lips, testing out the waters and how I’m going to react to that kind of contact on a day like this.

            I give him a long hard look. “I thought you said you were bringing chocolate.”