27. Layla
LAYLA
He listened.
From the wooden wraparound porch with the swing to the dirt road it sits on, Briggs’s home is everything I imagined and everything I wanted in our home.
Inside are wooden floors with high wooden beams on the ceiling. The walls are white with cream furniture and a view of acres upon acres of land through French doors and another wall of windows.
The sunset beams inside, making it feel warm and cozy but not suffocating. The kitchen is top-tier with double ovens, multitudes of pans hanging over a gigantic island made of white marble and wood, and I haven’t even seen the bedrooms yet.
“This is magnificent,” I say in awe, running the tips of my fingers along the marble as I look out the wall of more windows that give me another view of the property.
Land.
No neighbors.
Just peace, quiet, and beauty.
“Is it everything you ever dreamed of, Short Stop?”
My heart constricts in my chest because it’s equally overwhelming as it is heartfelt. He did all this for me.
For us.
For a future.
A real one.
Even before I finally came clean and practically told the whole town through Cruz that we were married.
Briggs has always had faith in what he wanted, what he’d have, and what we could be together, even when I wasn’t sure.
And how do I compensate for all the things I’ve done to him?
All the doubt and blame?
He deserves a woman who is sure, confident, and unwavering in her decision to have him. I was too young, too naive, and too stupid, and I’ve ruined everything.
“It’s perfect,” I croak, stopping to continue to admire the view.
“Glad you like it.” His hand comes to rest on the countertop to my left, and I mindlessly glance down to find those damn blue bracelets again, wrapped around his wrists.
It’s painful, in a way, that he’s held on so tight, and I let go for him to free fall.
“You should take those off,” I suggest, because I hold no right to this man anymore. Even if it’s not a wedding ring, it’s a statement and a claim on him.
“Take what off?”
He’s so close now that one move, and I know I’m going to be brushing up against him. So I remain as still as I possibly can.
“The bracelets,” I breathe through an unsteady exhale. “There’s just—” I’m suddenly spun around and shoved right back into the spot I was just leaning up against with a very irritated Briggs Kerrigan at my front.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, Layla Jean,” he explains through tight-slitted eyes. “I’m never takin’ these off. Not now, not next year, not a century from now. I’ll be buried with these fuckin’ things on my wrist and not even you will take them from me.”
My lips slowly part through his growing anger. “But—”
“There are no buts located in this conversation. I don’t know what world you live in, but I’m gonna need you to come back to this one.
Mine. The one where I bought this house for you and fully renovated it to every single detail you’ve ever mentioned to me, and the ones I knew you’d like.
This home is for our family, the one we’re gonna have one day.
You’re nothing but mine, and I won’t accept it any other way.
So, until you get it through all your Pinterest recipes and how many pies you need to make for the next day, I’ll be exactly where I am and where I’ll always be. Here.”
He places his palm on my heart, and it’d be impossible for him not to feel how hard and fast it’s beating.
However, he never mentions it.
“How can you be so damn sure when you’ve never sounded so sure of anything?”
He hikes a brow. “I think I’ve shown you, the world, and everyone else in between that I’m serious about baseball. I only have the third-highest RBIs right now in the league and—”
“I’m projectin’,” I cut in. “You’re right…I’m sorry.”
His expression softens a little before his hand reaches up and cups one side of my face. “Get out of your head, Short Stop. Look around. I’m not going anywhere. I haven’t gone anywhere once—”
“You left Magnolia Ridge—”
“Woman, shut the hell up and listen for a damn minute. I told you to get out of your damn head.”
“I am.”
“You’re not. You still haven’t talked to your Uncle Ben, have you?”
“No…” He stares blankly at me. “I’m lettin’ him cool down and for it to settle in. Obviously, we’ll talk about it. He can’t dodge me when I hold all his sugar intake in my hands.”
Briggs doesn’t appear exactly thrilled about it, but he doesn’t push it much further and asks, “And if he still gives you shit for it?”
I lift my shoulders because I can’t change people’s minds. “I’m a grown woman. I can make my own life decisions.”
“Can you?”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes.”
“And what about this specific circumstance should make me believe we’re not gonna keep going around in circles, Layla Jean?”
“Maybe it’s because you won’t divorce me anyway.”
He smirks at that. “True. But when are ya gonna stick up for yourself.”
I lift my chin. “I already have. It just didn’t start with Uncle Ben. It did with Cruz. Thought you’d like that.”
His thumb brushes my cheek before he mutters, “I do. I’d also like to slam his fuckin’ head into a cement wall if he ever talks to you again but I digress. Your uncle’s approval is what’s kept us from livin’ our best lives. I want that, Layla Jean. Give it to me already.”
“Let me talk to him first.” I swallow, nervous all of a sudden. “It’s time. I know it’s been too long. I hear you.”
“That’s good enough for me.” The pad of his thumb slowly drags my lower lip down, and he watches it intently before mumbling, “Let me get you home.”
I exhale when he steps away and rounds the kitchen island, heading for the front door. I study his posture, and he appears relaxed and fine, but I know it’s not good enough.
He wants words and actions.
He needs to know his feelings and emotions are validated.
Briggs Kerrigan deserves to know if he still has a wife.