Chapter 72 The End of Eleven Days

Chapter 72 The End of Eleven Days
SCARLETT
A FEW DAYS LATER

My period cramps are killing me.
Of course, it had to hit today— the one day I actually feel motivated enough to get dressed for work. When I saw the blood and felt that very dreadful but familiar, deep, twisting ache in my lower belly, I knew I wasn't going anywhere.
The office would survive without me for a couple of days. I quickly called Beverly to let her know.

Lawrence hasn't been going in either. I don't know if it's because he's respecting the space I asked for, or if he just can't stand being there without me. Either way, I'm curled up in bed like a fetus, my eyes squeezed shut as I wait for the painkillers to kick in.
I usually don't get cramps this bad, but the first two days always feel like my body is trying to punish me for something.
I reach for my phone and put on a soft, calming playlist, then open my hidden gallery.

My thumb scrolls through the photos and videos of Lawrence and me. The noise around us on social media has finally started to die down, though a few nasty comments still pop up here and there.
I'm watching a video of us play-fighting in bed, both of us laughing like idiots, when my doorbell rings.
Groaning loudly, I throw the sheets back. Getting up feels like torture, but I force myself, even as a fresh wave of cramps hits me. I shuffle to the door, cursing under my breath.

Chill, girl. Let a woman breathe for five minutes.

Whoever it is is about to get the full unfiltered version of me. I'm wearing just a knee-length, larger-than-life T-shirt, and my messy bun is falling apart on top of my head. Plus, I have zero makeup on.
But I don't even care.
I pull the door open, and my eyes widen in sheer surprise.
Lawrence is at the door, standing in my doorway and looking handsome in a simple dark T-shirt and grey slacks.
And he looks very boyfriend-y.
In his hands are two large Louis Vuitton shopping bags.

Just the man I'd been thinking about.

"Delivery," he says casually, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips.
We haven't seen or spoken to each other in eleven days. Those eleven days feel like a year, and the sight of him makes something crack open inside my chest.
Blame it on my hormones. They're all over the place.
"Lawrence," I choke out, leaning against the doorframe because standing straight
suddenly feels difficult.
His eyes scan my face, his brows pulling together with concern. "Are you okay?"

Nodding weakly, I step aside so he can come in. I reach for one of the bags to help, but he shakes his head, carrying both inside easily while still glancing back at me worriedly.
"Scarlett," he says as soon as he sets the bags on the table. "Are you okay?"
I smile, but it wobbles. "Yeah. My monthly visitor showed up with a vengeance. That's all."
His expression softens instantly. "Oh, baby."

He takes a step toward me like he wants to pull me into his arms, but stops himself, remembering the space I asked for.
The hesitation hurts.
Fuck, what does it hurt? I asked for it, after all.
"What are those?" I ask, gesturing to the bags, even though I already have a pretty good guess.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "So I decided to show you instead of just telling you. I know I should've had them delivered… but I wanted to see you. Even if it was just for a brief minute."

My throat constricts with saliva. I want to tell him I love him, and I want to walk straight into his arms and bury my face in his chest.
But the hurt is still there, complicated as ever.
So, I don't say any of it.
He broke my heart in a way, and yet it feels like he's the only one who can bring me comfort.

Another evil cramp twists in my belly, and I gasp sharply, my hand flying out to grip the edge of the table for support as my knees buckle.
"Scarlett?" Lawrence's voice is instantly alert.
The pain is so intense that I can't even speak immediately. I squeeze the table harder, breathing through my nose as another wave rolls through me.
Ouch.
Lawrence is holding me before I know it, lifting me against his chest.

"I've got you, baby," he murmurs.
He carries me into my bedroom, lowering me gently onto the bed, and arranging the pillows behind me before sitting on the edge.
His hand comes up to touch my face tenderly, and it almost makes me cry again.
"Tell me what to do," he says, his green eyes full of worry. He looks so helpless, it's kind of adorable. "Hot water bottle? Medicine? Food? What do you need?"

I shake my head, curling onto my side and hugging one pillow to my stomach. "Nothing," I whisper. "Just stay with me for a minute."
He kicks off his shoes without hesitation and lies down beside me so that we're facing each other. Then his fingers start stroking my hair.
"So… what'd you get me?" I ask softly, my voice still a bit raspy from the pain.
Lawrence starts to push himself up to go fetch the bags, but I reach out and touch his hand, stopping him.

"No, stay," I whisper. "Just tell me."
He settles back down, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before propping himself on one elbow.
"A bunch of stuff, actually," he mutters. "You know how I get when I'm nervous." A blush slowly creeps up his cheeks. "I got some dresses and a few accessories. Shoes too." He lets out a small laugh. "I don't know, I would've bought the whole damn store if I thought it would make you feel better."

I chuckle weakly against the pillow, wincing as another small cramp hits. "Thank you, Lawrence."
He smiles softly. "Anything for you, Scarlett."
He watches me for a moment, the sadness in his eyes deepening. "There has to be something I can do," he says again, gently. "I can't just sit here and watch you hurting."
"I already took painkillers," I reply softly. "I'll be fine."

He doesn't listen.
Lawrence leans over and presses a light kiss to my forehead, then another on my cheek.
"I'll be right back," he whispers against my skin. "Don't move."
Before I can ask where he's going, he's already slipping out of the room.

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††

Thirty minutes later, Lawrence returns with his arms full of bags again.
He sets everything down on the nightstand and the floor beside the bed.
Apparently, this man seems to have bought everything.
Lawrence starts to unpack two different hot water bottles, a plush heating pad with different temperature settings, a giant bag of my favorite snacks (chocolate, crisps, fruit, even ice cream), painkillers, herbal teas, a soft, warm belt for cramps, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers.

I stare at the mountain of items in shock.
Lawrence sits back down on the edge of the bed. "Is this okay?" he asks softly. "I'm sorry, I know you wanted space, but I just couldn't sit at home knowing you were hurting."