Chapter 15 Lila
LILA
THAT SAME MORNING, EARLIER
I’m halfway through reconciling an expense report when my phone lights up on my desk.
Unknown number.
I almost ignore it, because I’ve learned to be careful about anything that arrives without context, but the preview text shows three words that stop my breath short.
Unknown: I’m here again, doll.
My fingers go cold, because no one calls me that except one person. And when he used to, it wasn’t affectionate. It was a way of reminding me who he thought I belonged to and how small he liked me when he said it.
I don’t move for a second. I don’t look around. I don’t let my face change. I sit very still and keep my eyes on the screen like it might blink first.
I type back with my phone hidden under the desk.
Me: Where?
The reply comes fast.
Unknown: Deli next door. Same place you always grab soup when you’re pretending you don’t skip lunch.
My stomach drops.
I don’t remember telling him that. I don’t remember telling him anything recent at all, and that’s the problem. He fills in gaps like they belong to him.
Without thinking too much, I lock my computer and stand up.
If I think too much I’ll freeze, and freezing has never helped me.
I tell myself I’ll handle it, I’ve done this before, I don’t need help.
I don’t tell anyone where I’m going. Once I reach the deli and get inside, my senses register olive oil, toasting bread, and the fresh smell of something citrusy.
The noise hits me too. Orders being shouted.
A register chiming. Chairs scraping. It feels too normal for what I know is about to happen.
My ex is leaning against the counter.
Same haircut. Same jacket that tries to look expensive and doesn’t quite manage it. Same eyes that never soften when he smiles. He looks older, harder around the mouth, but not changed in any way that matters.
He grins when he sees me.
“There you are,” he says. “Thought you might pretend not to get my message.”
I stop a few feet away from him and keep my bag tight against my side. “What do you want.”
He laughs, low and pleased, like the sound itself is supposed to get under my skin. “Straight to business. You always were like that when you were scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I say, and it’s half true, which is better than lying.
“You ran,” he replies. “That tells me enough.”
“I left,” I correct. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They were to me.” His eyes flick over me, slow and proprietary, and I fight the urge to step back. “You clean up nice now. Office job suits you. Makes you look respectable.”
“That’s not a compliment,” I say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was.”
I glance toward the door, calculating distance, exits, timing. I’m already planning how to leave without escalating, which irritates me because I shouldn’t have to do this math.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “You know that.”
He leans closer. “I knew where you’d be.”
“That’s not impressive,” I say. “It’s unsettling.”
His smile thins. “You always had a word for things that made you uncomfortable.”
“I learned them after I left you,” I say.
That gets a reaction. His jaw flexes. His eyes sharpen. “You didn’t leave. You vanished. No note. No explanation. Just gone.”
“I told you I was done,” I say. “You just didn’t accept it.”
He laughs again, but it sounds tight now. “You never did finish things properly. You liked leaving people wondering.”
“I left because you hurt me.” I keep my voice level because raising it will give him something he wants.
He steps closer, enough that I smell his cologne, and it turns my stomach. “You exaggerate.”
I don’t respond. I’ve learned better than to debate my own memory.
“You owe me a conversation,” he says. “Closure.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
He reaches for my wrist.
It happens fast enough that my brain lags. Suddenly his fingers are wrapped around me, tight and familiar and wrong in a way that makes my breath stutter.
“Don’t touch me,” I say.
“Lower your voice,” he snaps. “You don’t want to make a scene.”
I pull back, but he tightens his grip. Panic spikes, sharp and immediate, and I hate how quickly my body remembers.
Then Ethan’s voice cuts through it.
“Get your hand off her.”
The room changes.
I turn and see Ethan a few steps away, posture relaxed but eyes locked on the man holding me. The relief hits so hard it scares me, because I didn’t ask him to be here, and now I don’t know what this costs.
The man scoffs. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Ethan doesn’t look at him. “It does.”
The grip on my wrist tightens. “She’s busy.”
Ethan moves in close and peels his fingers off me one by one, slow and controlled, like he’s dismantling something he understands too well. I feel the pressure leave my skin and realize my hand is shaking.
The deli goes quiet.
The man squares up, puffed and angry, like this is a performance he knows. “Back off. This is between me and her.”
Ethan stands between us without touching me, and that small choice matters more than he knows.
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
The man lunges.
It’s chaos for half a second. A shove. A crash against the counter. Someone yells. I grab Ethan’s arm.
“Stop,” I say. “Please.”
He stops immediately.
That almost undoes me.
The man backs away, swearing, pointing, promising things I don’t listen to, then he’s gone, swallowed by the noise and movement like he was never here.
My wrist aches. My chest feels tight. Everything feels too exposed.
Ethan turns to me. “Are you okay.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I say, and my voice shakes despite my effort.
“He grabbed you.”
“I was handling it.”
“He doesn’t get to touch you.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” I snap, because the fear has nowhere else to go.
We get pushed outside by the owner, and the city slams back into place like nothing happened. People walk past us. Traffic moves. My hands won’t stop trembling.
“Who was he,” Ethan asks.
“Someone I thought I escaped,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to,” I reply. “Because this is what happens.”
He looks at me, and I know he thinks he helped. I know he did help. That doesn’t mean I feel safe.
“You followed me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“That’s not okay.”
“I was worried.”
I step back. “You can’t fix this. You can’t confront him. You can’t scare him off. He doesn’t scare the way you think.”
Ethan opens his mouth then closes it.
“I need to go,” I say.
I walk away before my legs can argue, before the tears show, before he sees how badly this rattled me. I don’t look back, because if I do I might collapse into him, and I don’t trust what that would mean.
My phone buzzes again as I turn the corner.
Unknown: You always needed someone else to save you.
I keep walking.
I leave work early without announcing it, which is out of character for me and therefore feels necessary. I send a short message to HR, copy my manager, mark the afternoon as sick leave, and shut my laptop before anyone can reply with questions I don’t want to answer.
My phone starts buzzing the second I step outside.
Ethan.
I let it ring.
I don’t block him. I don’t silence the phone. I just don’t answer, and there’s a difference that matters to me right now. Blocking would mean panic. Silencing would mean avoidance. Letting it ring means I’m choosing not to engage.
I walk instead of calling a car, which is stupid given how my legs feel, but movement helps keep the noise in my head from stacking too high. The city is loud and ordinary and unfairly normal, and I hate that the world doesn’t register the fact that something in me has shifted.
By the time I reach my building, my stomach feels tight and sour, and my hands won’t stop trembling. I fumble my keys and swear under my breath, then manage to get inside and up the stairs without seeing anyone I know.
The second my door closes behind me, the tears come.
My chest tightens, my throat closes, and I have to brace one hand on the kitchen counter while I try to breathe through it. I count my breaths the way I was taught years ago, slow and deliberate, but my body doesn’t care about technique.
I make it to the sink just in time.
It’s violent and fast and leaves me shaking afterward, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, hair falling into my face. I spit, rinse my mouth, and stare at my reflection like it might offer an explanation.
My eyes look too bright. My skin looks pale. I look like someone who has been running without realizing it.
I straighten slowly and move to the couch, sitting with my feet flat on the floor and my hands pressed to my knees like grounding might come back if I wait long enough. My phone lights up again.
Ethan.
I let it ring.
Then a text comes through.
Ethan: Please answer. I just want to know you’re okay.
That almost does it.
I type “I’m home. I’m fine.” and delete it. Fine isn’t true, and I won’t start lying now just to make someone else feel better. I set the phone face down on the coffee table and focus on keeping my breathing even.
The panic doesn’t leave.
It shifts, sharpens, turns into something more physical and less abstract, and that’s when a different thought breaks through the noise.
My stomach still hurts.
Not nausea exactly, but pressure, a deep, unsettled ache that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with my body doing something I didn’t authorize.
I stand and walk to the bathroom, then stop halfway there.
My calendar.
I open it on my phone, scrolling past meetings and deadlines and reminders I’ve learned to live by, then I find what I’m looking for. Or what I’m not looking for.
I’m late.
Not by a day. Not by the vague margin I can usually talk myself out of worrying about. Late enough that my chest tightens again, and this time it’s not panic. It’s recognition.
I’ve missed periods before. Stress. Travel. Hormones being annoying. I’ve always had a reason ready, and I’ve always been right.
This feels different.