The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  My hand comes back empty.

  Dammit.

  I took them to work the other day when I ran out of my stash there, and I haven’t been to the store to replace them since.

  I force myself out of bed, knowing the trip to the kitchen is going to require every last ounce of my strength. Once the fatigue phase sets in, I become so weak that I can barely even raise my arm, let alone support myself enough to walk anywhere. When my blood sugar plummets like this, it’s like a straight vertical drop on a rollercoaster. One second I’m up high, and the very next second, I’m way, way down.

  I stumble to my door and stagger out into the hallway. But the nausea slams into me with sickening force, hurling me into the bathroom instead of heading for the kitchen. I collapse over the toilet, but nothing comes out. It never does. Other than the excruciating weakness, it’s the worst part of these attacks. It’s like when you’re drunk and need to throw up because you know it will make you feel better, but you can’t make yourself, so you have to stay miserable until you eventually pass out.

  My breathing is stilted and shallow as the fatigue starts to creep in. Then it’s just there, consuming my body like a flash flood and instantly zapping me of my last vestiges of energy. That’s when I know it’s too late for a kitchen food dash.

  This isn’t great.

  The cool porcelain of the toilet feels good on my sweat-slicked face, but I can’t hold myself upright anymore. I fall backwards onto the floor and lay my cheek against the cold tiles, delighting in the microscopic relief it brings.

  I need food. Sugar. Protein.

  If I don’t get something into my system soon, I might pass out. I don’t know what happens after that. I’ve never lost consciousness during an attack, but the doctors have warned me to never let it get to that point. I know diabetics can go into diabetic comas if they allow their blood sugar to drop too low. But that can’t happen to me, right? I don’t technically have diabetes.

  So, what are my options here? I can keep my face pressed against this floor, close my eyes, and hope for the best. Or…

  Well, shit.

  I need West.

  Everything inside me revolts against the idea of asking him for help. Especially after how big of an asshole he was earlier at the party. Not to mention, I don’t like being so weak that I can’t take care of myself.

  But I have to be sensible.

  This is the absolute worst feeling, and I can’t take it anymore. Which means I have to throw everything that happened between us in those gardens out the window. At least, temporarily.

  The only problem is, I don’t even have the strength to call out to him. Sucking in enough oxygen to yell requires more energy than I can muster. The mere idea of it makes me sick to my stomach. The only thing I can think of is to crawl over to the sink vanity, and bang as loudly as I can on the wooden cabinet door.

  Pounding my palm against the wood takes such monumental effort, I’m drained and limp by the time I hear his footsteps approach the bathroom.

  “Harper?” he asks cautiously. “You in there?”

  I open my mouth to respond, then close it when I feel the rise of vomit threatening. Instead, I pound on the cabinet again.

  “Are you okay?” There’s definite concern in his voice now.

  More pounding.

  “All right, I’m coming in.”

  The door creaks open. “Fuck, Harper! What’s wrong? Are you drunk? You look sick.”

  That’s right. We weren’t together long enough for him to see this for himself. I never had an attack while we were dating. Though there was that one time he’d peeked inside my purse while I’d been rummaging around in it for a piece of gum. He’d teased me about having a wicked sweet tooth when he saw the stash of candy I always keep inside, so I’d briefly explained about having low blood sugar and needing to keep snacks around.

  Please remember that.

  Every time I try to push words out, I feel like I’m going to be sick. I try so hard, but I just can’t make my mouth and lungs work simultaneously right now.

  He crouches next to my head, laying the back of his hand over my forehead. “Jesus, you’re pale. And you’re trembling. What do you need?”

  My eyes are so heavy. I can’t keep them open anymore.

  Through dry, parted lips, I wheeze, “F-food…hur…ry…p-plea…se.”

  He’s kneeling so close to me, I sense his body jolt with clarity. “Blood sugar. You said you have low blood sugar.” He shoots to his feet and bolts from the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

  God, I want to throw up.

  No, I just want to sleep.

  But this floor feels so good.

  Ugh. It’s all bad.

  West comes pounding back probably ten seconds later and lowers himself to the floor. Ever-so-gently, he lifts my head and places it in his lap. Then I feel something at my lips.

  “Here, eat this for me, princess,” he whispers. “It’s a chocolate and peanut butter granola bar.”

  Gratefully, I open my mouth and slowly bite into the bar, chewing carefully. I don’t want to risk going too fast and throwing up the desperately needed food.

  Even though my brain is foggy, the clouds part long enough to catch the way he says princess. Whispering it like a benediction. It’s the first time the term has ever sounded like an endearment coming from his lips, rather than an insult. It’s softly spoken and laced with affection.

  And I suddenly feel very…safe. Warm. Protected.

  In his arms, his legs cradling my head, I feel…cared for. It’s nice.

  Neither of my parents were overly affectionate when Violet and I were growing up. They certainly weren’t the parents who hugged and coddled their children in public. Hell, they barely touched us period. And needless to say, whenever we were sad or sick, there wasn’t an outpouring of sympathy or babying. Oftentimes, the housekeeper was the one who checked our temperatures and brought us soup in bed.

  I don’t realize I’ve stopped chewing until West prompts, “Eat the whole thing.”

  Already feeling better in more ways than one, I do as he says and swallow every last bite. While he sits there quietly and strokes my hair. I know his eyes are on me. I know he’s probably waiting for the color to return to my cheeks and making sure he doesn’t have to call an ambulance or something. But for right now, I’m going to pretend that he’s here solely for me because he wants to be. That he’ll always be here.

  He would be, if you’d only let him.

  That can’t happen.

  In the end, I can’t care about how sweet he’s being right now or how sexually compatible we might be.

  That’s not everything.

  For almost my entire life, it feels like I’ve had to constantly defend myself to everyone around me. Except for maybe Sloane, Gretchen, and Quinn. Even then, when my mother first married Quinn’s father, I had to defend a lot of aspects of my life to her. Coming from humble beginnings, Quinn hadn’t cared for my family’s money or social status and wanted nothing to do with it. Of course, that later changed and we became best friends. But the facts remain.

  To Quinn, I’ve had to defend my family’s money, even though I didn’t earn it myself.

  To my parents, I’ve had to defend my passion for designing makeup, since they don’t see that as a viable career path. Not that I’ve ever really put my foot down in that arena.

  To my friends, I’ve had to defend my reasons for working at the Foundation when they know I find it agonizing.

  To myself, I’ve had to defend my justifications for always playing it safe and never taking risks. Then I had to defend my reasons for doing the exact opposite of that by moving things along with West at warp speed.

  And for too many years, I’ve had to defend my reasons for befriending Shae. For continuing to love her no matter how snotty and hateful she might act. It’s become such a tedious conversation that I usually won’t engage in the topic when someone brings it up.

&
nbsp; Then I had to defend myself to West.

  The one person I never thought I would have to explain anything to. For some naïve reason, I just thought he’d automatically understand. Thought that even in the short amount of time we’d been together, he’d known me well enough to get it.

  I’ve grown so tired of people not getting it.

  So, when West came at me with all that negativity about Shae—about how she’s a bad person and he couldn’t understand what compelled me to want to be her friend—I couldn’t have been more crushed.

  I’d thought he was The One.

  And in my mind, The One wouldn’t question something so important to me. Something, or someone, so close to my heart. In fact, he would never judge me. I’ve always thought that whenever I meet him, he would fit seamlessly into my life without complicating it. West did and said the worst possible things the night we broke up. Probably the only things at the time that would have made me doubt our relationship.

  Yes, it was only one thing. But to me, it was about so much more than just him having a problem with my oldest friend.

  It was about him not understanding me.

  He proved he didn’t that night. Which sealed the deal for me and, in my mind, our fate. And I can’t lose sight of that. No matter how gentle and caring he’s being with me.

  He’s not The One.

  If I learned anything from watching Sloane’s two-year marriage to her ex-husband Grant go up in flames, it’s that you shouldn’t waste so much time putting all your effort into a relationship that isn’t meant to be. You might miss out on a better opportunity somewhere down the road. Thankfully, she didn’t. She wised up, divorced him, and found Carter almost immediately. Which proves my point.

  Time is precious.

  Especially when the right person is still out there waiting for you to find him.

  I can’t waste more time with West if he’s not my future.

  If it’s not right with him, then why has it never felt wrong?

  Yeah, I’m not picking apart that particular riddle tonight. Not on the floor of my bathroom, with my head in West’s lap.

  I blink my eyes open once I feel my muscles begin to twitch with life again. Shifting my neck, my gaze crashes into his.

  His brow is still furrowed with concern as his eyes fly over my face. “Your color is coming back.”

  I pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth. Cottonmouth, blech. “It’s a lot better. I can feel everything stabilizing.”

  “Do you need more food? I think you’ve got a Diet Coke in the fridge.” He frowns, looking almost angry with himself. “Sorry, I should have grabbed that. I wasn’t thinking—” He purses his lips, glancing down at the granola bar wrapper. “The first thought that popped into my head was chocolate.”

  His self-deprecating tone has me placing my hand on his knee, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  His eyes jerk back to mine.

  “Thank you,” I say. “The chocolate and peanut butter was perfect. I’m just sorry I woke you up.”

  The lines of his face harden to stone. “You never have to apologize for asking for my help. It’s my fault you feel that way.”

  Emotions ricochet around inside my chest, ones I don’t want to label. Leaving them floating in a sea of obliviousness, I carefully extract myself from his hold and inch away from the comfort of his body. His arms flop to the floor once they no longer have me to wrap themselves around. I prop myself up against the vanity I was pounding on before, drawing my knees up to my chest. He remains seated across from me, back against the bathtub, legs stretched out in front of him. Stoic.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks the floor.

  I push my hair behind my ear, nodding. “Yeah, I’m good now. It hits me fast, sometimes out of nowhere. But it usually goes away pretty quickly if I get the right stuff into my system.”

  “Can you take any medication for it?”

  “Not really. Since I’m not actually a diabetic, I don’t take insulin or anything. It’s just a matter of maintaining a healthy diet and not going too long between meals. Or skipping meals.”

  His eyes shoot up to mine, boring into me like an oil drill. “When was the last time you ate something? Before that granola bar?”

  I count the hours backwards and lower my head to hide the truth. The irresponsibility. I haven’t eaten anything since the blueberry muffin I scarfed down around brunch time.

  “You didn’t eat dinner, did you?” His voice is ominously low.

  I wordlessly shake my head, feeling scolded.

  “Why not? There was plenty of food at Carter and Sloane’s party.”

  Feeling the heat under his spotlight makes me want to press my face against the toilet again. “I was, um,”—distracted by you—“I had a lot of stuff on my mind and just forgot. I don’t have much of an appetite when I’m stressed, and I lose track of when I’ve eaten.”

  His features turn strained. “When you’re stressed… You had a lot of stuff on your mind at the party…” He must be able to interpret my expression and puts all the pieces together. “I distracted you from eating, Harper? From taking care of yourself?”

  I have the petty urge to deny that he has that much power over me.

  Even if it might be true.

  “Of course not,” I protest. “It’s my body. Therefore, it’s my responsibility to prevent this kind of thing from happening. I’ve had this issue since I was a teenager. I know better. It’s no one’s fault but my own.”

  And yeah, the ratio between food and alcohol tonight didn’t help matters. Alcohol lowers your blood sugar, and if I don’t balance that out with food, attacks like this are inevitable.

  So stupid! I really do know better.

  The moment is drawn out with heavy silence that engulfs the room. If I didn’t still have jelly legs, I would escape this tension and steal away to my room.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  My gaze slowly rises back up to meet his. Do I really want to hear this?

  “Tonight at the party.” He stabs his fingers through his hair. Grabbing the back of his neck, he squeezes his eyes shut. “I shouldn’t have behaved that way. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I just…lost control of myself. And I’m so damn sorry for it.” He appears weary, but he sounds sincere. “You should have slapped me.”

  I latch on to the opportunity to infuse some levity into the situation. “I considered it.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” he snaps angrily.

  It’s like he wishes I would have. Like he wanted me to lash out at him.

  I shrug. “I’ve never hit another person in my life. And you’ve seen how uncoordinated I am. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. The whole effect of the slap would have been lost.”

  His weak laughter comes out sounding hollow. “True. The game of darts we played the night we met nearly turned into a massacre.”

  I laugh, recalling memories I’d prefer stay buried. Only problem is, I never buried those memories in the first place. Merely threw some dirt over them and called it good.

  Once my laughter fades, the atmosphere turns somber again. “Apology accepted.”

  He nods, though he still appears to be deep in thought.

  “But nights like tonight can’t keep happening, West. The jealous reactions, the fighting. We won’t make it through this if we don’t put an end to those feelings.”

  Gaze downcast, his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “I know. It won’t happen again.”

  I’m mortified when my eyes well up with unexpected tears.

  Why does this feel like we’re breaking up all over again? Dammit, I can’t handle another breakup with West. It was brutal enough the first time around. The constant fighting and bickering have been our way of avoiding whatever feelings may still be festering between us like unhealed wounds. Our way of resisting the magnetic pull between our bodies. Which has been fine with me. I’d almost prefer it.

  Because fighting is easier
than crying.

  Suck it up, girl.

  Tonight, we were just horny and screwed around. It doesn’t have to be any bigger than that.

  I push to my feet. “Okay.” There’s too much buzzing going on in the air between us that I need to pretend doesn’t exist. “I’m going to try to get some more sleep. Thank you again. Seriously. I appreciate your help.”

  He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at me.

  But his voice stops me when I’m halfway out the door. “Harper.”

  I turn back to see him pleading up at me with those big brown eyes that aren’t so stoic or devoid of life anymore. They’re emphatic, but I can’t pin it down any further than that.

  “Walking in here tonight and seeing you on the floor like that, white as a sheet…” He shudders. “That scared the shit out of me. I’m obviously not always going to be there waiting with a granola bar. So, can you…just please take better care of yourself?”

  I almost collapse into another heap on the floor when all my insides melt.

  Melt, my ass.

  They’ve already liquified into a puddle of conflicted emotions and physical longing.

  Barring that from showing on my face, I nod. “Yeah. I can do that. Goodnight, West.”

  “’Night, Harper.”

  Now, it finally feels wrong with him.

  Leaving that bathroom after agreeing to put even more distance between us, further severing whatever tenuous relationship we have, that feels wrong.

  “No wonder you can’t find the right shade for your skin,” Gretchen deadpans at Sloane. “They don’t make foundation in Vampire.”

  Sloane rolls her eyes while I respond for her. “Which is why she’s come to the master. I guarantee you won’t find a blend like this in any store.”

  I finish mixing said blend before dabbing the liquid over a small area of Sloane’s pale check to test it out.

  “Not all of us can be born with a perpetual tan from the Greeks,” Sloane mutters, referring to Gretchen’s father’s Greek heritage. His darker coloring and her mother’s lighter features gifted Gretchen with a unique combination of almond skin, silver eyes, and lustrous dark hair.