I hear the downstairs toilet flush, and I turn, waiting for Harley. After a few moments, he steps through from the kitchen, a sheepish look in his eyes as he wipes his damp hands on the back of his jeans.

“Are you okay?” I ask, looking him up and down.

His enviable glow has been snatched from him, replaced by a pale, almost gray tinge to his skin. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, and his skin has an unhealthy sheen to it. He does not look okay; I don’t even know why I asked.

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me,” he groans, burying his face in his hands as he flops down on the old leather couch.

I stand on the spot, looking down at him, trying not to let on how guilty I feel.

“I barely touched dinner,” he continues with a shake of his head. “All I had today was a bowl of Cheerios, some deep-fried pickles, and those wedding cake samples.”

I cringe at the combination, but at the mention of my tainted cake I force myself to look away, afraid he might see the truth in my eyes.

“Maybe it was the pickles,” Harley murmurs, more to himself than for my benefit.

“You need water.” I hurry through to the kitchen, quickly busying myself and taking the opportunity to get the hell away from him to avoid giving anything away.

“Shit. Not again!” I hear him yell from the next room. Seconds later, Harley runs past me, through the doorway that leads to the laundry, and I jump when the door to the downstairs bathroom slams shut. With a glass of water in hand, I stand awkwardly in the kitchen, wondering if I should just call an Uber and leave, but before I can do anything, my cell phone chimes from my purse, and I retrieve it to see the screen illuminated with a text message notification, and I can’t help but smile as I enter my passcode.

Nash: Did y’all get home okay??

Yes, we only just made it … I reply.

The device vibrates in my hand with an almost immediate response.

Nash: LOL. Is he okay?

I leave the water in the kitchen and move back through to the living room, kicking off my shoes and taking a seat on the couch. I pull my feet up beneath me as I start my reply. Well, he’s currently in the bathroom for the second time since we got back to his house. You’re the med student. You tell me, Dr. Harris!

Nash: Make sure he has plenty of water, and if he develops a fever, go straight to the hospital.

Will do, I reply, although I know it’s just a matter of time before the effects of the laxative wear off; unless, of course, Harley becomes dehydrated. Then, I don’t know what I’ll do. If I take him to the hospital, they’ll find out he’s somehow overdosed on laxatives. Harley will know what I did. He’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me. I manage somehow to shake those thoughts from my head, focusing on the now and the fact that I have Nash’s full text attention. I swallow the guilt and the anxiety as I quickly send off a follow-up text message in an attempt to keep the conversation going. Did you and Anna get back to the hotel okay?