14. Layla
layla
. . .
My suitcase sits open on the bed, half full of folded clothes and half full of nerves. The air feels heavy, like it always does when Brian’s in one of his moods.
He’s pacing back and forth across our apartment. “So you’re leaving,” he finally says, “Another trip.”
I keep my eyes on the pile of jeans in front of me. “It’s work, Brian.”
“Work.” He laughs softly. “Work this, work that. Must be nice to do whatever the fuck you want.”
My eyes still don’t meet his as I fiddle with my packed clothes, anything to keep my hands busy. “You knew about this weeks ago. It’s for my—”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t start with your ‘my page’ crap. Just answer me one thing.”
He moves before I can prepare, crossing the room in three long strides.
My back hits the dresser, the edge digging into my lower spine. His hand quickly rises, his palm flat against my collarbone as his finger presses into my skin, right where the bone meets flesh.
It hurts; I feel pain blooming underneath, and all he’s doing is pressing harder.
“Have fun on your little work trip,” he says, the words dripping with venom. “You better not be cheating on me, Layla.”
Pain radiates with his touch. I flinch, my hands trembling by my sides. His eyes are dark and unrecognizable.
He does it constantly; flirting, DMing models, coming home with lipstick stains on his collar, like I wouldn’t notice.
But somehow, I’m the one being accused.
I mean, Layla, you are emotionally cheating. Fuck.
“Brian, you’re scaring me,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, eyes flickering like he’s debating whether to keep pushing, but he scoffs instead. “Oh, please. Don’t make me the bad guy. You love playing the victim.”
He steps back, his tone already shifting back to casual, careless charm. “Have fun on your little work trip,” he says. “Bring me something nice.”
He stares at me for a beat that feels like forever, then scoffs again.
“And Layla?” he says, stepping back. “Maybe you should be scared.”
His words hang in the air as he turns, grabs his keys, and slams the door so hard the picture frames rattle.
I let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the edge of the dresser.
The spot where he pressed his finger throbs, already tender. I pull down the collar of my shirt, and I see the faint red marks where his finger was pressed, already knowing a bruise is going to form on my delicate skin.
Tears spill before I can stop them. I press my palms to my face, sobbing until I can’t breathe anymore.
When the shaking finally subsides, I go back to packing. One shirt. Then another. My movements are slow, trying to keep myself moving so I can hold myself together.
My phone buzzes on the bed. I sniffle and reach to grab it, the bright light making me wince.
Reed
You leavin’ soon, sunshine?
Truck’s ready. So am I.
I stare at his messages, the ache in my chest loosening just a little. My fingers tremble as I type back.
Layla
Yeah! I’ll be there tonight.
Three dots appear.
Ping.
Reed
Can’t wait to see you.
A tear hits the screen, splashing across his name. I wipe it away with my thumb and swallow the lump in my throat.
I zip my suitcase shut and stare at the very faint bruise already forming under my skin.
God, Layla, grow a pair and leave.
The thought hits hard.
It’s not the first time I’ve said it to myself, and it won’t be the last.
But then the other voice answers, the one that constantly makes excuses for him, the one that is scared to leave despite everything.
He didn’t mean it. He’s just stressed. You know how he gets.
I tell myself today is the day I’ll leave, but when that day comes, it’s either a good or bad day with Brian. On good days, I see a glimpse of the man I met in high school: sweet, charming, loving. On his bad days, I see someone I don’t recognize—a monster—and he’s progressively getting worse.
He verbally and emotionally abuses me, but tonight he physically hurt me, and I’m scared it’s going to get worse if he gets mad again.
I can do it. I can do it. I. Can. Do. It.
But it’s different when you’re inside of it, when the person holding the match keeps whispering that the fire’s your fault.
I’ll find the courage, but right now, I’m running.
I’m tucked into a corner by Gate 14, my oversized hoodie pulled over my hair, pretending I’m just another traveler instead of a liar.
My suitcase sits between my boots, cherry-vanilla perfume leaking faintly from the zipper. I’ve already checked in, no turning back now.
My phone pings with messages from my group chat with the girls.
Catalina
bitch, i miss you. when can you come and visit?
Layla
soon! i’ve just been busy with collabs and brian
Amelia
ugh you suck, you need to meet leo
Catalina
you hate us, its fine, miss you sm
Layla
miss you guys more, i love you
I press send and keep my gaze fixed on the screen. My throat tightens, and guilt creeps in. They’d kill me if they found out I went out there and didn’t see them, but I’m running away to see him.
Aimlessly scrolling through my camera roll, I pretend to be busy, but every reflection, the window glass, the phone screen, reveals the same woman I’m trying not to recognize—the one with tired eyes and a bruise just below her collarbone, hidden beneath a layer of cotton.
The intercom crackles overhead, taking me out of my internal spiral.
Flight 612 to Nashville is now boarding Group 1-3.
That’s me.
My phone vibrates in my hand, making my breath get caught in my throat when I see who’s calling me.
I freeze, then swipe to answer before I can overthink it.
“Hey?” I say, too softly.
“Hey.”
The deep cadence of his voice hits me hard, making it hard to breathe.
It’s comforting, deep, and laced with a Southern accent, a kind of voice that stays with you long after the call is over. Behind him, I hear crickets and the soft hum of the night.
“You boardin’ yet?”
“Just about to,” I murmur. “They’re calling my row.”
“What time do you get in?”
I glance at my ticket. “Eleven p.m., your time.”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll be there.”
My chest tightens. “Reed, you don’t have to, it’s late, and I can just—”
He cuts me off, “Layla.”
The way he says my name, it’s a tether pulling me back down to something solid.
“I said I’ll be there.”
I swallow, my voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”
“Text me when you land.”
“I will.”
“Good. See you soon, sunshine.”
When the line clicks, the airport sounds flood back in—boarding calls, chatter, the hollow scrape of rolling suitcases—but now they sound muted.
I stare at my reflection in the terminal window as the lights outside blur into gold streaks against the darkness.
For the first time in years, my pulse feels like mine again.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, grab my carry-on, and step into the boarding line.
Four and a half hours in the air.
And a man waiting on the other end who calls me sunshine like it’s a promise.