3. Layla
LAYLA
“There’s my favorite niece.”
I jump at the sound of my uncle’s voice, guilt piercing through my body over nothing I did wrong today and everything I’ve done wrong behind his back before.
It’s a vicious cycle.
“Hey…Uncle Ben,” I toss back as casually as I can, trying to look as seamless as possible while mixing a fresh batch of pie filling. “How’s it goin’ today?”
Flicking my focus up to him as he rounds, his brows are furrowed as if he knows.
That he can see all over my face that I saw Briggs Kerrigan today. And that was always a big no-no.
My parents passed away when I was twelve, dying in a tragic car accident, and Uncle Ben took me in. He’s also suffered loss, losing Aunt Denise a few years later.
We’ve always been close, stuck together through thick and thin, and he has always supported me.
However, what he has never supported is Briggs Kerrigan.
In fact, it was his worst nightmare.
I swear, even the church had a song specifically made for Briggs one year when he practically fought every boy in school at least once.
There was always talk within the church—the only church in Magnolia Ridge—about how troubled he was, but it was quickly forgiven because he’d mow Mrs. Clara’s lawn every Thursday for free after her sons went to college.
He fixed the church steps one year, which earned him a lot of praise and unwanted attention, and Briggs always had this way to make the town love him, even though he terrorized half the people in it.
Kinda like how he does with baseball.
“You’re jumpier than a deer in huntin’ season,” Uncle Ben vouches back with a bit of amusement in his tone. “Ya okay?”
“Yep!”
That only makes his face skew before he perks one suspicious eyebrow. “Ya didn’t forget to make my brown butter maple pecan pies, did ya?”
Now, I’m the one twisting my face. “Of course not. You’re as predictable as gas station coffee tasting like regret.” I smile. “Which you’ve been drinking, by the way.”
He scoffs. “That was in my truck before.”
“Yeah?” I place my glass bowl down on the table in front of me and keep my attention on him. “You cleaned your truck out last week.”
“Missed it.”
“Your favorite and only niece serves the best coffee in town, ya know? The same one who makes you popular at your Wednesday night poker.”
Uncle Ben hits me with an exasperated stare. “I don’t know what ya mean. I ain’t been to that gas station since last weekend.”
“Which is when you threw that coffee cup away.”
He rolls his eyes. “Ya pay too much attention to me. I’m gonna add another pie to my card night if ya don’t leave me alone.”
“Uh huh.” I tap my whisk along the edge of the bowl and place it in the sink. “You can swing by at four, I’ll have your pies done.”
“Ya think ya could throw in some of those peaches ’n cream crumble bars, too?”
“What do you think this is? A bakery?”
He chuckles because, well, it is. And the crumble bars go by like hot cakes every Friday because my best friend, Fallon, owns a peach farm, and I get the best and freshest of everything she has to offer.
And I only make them for Fridays because they sell out quickly, and it gives the town something to look forward to during the season.
“You’re pushin’ it, Uncle Ben,” I lightly chide. “I’m workin’ on a new recipe and your pies.”
“Well, good thing I know ya make test batches sometimes, and the boys and I would love to be your test dummies.”
Of course they would.
These men eat sweets like it’s their last day on Earth, and every day is treated as such.
“Doctor Reese will have my butt if he knows y’all have been eatin’ all these sweets.”
Uncle Ben smiles at me. “That’s a well-kept secret, Layla. Been doin’ it for years.”
Same.
Except my sweet addiction has green eyes and shoulders that have no problem lifting and shoving me against a wall.
“Come back at four,” I prompt. “You’ll have your snacks and all the praise you could ever ask for.”
“Thank you, my favorite niece. Been busy this week?”
“Yeah. My truck of supplies won’t be in until Friday, which leaves me back and forth at Georgie’s until then.”
He frowns. “That’s not ideal. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. It’s right down the street, and I don’t need much. It gets me outside to breathe in some fresh air.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“If you make me a list, I can stock ya up.”
“I’m managing fine, Uncle Ben, really. Thank you.”
“Alright. But if ya change your mind—”
“Layla Jean!” a female voice suddenly scolds me, turning mine and Uncle Ben’s attention toward the front of the kitchen. “You did not tell me that Brigg—erton was on.”
My best friend, Fallon—God bless her—immediately changes up what she was about to say the moment her eyes fall on my uncle.
You did not tell me that Briggs was in town.
That’s what she wanted to say.
And even she knows it’s not a topic of conversation in front of Uncle Ben. That he has never been a fan of my longtime crush, and he’s made it known so many times, that it’s ingrained in our heads for life.
“Hey, Uncle Ben!” she greets as she strides deeper into my kitchen. “I thought you were banned from the back of the kitchen.”
He tsks and shakes his head. “That was one time.”
“Twice,” Fallon and I correct at the same time as she sidles up beside me.
“It was the pecan pie incident of 2023, wasn’t it, Lay?” Fallon adds.
“It was,” I confirm. “He cleaned me right out.”
Uncle Ben sends a weak scowl between the two of us, bouncing it back and forth because, with the two of us together, he’s unmatched. “I didn’t know it was for pies.”
“So I carry pounds of pecans around to snack on?” I press because my uncle knows damn well I do not.
My snack of choice is peppered jerky and lemonade. I had to keep the Southern belle in there somehow.
“You two ladies are a royal pain in my behind—” He waves a dismissive hand and begins toward the back exit. “—and I’ll let y’all gossip about Lord knows who or what.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a who,” Fallon mutters before she shouts at him, “Bye, Uncle Ben!”
“Don’t bye me,” he scolds, pushing the door open and allowing it to slam closed on his own.
That’s when my best friend immediately turns to the side, clutches my triceps to spin me with her, and faces me head-on.
“Briggs Kerrigan is here.”
I feel my body deflate because, yeah. “I know.”
Her gorgeous sky blue eyes widen in pure shock. She was, by far, the biggest fan of our non-existent relationship. However, that’s just because she’s always thought Briggs was hot. Not because he was good to me or for me, but because he “has a nice ass”.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just found out thirty minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you text me?”
“Because he ambushed me, Fal. I’m still trying to figure out what I just saw.”
Fallon loosens her grip on me and gives me this saucy little grin. “Girl, you saw what that man looks like. You’ve been seein’ what that man looks like.” She narrows her eyes. “Then you dropped it.”
“I didn’t drop it,” I scoff. “It had to end.”
“Did it? Why?”
“No.”
“Layla, that man was obsessed with you.”
“Fallon, that man just wanted to screw me and have his fun. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t that deep.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was deep.” I hit her with an exasperated stare, which gets Fallon to smack her lips together and pull at the tips of some of her curly red hair.
“You needed to spell it out for him, Lay. He’s a country boy, for God’s sake.
They’re special. Ya need to get the paper and crayons out sometimes, it’s okay. ”
“It’s always been more than that,” I reply. “You know that.”
Fallon twists her lips, not appearing like she wants to agree, but she has no other choice.
Briggs’s mother died when he was eight, something we share in common.
His father spiraled, loved up on his two sisters, but he never could connect with Briggs.
I think he blamed him for his wife’s death.
She was on her way to pick him up from baseball practice and had a massive heart attack out of nowhere.
Regardless of whether she was going to pick up Briggs or not, it still would’ve happened.
His father drank, leaned heavily on his sisters for emotional support, but he distanced himself from Briggs. Then he developed congestive heart failure with all the stress and drinking.
It’s a story.
“So he didn’t know how to be a proper boyfriend,” Fallon defends. “All the signs were there.”
“He only began actin’ as if he liked me when Cruz started coming around.”
My best friend shrugs. “Men don’t like it when their territory is being stepped on.”
“I’m not Switzerland.”
“You acted like it.”
“To keep the peace.”
“Layla, you did not keep the peace between Cruz and Briggs. You helped keep that rivalry so big that the town still talks about it. And, the insane part, no one knows you were behind it.”
I scowl. “Boys’ egos. Nothing more.”
“Then why did Briggs knock Cruz’s two front teeth out in our junior year? Why did Cruz kiss you out in the open when he took you to the Sweetheart Ball like he was goin’ marry you straight out of graduation?”
“I can’t speak for any of them when I wasn’t them.”
“But you continued to see him. Every time Briggs would practically beg you to come out, you did. He fucked you until you couldn’t see anymore—”
“Fallon,” I scold, lightly slapping her forearm. “Do you seriously mind?”
“Not at all. You know they’re both suspended, right?
That this so-called rivalry you won’t claim is still going on is still going on.
In the major leagues, Layla. Those two idiots can’t keep their hands off each other half the time when they play.
It’s headlines. People go specifically to that game in case it breaks out into a fight with them.
It’s like a WWE match…but with bats…and balls. ”
Yeah, I know.
I may have Briggs blocked from my phone, but I still get the ESPN reports.
“He broke Cruz’s arm this time.”
I know my expression speaks volumes because Briggs’s actions are wildly inappropriate and insane. “This needs to stop.”
“Then tell Briggs you’re not interested, and he doesn’t need to fight Cruz over whatever. Obviously, you datin’ Cruz is still a thing.” She lowers her voice a bit when she adds, “And the dozens of alleged stray balls that just happened to hit Briggs at the plate.”
Crap.
I stare at my blackberry pie filling. “He did it again, didn’t he?”
“Did what?”
“Hit him at the plate.”
Fallon doesn’t answer that right away, but I know the answer. While Briggs has been trying to calm down—whether it’s for my sake or not—Cruz has not. And it’s not like Briggs can get away from him because Cruz is a highly sought-after pitcher, and you just can’t dodge that.
“Yeah,” Fallon finally says. “Almost got him in the head this time.”
“How many times?”
“What?”
I squeeze my wooden spoon a little harder. “How many times did he try for his head?”
“Four. In one game.”
“He keeps targetin’ me, Short Stop. How many times do you want me to get clobbered by this guy?”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?”
“His whole team was screaming for him to hit me,” he carps out on the other line. “This shit is gettin’ to be like dodgeball. Except with a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball straight at your head.”
He’s doing it on purpose.
I know Cruz. He’s trying to rile up feelings again between him and Briggs and keep the rivalry alive.
“Give me a number,” Briggs says suddenly. “How many times?”
“How many times, what?”
I wish I were there with him. I wish I could calm him down and be a support system.
“How many times can he try to hit me before I hit him back?”
I don’t want him to get into a fight at all. However, I don’t want him to just stand there and become a target either.
I sigh. “Twice?”
“Three,” Briggs says on the other side of the phone. “I can deal with three.”
“Briggs, no way—”
“I love you, Short Stop, and I’m serious about us. I can do three before I hit him and piss you off.”
“You’re not going to piss me off if he keeps tryin’ to give you a head injury, Briggs.”
“Then I should’ve stuck with two.”
My fingers come up to my temples, and Fallon nestles into my side, pulling me into her body for comfort.
“You doing this for you?” she mutters. “Or for Uncle Ben? Or are you punishing Briggs for what he did?”
“I dunno anymore,” I emit honestly. “Uncle Ben still hates him. But I’m a grown-ass woman, he can’t keep tellin’ me what to do.”
“Right,” she agrees, bobbing her head. “We know Uncle Ben wants to protect you. But, with Briggs, I think it’s his way of protectin’ you.
God only knows what Cruz has said. I think…
I think he needs patience with someone who understands he’s not your normal country boy with a lovin’ mama and a daddy who raised him just right. He has no one, but he had you, Lay.”
My heart shatters a little at her words and the memories of Briggs spending Christmases alone with his sisters while his father was passed out. How he never got freshly baked cookies or a homemade birthday cake.
I made him one once.
Chocolate with rainbow sprinkles and strawberries.
He said it was his favorite.
I thought he was lying.
However, it didn’t stop me from using him as a guinea pig when I’d bake at home. I’ve always loved baking, and it’s why I went to community college and opened Buttercup & Brioche.
And it’d always be a place Briggs could get a new dessert he had never had before.
“Eight days, Lay,” Fallon quips through the silence of my thoughts. “This could be the best eight days of your life or complete misery.”
“I’m going with the latter.”
“I dunno,” she coos. “I have a feelin’ something crazy is goin’ to happen.”
I hope not.
Because the last thing I want to do is upset Uncle Ben and get him all riled up.
And my heart.