Chapter 3
Layla - 3 years later
After nine years since starting my period, I’ve found a doctor who’s willing to listen to me instead of blowing off my pain, and I’m scheduled for laparoscopic surgery two weeks from today. Depending on what the surgeon finds, I’ll have my official endometriosis diagnosis, and we’ll know how severe it is.
On top of the student loans I’ve started paying back for my first two and a half years of college before I had to drop out, I’ve had to dip into my savings too many times to repair my car since buying a new-to-me reliable car is something I can’t afford right now. Add in the hikes in rent, health and auto insurance premiums, and the general cost of living, it’s been hard , to say the least.
But, finally, the finish line is within sight. Having worked at Granny’s for several years and any other odd job I can find on the side, I’ve saved enough money to not only pay the high copay the hospital requires before they’ll even perform my surgery, but also cover my half of the bills while I take time off from work to recover.
So of course within two days of each other, not only does Steven total his sports car after another vehicle “came out of nowhere” when he was zooming down the interstate and swerving around other vehicles too fast, but I also get a call from the hospital that my insurance denied the prior-authorization for my surgery, which was canceled, claiming it’s not “medically necessary” and that I haven’t explored enough—aka, cheaper —treatment options.
I have never felt more defeated than I do now after speaking to the hospital’s billing department and being given only an estimated out-of-pocket cost. Four figures if the “elective” surgery is quick and easy and I’m able to go home the same day. Potentially five figures if it’s more severe and requires any overnight hospital stays. With my luck, I’m betting on the latter, which would require missing more work than I can afford to as well.
I’m slow as molasses, trying not to cry at the diner when half of my tips depend on a bubbly personality. It’s also a battle to not yawn in front of Russell when he’s seated in my section at five o’clock in the morning, working my sixth twelve-hour shift in a row after begging Harold for more hours.
I fill his coffee mug and set the pot down on the table, along with a small carton of the protein shake he likes to use as coffee creamer that I keep stocked in the employee refrigerator for him. “Good morning, Russell,” I say, holding my notepad, waiting a beat to see if he’ll say it back. He doesn’t. “The usual?”
Russell nods, his hands wrapped around his steaming mug, staring down at his coffee as if he can read the future in it. He hasn’t looked me in the face or said more than a few words to me since I threw up in his office and bled all over his truck. I don’t blame him. He still leaves me outrageous tips, and I still have to return them to him. And when I do, he’ll point to his office or some other part of the warehouse, and I get to cleaning and organizing.
It’s a system that works well, allowing me to keep his money without taking advantage of him. So I don’t push him for more conversation. Don’t tell him that it hurts to feel invisible around him. I don’t tell him that I miss hearing him call me darlin’ the way my dad used to. Haven’t told him that when he held me and tried to take me to the hospital, it was the first time I’d felt like someone really, truly understood and cared about my problems.
After my shift at the diner, I head to BT to clean the warehouse’s employee breakroom, earning the one hundred dollar tip Russell left for me. When that’s done, I heft a large box into Russell’s office, then go back out to my car and return with a couple plastic grocery sacks with my purchases from the dollar store and the new mini coffee maker I bought.
I kneel on the floor after taking a box cutter from Russell’s desk drawer and dumping everything out. Carefully reading through the instructions several times, so tired that I can barely comprehend the words, I start assembling the wooden pieces of the coffee bar with several drawers together.
Russell swings open the side door, making me jump just as I finish pushing the furniture into the far left corner next to his filing cabinet. He comes to an abrupt stop with his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?”
I plug in his coffee maker, then fill the top drawer with a few different sized mugs, two reusable tumblers, and a two-hundred-pack of coffee filters. “The coffee Jared stocks in the breakroom is nasty. This is your favorite blend, right?” I ask, holding up a bag of ground coffee beans.
His lips are set in a grim line when his gaze flicks from the coffee bar to the mess I left on the floor. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
I blink back a few tears of exhaustion and start emptying the top drawer into one of the plastic bags, having to force the words out when I say quietly, “Sorry. I, um, don’t think I can return the furniture, but I can take the rest back.”
He moves closer. “Stop.”
I drop my arms and hang my head.
He takes the bag from me, sets it on his desk, pulls his wallet from his back pocket, then tries to hand me another hundred dollar bill. When I refuse to take it, he shakes the bill and asks with an impatience he usually only reserves for other people, “Why won’t you ever let me help you?”
This is the longest conversation we’ve had in years and, of course, he’s annoyed with me.
“I’m engaged, and you’re not my dad,” I say in a flat voice. “It’s not your job to help me.”
His mouth tightens. “Well, Steven’s doing a shi-oot job of it. Look at you,” he bites out, waving at my face, finding fault in my appearance. He might as well have slapped me and knocked me sideways.
Swiping the tears I can no longer hold at bay, I dig my keys out of my tote bag and speed toward the lobby door.
He darts in front with his hands up to stop me. “I didn’t mean it that way, Layla. You’re beautiful,” he lies by way of apology, his voice distressed, trying to make me feel better. “It’s just that you’re so pale, and the dark circles under your eyes—”
I swerve around him without a word, staring at my sneakers, then drive home on autopilot, praying my car doesn’t stall on the side of the road. In the morning, when I get ready for work, I pull up a video online and follow the tutorial on how to better apply my concealer and bronzer.
* * *
I’m floored when I find a new model silver sports car in my driveway with temporary tags from the dealership, praying it belongs to one of Steven’s friends who drove him home after work. Please, please, let it belong to one of his friends.
The screen door accidentally slams closed behind me when I enter the house, swinging my eyes around, hoping Steven isn’t alone. But he is, and my stomach drops to my feet.
“Tell me you didn’t buy a brand new car,” I plead to Steven, who is seated on the brown pleather sofa with a beer in his lap, watching football on the seventy-five-inch TV screen I told him was way outside of our budget, but that he purchased anyway.
He takes his eyes off the screen for a millisecond. “Chill, woman. It’s not a big deal.”
Flabbergasted by his audacity, especially when I kept my voice low so I wouldn’t raise his hackles, I spit, “You did not just tell me to chill.”
I immediately regret it when he works his jaw, then cracks his neck. Since this conversation is going downhill fast, I have to control myself and change tactics. I soften my voice as I approach him, my legs bumping into the arm of the couch, and I run my fingers through the back of his hair, which he always loves.
“I can find someone else to cover my shift tomorrow. We can take the car back to the dealership and then shop around for one that’s maybe a few years older. See if we can work out a deal that fits in our budget.”
He jerks his head to the side, away from my fingers. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing.”
“Steven—”
“No.”
Taking a deep, calming breath after my adrenaline spikes, I tell him, “You can’t just say no. Please think about it. We can’t afford it. It has to go back.”
And then Steven, the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with, turns his head and laughs at me. “You can’t afford it, but I can.”
His words hit me like a tidal wave, dragging me under water. “What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means, Lady? Working all your shitty little jobs, you can’t afford it. I have a real job, so I can.” Steven drains the rest of his beer and stands, towering over me, even when he bends to say, “I’m not taking it back, so get off my fucking back already.”
Steven sidesteps me into the small kitchen and opens the off-white refrigerator we bought from a local Buy and Sell page online to grab another beer, then cracks the top of the bottle against the edge of the counter to pop the cap off.
“I asked you to stop doing that. We’re never going to get our security deposit back if you keep damaging the counter.” I press my lips flat with more regret for speaking up about it right now when he’s already in a defensive mood.
Steven whirls on me after slamming the fridge closed, bottles of condiments rattling inside. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do. This is my house, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want!”
I take an automatic step back toward the bedroom, then another. “Stop it. Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Or what, Lady?” He laughs after taking a swig, and I notice a few more empties on the counter behind him. “What’re you going to do about it? Leave me?” he asks sarcastically, leading to more cruel laughter.
“Who are you?” He has Steven’s face, Steven’s voice, and is wearing Steven’s clothes, but this is not a man I recognize. Things have become increasingly strained between us the longer I’ve put off the wedding, but this man before me is a total stranger.
Steven bangs the bottle on the kitchen peninsula when he sets it down, the carbonated liquid bubbling up to spill over the sides. “I am the man in this house, and what I say goes!”
The last bit of my forced calm snaps, and I stupidly step up and jam my finger into his chest. “Oh, you’re the man in this house, huh? Well, my dad taught me that a real man doesn’t go out and throw all his money away on fancy TVs and sports cars after destroying the last one. A real man takes pride in his home and—”
“My dad this, my dad that,” he mocks with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Fuck your dad! You want a real man?” He fists the thick pink hoodie I’m wearing over my uniform, GRANNY’S GIRLS ironed on the back in sparkly gold vinyl letters. His hot breath fans over my dry lips when he says, “Then show me you’re a woman who’s worth it.” He lets go of my hoodie and drops a hand to squeeze his dick over his jeans. “Bend over the counter and open your fucking legs.”
I know that if I do what he wants, it would deescalate the situation, and he’ll be nicer to me for a few days afterward, like usual, but I recoil, my stomach twisting. I roll and pinch my lips between my teeth, backing away, my spine connecting with the wall next to our bedroom door.
In a move so much like my stepdad, he grabs his beer and throws it across the room. The bottle explodes against the door, and I duck and cover my head.
I slide down the wall and hug my knees, wishing more than ever that my dad was alive and here to hug me and take me home. I wouldn’t even care that he’d lecture and punish me for having sex with Steven and moving in with him before we were married. For not putting on my big girl panties and working harder to stay in school to get a well-paying job so I could contribute more to the household instead of being weak and manipulating a man into taking care of me.
“Pathetic,” Steven sneers, picking up and throwing another bottle, this time at the hood above the broken stove that still needs replacing, denting the cheap metal. “All you do is nag me to death! Can’t even fuck you without you crying about it, so what’s the fucking point in being with you?” He stomps across the room, bending over me.
I shake, pressing my nose between my knees, fearful of what this stranger will do when all I’ve ever tried to do was be good to him. For him.
“You and your shit better be gone by the time I get back,” he says in an abrupt change of tone, his voice low, the threat of or else left unspoken. The screen door slaps closed behind him when he leaves, his car engine roaring when he takes off down the road, putting his life and others’ at risk by driving drunk—something else a real man wouldn’t do.
It’s also something I can’t ignore, even if all my survival instincts tell me I’m making a mistake. It’ll piss Steven off as soon as he finds out, but it’s a risk I have to take or I’ll never be able to live with myself.
I crawl into the kitchen, avoiding the broken glass, and grip the counter to pull myself up to empty my stomach in the metal sink. My clammy hands tremble so much afterward that it takes me a few tries to find Sheriff Gibson’s personal contact in my phone, which he gave to all the girls after Dolly was attacked shortly after we met. I hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder when I finally get my legs to cooperate enough to stand, then hurry to pack my belongings, stealing Steven’s luggage since I don’t have any of my own.
“Layla? Is everything ok?” Sheriff Gibson’s voice is gritty with sleep, and I feel terrible about waking him…but not as terrible as I would if I chose to do nothing and Steven hurt someone.
“Steven and I got into a fight.”
Sheets rustle in the background, and feet pound the floor. “Are you at home?”
I jump on top of the biggest suitcase to zip it closed. “Yes, but—”
“Lock yourself in a room and don’t open the door for any reason. I’ll be there in less than three minutes.”
“No, no! I’m ok. But Steven’s been drinking, and he took off in his car. I’m scared he’s going to kill someone.” I run around the house, grabbing my photo frames off the walls to throw them in the smaller suitcase with my toiletries.
Sheriff curses in my ear, and it’s the one time I don’t mind. There’s a series of slamming doors, then a high-pitched siren. A crackle from his walkie-talkie follows shortly, and Sheriff describes Steven’s black car to someone on the other end of the line. I hurry to give him a description of the new car, and he relays the information as I wheel my luggage out of the house and into the trunk of my car.
“I’m sending someone to the house in case he comes back before we find him,” Sheriff says.
“You don’t have to do that.” I hate the thought of the police using their resources on me when they’d be better served elsewhere. I don’t bother locking the front door before hopping into my driver’s seat. “I’m leaving.” Something I never thought I’d do . My car, for once, turns on the first time I twist the key in the ignition.
“Good. Let me know when you get somewhere safe.”
I drop my phone on the passenger seat as soon as we end the call, then back out of the driveway, leaving all the furniture Steven and I bought together as a couple since I can’t fit any of it in my car. I roll down my window, finding freedom in taking off my engagement ring, a suffocating weight lifted off my chest. I pull my arm back to throw the ring out the window, but stop right before I let go. If I’ve earned anything in this life, it’s this ring that I’ve suffered through so much to keep. I drop it in my tote bag, then tap on the map app on my phone, searching for the closest pawn shop.
* * *
Russell
The longer I’m away, the antsier I get, crushed by a looming sense of doom I can’t seem to shake, even though I’m enjoying my vacation for part of Paul’s winter break in Colorado with my ex-wife, Renee, her husband, Francisco, and their teens, Savannah and Dallas. Renee and I may have been divorced for nearly twenty years, but we split on good terms and have been determined to provide a stable life for our son, even if we didn’t make sense as a romantic couple.
Renee, Francisco, and I are in the hot tub on the deck below the second-story balcony of our rental cabin together, watching the elk graze along the narrow river bank in the valley of the snow-capped mountains after the kids head inside to play video games in the basement media room. As beautiful as the scenery is, and as relaxing as the evening should be, especially as the hot water does its best to work out the kinks in my muscles after a three-hour hike in Rocky Mountain National Park, I can’t help but think of what Layla might be doing right now. Is she alone? In pain with no one to take care of her?
I set my crystal tumbler of bourbon on the lip of the hot tub and rub my chest.
“Ok, what gives?” Renee asks, her highlighted light brown hair pulled back by the kind of hair clip Layla likes to wear. Our son may have gotten my darker hair and build, but he got her easy-going personality, which I’m thankful for. She’s sitting sideways on Francisco’s lap, her arm draped across his shoulders while she idly strokes the side of his dark brown hair.
There’s not a single ounce of jealousy seeing the two of them together, yet just the thought of Steven being anywhere near the vicinity of Layla eats me up inside. Thinking of them sharing a bed is what’s going to wind up killing me one day.
“Nothing. Just trying to enjoy the view.” I nod toward a few elk who graze closer to the cabin.
“Trying and failing,” Francisco says, rolling the R . When I don’t respond, he cajoles, “Come on. Tell the truth.”
I mumble my answer, pointedly looking away from the happy couple. Actually, there is some envy there, but it’s only because I want the kind of marriage they have. I also know that I never will.
“What?” Francisco looks to Renee to translate my garbled nonsense.
“He said he’s thinking of his woman and wishes she was here with us.”
I snap my gaze to her. “No, I didn’t. And she’s not my woman.” Especially after I insulted her, which wasn’t my intention. She’s beautiful. I simply wanted to point out that Steven isn’t good enough to be her man, letting her run ragged and exhausted, which no amount of makeup can hide.
Renee chuckles. “But that’s what you meant.”
Francisco says with a playful grin, “What woman?”
Chest tightening, I ask Renee, “How the F do you know about her?”
“Who’s ‘her’? And when did you stop cursing like a sailor?” Francisco asks, shocked that I curtailed my speech.
Renee says with a teasing tone, “I heard through the grapevine that you’re sweet on a waitress at Granny’s.”
I deadpan, “And by grapevine, you mean Faye, don’t you?” Renee used to babysit Faye when she was a teenager, and they still keep in touch all these years later. I just didn’t realize how often.
“Yup.” Her humor fades, and her brows crease with concern. “That’s not all I heard.” She sinks into Francisco, who wraps his arm around her middle.
I take a large swallow of bourbon, dread thickening the atmosphere .
Francisco rubs his wife’s knee. “What else did you hear?”
“She’s young,” Renee answers.
“How young?”
“Mid-twenties.”
Francisco shoots me a surprised look that quickly turns disapproving. His daughter with his ex-wife, who passed away a year before he and Renee met, is Layla’s age. ángela couldn’t join us since she’s traveled to New York for a conference, unfortunately.
“You don’t have to tell me she’s too young. I already know,” I say, staring down into my glass.
“And she’s engaged.” There isn’t any derision in Renee’s sad voice when she adds that little- big tidbit, but there should be.
Francisco opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “I know, I know. It ain’t right.” I sigh. “I haven’t pursued anything. And I won’t. Barely even look at her.”
He nods. “Good.”
Maybe some men would get defensive at Francisco’s judgment regarding my infatuation with Layla, but I know he’s right. It’s good that I stay away from her when I can. Keep myself in check when I can’t. Not let anyone know that I sit in my truck parked on the tree side of her road with a cooler full of snacks and drinks when Steven is out late at night just to make sure she’s safe.
The sliding glass door to the living room opens, and the three of us turn to watch Paul jog across the deck in his sweatshirt and pants with my phone I had left on the kitchen counter outstretched in his hand. “It’s Jared. There’s an emergency.”
I take the phone as soon as I’m out of the hot tub, hustling inside out of the frigid air with a towel around my waist. “What happened?”
Jared speaks in a hush, “You might wanna come home, boss. We got trouble.”
I put him on speaker so I can drop my phone on my bedroom’s wooden dresser while I finish toweling off. “What kind of trouble?”
“It’s Layla.”
I brace my hands on the sturdy furniture to keep from falling when my knees buckle, my heart slamming into my rib cage. Abandoning everything but my billfold and keys, I throw on my sweatshirt and jeans from this morning and yank open the door, finding everyone gathered in the hall on the other side.
“I’m sorry. I have to leave,” I tell them, hating that I have to cut the time spent with my son short, praying I don’t disappoint him.
Paul steps forward with my boots in hand, and as soon as I have them on, he claps me on the shoulder. In a deadly serious manner, he says, “Call me as soon as you know your woman is safe.”
If I had time, I’d ask how the hell he knows about my obsession with Layla, but for now, I give him a grateful hug, and then I’m gone, speeding in my rental car toward the airport.