He’s barely four pounds, too tiny to fit in normal preemie clothes. He needs special diapers and expensive formula and pacifiers. All of which I can handle, but I’ve grown used to the annoying beep of his heart monitor. What happens if his lungs aren’t as strong as we think they are and he stops breathing?
What if he rolls over in his sleep and chokes himself?
I’m not worried about screwing up. No new parent knows what they’re doing. They wing every decision and hope for the best. I’m petrified of the unknown, of the anomalies that are preemie babies that I don’t know how to prepare for.
Maybe that’s why I’m sitting in my truck, at a party I inadvertently hijacked, struggling to break the seal on a bottle of Jack Daniels.
That, and I’m about to see Layla again.
There’s a twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach, so I chase it away with a shot. The liquid burns as it goes down, but it’s a familiar burn. One I’ve gotten too used to over the past two months. When I don’t feel the worry-knot anymore, I put the cap back on the bottle.
It’s now or never.
I slip around the backside of the house, careful not to draw any attention to myself. I want to find Layla. Watch her for a few minutes. See if she’s on the defense or having a good time. Her mood directly affects how the night is going to go.
I find her on the back patio next to Hattie, beautiful as ever. I’m so transfixed by her, I don’t see the trash can to my left. I bump into it and mutter under my breath, while trying to keep it upright so beer cans don’t spill everywhere and blow my cover.
Layla’s brows push together as her gaze moves from Hattie over to me. What’s left of her smile falls from her face. She drops her drink and runs into the house.
Every cell in my body is screaming at me to chase after her. I don’t think I could have stopped my feet from following her if I wanted to. My heart pounds in my ears when I reach the bathroom door she’s hiding behind. Hattie must have left the bedroom unlocked, just in case something like this happened.
“Layla.” I set my palm on the door, too nervous to pound on it lest I scare her or piss her off. I’m walking on thin ice as it is. I don’t need anything else stacking up against me tonight. “We need to talk.”
The door rips open and I almost fall forward from the sudden change in balance. Wet trails of mascara run down Layla’s cheeks. If life hadn’t gutted me before, it has now. I took this beautiful, strong woman and broke her. Even if it was an accident, her pain is my fault.
Layla’s face pinches together, her sadness morphing into something darker. She balls her fist and punches me in the stomach.
It doesn’t hurt, but I pretend it does and double over. It’s a dick move, but I play the sympathy card. What can I say? I’m buzzed and need to break the ice between us. If faking that she’s hurt me is the way to go, then so be it. I groan, covering my stomach.
“I’m sorry.” Layla throws her arms around me and cries into my shoulder. She grabs my shirt, like she’s scared I’ll disappear and whispers, “I'm so confused. I don’t know how to feel right now.”
I wrap my arms around her. She smells amazing, like warm summer nights and bonfire smoke. “Trust me. I get it. Most days, I’m a mess. Yelling at everyone. Shutting myself in a dark room. I even ate a pint of Rocky Road ice cream, and I’m lactose intolerant.”
Layla giggles. I smile for the first time in weeks. This feels right, her and I, but I need to get everything out in the open. The longer I wait, the more I risk someone else spilling the beans about Bryson. “Baby, I—“
Layla jolts back, her hands pressing against my chest, shoving me away. “No. You don’t get to call me baby. You don’t have that right anymore.”
My jaw ticks. There’s a burn in my throat that I choke down. I refuse to let her see the tears that are on the brink of escaping. I need to support her, make her realize how sorry I am, not be a blubbering fool who needs comforting. Even if that’s all I want, to be in her arms again.
Layla sits on the lid of the toilet, her face buried in her hands. I close the door and kneel in front of her, desperate for forgiveness, but I’m at a loss for words.
What is there to say to someone whose heart you’ve shattered?
Especially when I know her pain. I live with it every day.
She sniffles, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “What happened between us? One minute everything was great, and the next it all blew up in my face.”
I sit back on my feet. This is my chance to lay it all on the line. The opening I need to explain myself, but I can’t find the words.
“I hate you.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but I know he heard me. My words bite into him like a viper, the sting they left written on his face, and I wish I could take them back because they are a lie.
I don’t hate Josh. I think I love him, and that’s the problem. He doesn’t know, which is another problem. He can’t know.
Ever.
He can’t know how
much he’s hurt me. How often I cry myself to sleep. How every single night I fight with myself to return his calls and read his messages.