35. Reed/Layla
reed/layla
. . .
The morning light filters through the curtains, gentle yet harsh.
My bed feels cold. The sheets carry her scent, cherry and vanilla, and I swear if I breathe too deeply, I’ll fall apart.
I sit at the edge of my bed, running my fingers through my hair, feeling the sting of tears welling in my eyes.
My throat burns as I drag my hand over my face, trying to steady the breath that won’t come. “Damn it, Layla…”
The house feels foreign without her.
Her iced coffee glass sits on the counter, the unfinished canvas leans against the wall, and her hair tie lies on the nightstand.
Little ghosts of her everywhere.
I grab my keys from the hook and shove my jacket on. My helmet sits next to hers, where she left it on the bench.
Picking up my helmet and tossing it on, I trace the paint on hers with my thumb. The breath that leaves me isn’t steady.
I finally push open the door, and the cool autumn breeze hits sharply. The sun’s barely up, burning gold over the horizon. Dew clings to the grass, glimmering as if the world is trying to look beautiful just to spite me.
My motorcycle sits where I left it, its black metal catching the light. I swing my leg over, and for a second, I sit there, gripping the bars, staring at the open road stretching out ahead.
I miss her.
The engine roars to life beneath me, rattling through my bones as its vibration hums up my spine as I ease it onto the road.
A cool gust of wind hits my face through the visor the moment I pick up speed.
The fields blur past in streaks of green and gold, and the smell of wet dirt and honeysuckle cuts through the ache.
She’s everywhere out here.
In the way the light hits the trees, in the stretch of sky that still looks half-asleep, and in the damn song that keeps looping in my head.
I blink hard, swallowing the lump in my throat. She’s embedded herself in my veins, and I don’t want to wake up to another sunrise without her.
Blue Moon Ranch comes into view, the wind’s dried the tears I wouldn’t let fall. I turn onto the gravel road toward Carter and Catalina’s, the hum of my bike slowing as I pull into their driveway.
Their farmhouse looks just the same, their porch swing swaying, the faint sound of music inside, and the smell of coffee strong enough to pull you in.
I kill the engine.
For a second, I almost turn back.
Almost.
The front door creaks open, and Carter steps out, wearing his worn wranglers, black boots, black Henley, and his infamous black cowboy hat, holding a coffee mug, squinting against the light.
He takes one look at me and frowns. “You look like shit,” he says.
“Good morning to you, too,” I mutter, pulling off my helmet.
“Didn’t realize you were up this early,” he says. “Something wrong with the bar?”
“No,” I say quietly. “Just needed something.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods toward the door. “Cat’s making breakfast. Come in before she starts yelling about bugs coming in.”
I follow him inside, the smell of coffee and cinnamon wrapping around me like warmth I don’t deserve.
Catalina is standing at the stove, wearing Carter’s oversized tee, a small ghost of her baby bump showing, and her hair tied up as soft morning light hits her face.
She turns and beams when she sees me.
“Reed!” she says, voice bright. “You never come this early unless something’s wrong.”
Everything’s wrong.
She says it like a joke, but her smile falters when she really looks at me.
Carter hands me a mug, the steam curling between us. I wrap my fingers around it just to feel something.
“I met someone,” I say, the words falling out before I can stop them.
That gets Catalina’s attention immediately.
Her eyes widen, her grin blooming. “You what? Who? When? Tell me everything!”
“Darlin’,” Carter warns, but there’s a faint smirk on his face.
I take a slow sip of coffee, the heat burning down my throat. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s always complicated with you, ” she says. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“She’s engaged,” I say quietly.
That kills the sound in the room.
Catalina’s lips part as she drops the wooden spoon she was holding. “Oh!”
“Yeah,” I say, “and she’s been seeing me anyway.”
Carter raises a brow but doesn’t say anything as Catalina leans forward on the counter, her eyes full of questions she doesn’t ask yet.
Catalina’s voice gentles. “And you love her?”
I nod once. “Yeah, I do.”
She reaches across the counter, her hand brushing mine. “Does she make you smile, Reed?”
I stare into my coffee, my throat tight. “Fuck, does she. Just looking at her makes me forget about all the pain I’ve ever gone through.”
Her eyes glisten, not pity, just understanding. “Reed, you can’t just talk like that, you’re going to make me sob.”
I give her a ghost of a smile, taking another sip of my coffee.
Carter sets his mug down beside mine. “You want advice, or you just need to bleed it out?”
“Bleed it out,” I murmur.
He nods once, signaling quiet approval as he squeezes my shoulder.
Catalina squeezes my hand again before pulling away, then turns back to the stove with a sniff.
“Well,” she says softly, “if she’s meant for you, she’ll find her way back. The ones that matter always do.”
I stare down into the dark swirl of coffee, her words echoing somewhere deep in the hollow space she left behind.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe she will.
But for now, I sit here in my brother’s kitchen, the sun pouring through the window, the smell of cinnamon and coffee in the air, trying to believe that love this quiet can still find its way home.
That two souls who are meant to be will always find a way back to each other. No matter the distance or the situation, what’s meant to be will be. And I pray to whatever God that my sweet girl, Layla, will be able to leave and come back to me.
Catalina looks back at me, resting her chin on her hand as she studies me with those sharp yet gentle eyes that see too much.
“I can tell you love her,” she says quietly. “Even if you won’t tell me who she is.”
I huff out a quiet sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t ache. “You always this nosy?”
“I’m pregnant, and I’m a chismosa,” she says dryly, her hand resting on her small bump. “It’s literally my job to know everything.”
That earns a half-smile from me, but it fades quickly. The kitchen hums softly around us, gentle morning light, the kettle hissing faintly on the stove.
My throat tightens up as I drag a hand down my face. “When she’s gone, Cat, it feels like the lights go out. And when it’s quiet, really quiet, it gets hard to be here with my own thoughts.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Reed…”
I shake my head, staring at my hands, avoiding her gaze. “These thoughts come lingering back, and sometimes I—”
Choking up on that thought, I remember when the darkness became too much, and I attempted.
My brothers found me, and they each swore they’d never let me go through this again, but it’s easier said than done when you have these demons living in your head.
The constant gaze directed at me, the whispers of ‘freak’ thrown my way, and the persistent loneliness I endure.
Given what I’ve experienced—the accident and the grief from my mama and Beau—it weighs heavily on me most days.
But Layla, fuck, she brought color into my life.
I shouldn’t say it, but I do. “Sometimes it feels easier to disappear.”
Before I can blink, Catalina is already on her feet, crossing the space between us, and she slaps my arm.
“Don’t say that,” she snaps, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t you ever say that again.”
I look up, startled.
She’s glaring at me with tears shimmering in her eyes. “You think we wouldn’t notice if you were gone?” she says, her voice trembling but fierce. “You think Carter wouldn’t break? You think Maverick wouldn’t fall apart? You think I wouldn’t?”
I try to look away, but she won’t let me.
She steps closer, eyes shining. “You were there, Reed,” she says, softer now. “You saw me in that hospital. You remember what it looked like when I thought I had nothing left to live for.”
“I do,” I whisper.
The memory hits hard; the sterile light, Carter’s cracked voice, Catalina pale against the white sheets, the quiet horror in all of us.
She nods, her voice trembling. “And you were the one who sat by my bed when Carter couldn’t even breathe. You held my hand and told me that sometimes we just need one more sunrise. That’s what you said. One more sunrise.”
I close my eyes, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
“So don’t you dare forget that now,” she says, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare let the dark convince you that it’s easier to stop trying. You matter here. You matter to us.”
I swallow hard, my voice barely audible. “It just gets quiet sometimes.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But the quiet doesn’t mean you’re alone.”
I look up, meeting her gaze as she takes my hand, squeezing it.
“You’ve carried so much for so long,” she says softly. “Grief, guilt, silence. You wear it like armor, but it’s just weight, Reed. You can set it down now.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how.”
She offers a faint, tearful smile. “Then let us help you. Let me help you. You’re family, and family doesn’t let each other disappear.”
Something inside me fractures as I place my hand over hers, anchoring myself in the warmth of her skin.
“You’re too good, Cat,” I murmur.
She sniffs, her eyes wet but steady. “No. I’m just someone who understands what it’s like to almost lose yourself.”
I look down, blink quickly, and she squeezes my hand again.
“You’ll find your way through this,” she says. “And when she comes back, and she will, you’ll be ready to love her without losing yourself in the dark again.”
I nod slowly, the air thick between us, each breath feeling heavier yet somehow lighter too.
She finally releases, wiping her cheek, as she walks over to me, hugging me. “You’re loved here, Reed. I’m always here for you.”
I let out a breath against her shoulder, feeling the tear fall down my cheek.
For the first time since Layla left, I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.
I’m just breathing through this ache, one sunrise at a time.
layla
Brian’s pacing across our living room like a wild animal. He’s holding his phone as the screen is replaying the video on a relentless loop.
That video.
“You really thought this was smart?” he says, shoving his phone to my face.
I cross my arms, pushing his arm. “It’s just content, Brian.”
He laughs, straightening his sleeve as he shoves his phone into his pocket. “Content? Six million views of you parading around some hick town, letting people think you’ve moved on? That’s not content, Layla, that’s suicide for our brand!”
“I’m not our brand!” I snap, louder than I intend. “I’m me!”
His expression hardens. “You’re what I built.”
“You didn’t build me,” I say, turning to walk away. “You just took credit every time I breathed.”
He stops pacing, grabbing my arm quickly, squeezing hard. “What did you say?”
I feel my pulse thumping erratically. “You heard me.”
“Careful,” he warns, letting go of me. “You wouldn’t have half of what you do if it weren’t for me. The brand deals, the followers, people love me; you think any of that happened because you’re special?”
“I think it happened because I worked for it!” I fire back. “Because people actually like me, Brian. Because for once, I was happy!”
He laughs again, but there’s no humor left in it. “Happy?” His free hand moves, gripping my shoulder. “You call this happiness? Running around barefoot, letting some nobody touch you on camera?”
“Don’t,” I say through clenched teeth, getting out of his hold.
He steps closer. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk about him.”
Something flashes in his eyes. “So you are fucking him?”
“Brian, I—.”
He cuts me off by slapping his hand over my mouth, exhaling slowly, and shaking his head. “You really are ungrateful.”
Releasing his grip, he begins gathering items from the coffee table—my notebooks, my makeup bag, my camera—and slams them onto the floor.
He rips up the paper, stomps all over my makeup brushes, and finally destroys my camera.
“This is what you wanted, right? Attention? Congratulations!”
“Stop it!” I say, my voice shaking. “You’re scaring me!”
He turns to me, face flushed, jaw clenched. “Don’t you raise your voice at me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His voice drops low and dangerous. “And you forget who you’re talking to.”
My heart pounds so loud I can hear it in my ears. He moves closer, his cologne sharp enough to sting.
He lifts his clenched fist toward my face, hesitating; thankfully, he lowers his hand, but what he does next is worse.
Gripping my shoulders, he slams me onto the coffee table, where all my belongings are broken.
He’s yelling at me, but I can’t hear anything over my heartbeat pounding in my ears. He kicks me in the side, spits on me, all while saying these terrible things.
“You don’t walk out on me, Layla! You’re not going to leave me!”
I freeze, every muscle taut. My breaths come in shallow pulls, pain spreading in my side, where he touched me.
The hands that once cared for me, savoring the feel of my skin with his, are the same hands that just hurt me.
He scoffs, muttering obscenities under his breath, and leaves without looking back.
I lay there in the aftermath; makeup scattered across the rug, the notebook open on the floor, its pages torn. My hands won’t stop trembling.
It takes me a full minute to realize I’m crying.
A silent cry forces its way out of me, my lungs burning as I try—and fail—to breathe.
I curl into a ball, staring at the mess, trembling. A smear of paint stains my wrist, glowing faintly under the harsh apartment light.
The ache in my chest sharpens. I wipe my face and whisper to the empty room, “You said you’d be looking at the moon.”
“I’m coming back,” I whisper. “I just have to figure out how.”