20. Layla
layla
. . .
The morning sun’s radiance spills across his kitchen with a natural brightness, sunrays warming the edges of the farmhouse table.
An open window carries the scent of damp earth and a faint trace of smoke from a neighbor’s early burn pile.
A gentle draft drifts through the room, brushing the loose sleeves of my gray pajama set.
The cotton fabric feels soft against my skin, comfortably oversized, and for once, I don’t feel the need to adjust myself to fit someone else’s idea of me.
My laptop sits open in front of me, the cursor blinking patiently in the middle of a paused frame from footage I’ve shot this trip.
I’m supposed to be editing, but it’s difficult to concentrate when the smell of strong coffee and freshly washed pine floors stands in quiet competition with my focus.
Grabbing the iced coffee Reed made for me earlier, I take a sip, savoring the brown sugar and vanilla.
It’s the perfect mix of sweet, without overpowering the coffee flavor. The cool liquid slides down my throat, easing the tension that built up overnight.
The pitter-patter of rain cooling my skin. Reed’s uneven breath. His rough hand brushing my hair aside, and I can still feel the warmth of his fingertips. The way he looked at me was like I was the most beautiful woman in the world, and I wish he’d keep looking at me.
However, this guilt is consuming me.
Pulling my sleeves further over my hands, I immerse myself in the soft cotton.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. I shouldn’t be enjoying his company as much as I am, and I especially shouldn’t be lusting after a man who sees me as a person, not as dollar signs.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I don’t even need to look; my stomach already knows who it is.
Brian
I hate how we left things.
I miss you.
The man who shoved his finger into my collarbone now says he misses me. My stomach twists. I flip the phone screen down and push it away slightly.
Brian’s emotions fluctuate daily. One minute, it’s apologies; the next, it’s threats. My favorite is when he’s sweet to me because he wants something.
The emotional pendulum never calms down.
I swallow hard, the coffee suddenly sour in my throat.
God, why does guilt always taste like I owe him something?
Before the familiar dread can grow inside me, a cabinet clicks shut in front of me, pulling me out of my spiral.
He moves around the kitchen, planting himself in front of his porcelain farmhouse sink as he rinses the skillet from breakfast, and places it on the drying rack without making unnecessary noise.
The atmosphere feels peaceful in a way that’s unfamiliar to me. Muscles that are usually conditioned to flinch at every sudden sound find nothing to respond to here.
“You’ve been staring at that same frame for ten minutes,” he says, his tone gentle, not teasing.
I close my laptop halfway and keep my fingertips resting on its edge. “I’m distracted.”
He nods once, as if he understands more than I admit. He picks up two travel mugs from the counter and fills them with the freshly brewed pot. He places one in front of me, no words, just a steady offering.
I don’t think I need any more caffeine, but who am I to say no?
“I think you need a break,” he says. He slides the mug a little closer with a quiet gesture that feels more intimate than it should. “And I know exactly where we should go.”
I lift my eyes to him. “Where’s that?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. His posture remains relaxed, but there’s a hint of attentiveness behind it.
“We’ve got several stops,” he explains. “A whole morning of not thinking about anything except what’s right in front of you.”
I look down at my hands, where they wrap around the warm mug, the steam blurring the edges of my vision for a moment. My chest tightens, not quite painfully, more as a reminder of how long it’s been since anyone asked what I might need.
I close my laptop fully and slide it away from me.
My phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look.
Pushing myself to stand, the chair legs softly brush the floor, and he watches my movement without moving into my space or away from it.
“If you want,” he adds after a brief pause, “I can give you five minutes to change.” His attention flickers once to my pajama sleeves before returning to my eyes.
He doesn’t comment on them—no smirk, no expectation—just an offer of privacy and comfort. The simplicity of that respect nearly unravels me.
“Five minutes is perfect,” I manage.
As I walk toward the hallway, my bare feet press into the hardwood floor, and the house breathes around me; soft, sturdy, lived-in. Near the wall that opens up to the hallway, I stop and glance over my shoulder.
He’s already turned away to rinse the coffee spoon, giving me space without making me feel abandoned. He pretends to focus on his task, but I can still sense the tenderness behind the pretense.
I observe my surroundings, the quiet patience of his presence, the sunlight filtering through the large windows, the day gently unfolding before us, and something in my heart flutters.
Hope is a fragile yet frightening thing, especially when it shows up where fear once lived.
I take another breath, steadying myself, and push open the bedroom door to get ready.
For once, I’m not performing for random people online, showcasing my curated, fake relationship and life.
I’m allowed to simply exist.
And that is a change I’m not sure how to handle.
The drive into Opal Springs is nothing like the quiet, sprawling landscape we left behind.
As the buildings come into view, the open fields give way to stadium lights and large vinyl banners advertising the upcoming rodeo finals.
Music drifts from open restaurant patios, mingling with the layered noise of laughter, distant cheers, and conversations overlapping as tourists spill down the sidewalks, iced lemonades in hand and shopping bags swinging at their sides.
A large marquee outside an arena flashes red letters in scrolling text.
Opal Springs Ice Dome; Renegades’ Home Game Thursday
Street vendors line one side of the main street, selling handmade leather goods, sequined rodeo belts, and small jars of local honey.
He navigates through the slow traffic with practiced patience, his hand steady on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his knee in tune with a country song spilling from a truck beside us.
He pulls into a parking space along a row of lively storefronts. The shops are painted in cheerful colors—deep plum, sun-washed teal, old-fashioned brick facades with fresh signage.
A crowd gathers outside a souvenir store selling Opal Springs Rodeo merchandise, their voices rising with excited debate over which T-shirt design is best.
We step out of his truck, our footsteps in sync as we fall into stride side by side.
Reed guides me to a shop with a door painted in fresh sage-green. A hand-painted sign hangs above it.
The Wildflower Palatte.
I squeal with excitement, pulling out my camera to film. “Really?!”
A faint smile curves around the corner of his mouth. “Really, really.”
He opens the door for me, guiding me inside, the ghost of his hand on my lower back.
The shop smells faintly of linseed oil and fresh paper—a calming scent after the electric buzz outside. Shelves run along the walls, filled with tubes of paint that catch the light like tiny gems. Smooth canisters of brushes stand in perfect rows, with bristles fanned out like flower petals.
Reed stands a few steps behind me, watching my reaction instead of the shelves. His hands slip casually into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, voice quiet, in contrast to the liveliness outside.
“Pick whatever you want,” he says.
I stare at him, genuinely thrown. “Whatever I want? Reed, this stuff isn’t cheap.”
He shrugs calmly, his gaze steady. He doesn’t attempt to lighten the moment with humor or soothe me with excuses. He stands by what he says.
“Anything,” he repeats.
I turn toward the nearest aisle, filming the different shades of colors they have to offer. Acrylics in deep, earthy tones line the top shelf. Smaller tubes, vivid and punchy, colors that seem to pulse with life, filling the second row.
Running my fingertips along a shade of honey-yellow, my breath hitches as I remember the last time I honestly sat down and painted, doing something for myself. Wanting things for myself has become complicated.
I select a set of acrylics that remind me of Reed’s backyard—wild pine green, smoky horizon gray, and a muted rose like the reflection of sunset on a wild horse’s coat.
Reed doesn’t look at the different hues of paint; he’s looking at me.
“I’ll get these,” I say softly, pocketing my camera to stay in the present.
I hesitate, shifting the box in my hands before finding the courage to look at him again.
“But only if you paint with me.”
His eyes warm just a little, a subtle shift that might go unnoticed by anyone else.
He nods in agreement.
That simple agreement settles somewhere deep in my chest, as though a knot loosens without me noticing.
He takes the paint set from me with a slight nod and heads toward the front counter, his stride steady, the box held carefully in his hand.
I follow slowly as my fingers brush along the edge of a display of stretched canvases.
The clerk at the register greets us with a bright, friendly smile.
Reed places everything I picked up on the counter, including two canvases, the acrylic set I chose, and a pair of brushes with smooth, tapered handles designed for precision.
I reach for my wallet, and his hand gently rests on mine. He shakes his head once, firm but not unkind.
“I’ve got it.”
“Reed, I can at least split—”
“No.” His voice is low, not sharp, but it carries finality. He tilts his head down slightly, meeting my eyes with a look that asks for my trust, not my argument. “Let me do this.”
The clerk busies herself adjusting something in the computer system, giving us a moment of privacy.
I swallow and lower my hand, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort wash over me.