Layla – Present
“Ben, someone’s at the door.”
I reach out to nudge him awake. He’s always been a heavier sleeper than me.
“Ben?”
My hand searches the bed. Did he have training early? I sit up. It’s still dark outside. Did I forget? I run my fingers through my hair. His gray hoodie is wrapped around me.
And then I remember.
The sting in my throat comes fast. The tears choke me before I can breathe. I want to pull the covers over my head and block out the world, but whoever is at the door isn’t giving up.
My feet hit the hardwood. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, blotchy face, red eyes, hair a shade darker than blonde from days, or maybe even weeks without a wash. I can’t remember the last time I showered. It doesn’t feel important.
I find a pair of shorts from a pile on the floor and pull them on. I don’t know how long they’ve been there either.
At the door, I check the peephole and deflate.
“Hi, Max.” I pull the door open.
“Layla.”
His eyes scan me head to toe, then he sighs.
“Can I come in?”
I step aside, glancing around the living room as he does. There’s a TV dinner molding beside Ben’s mug on the coffee table. I cringe.
Max moves a cushion and sits on the couch.
“Please, sit down.”
“Is everything okay?” I lean against the armrest.
He grimaces.
“I’m going to be straight with you, Layla, because that’s how I’ve always been with you and B—”
He stops. Regret flashes across his face. He inhales and meets my eyes again.
“You’re four months behind on rent. You haven’t paid since December.”
Four months.
That can’t be right.
“That’s not, it can’t be that long.”
“I figured you’d need some time after…” He pauses. “But I can’t hold off any longer.”
I look around again. “What time is it?”
He frowns.
“Eight.” Then adds, “In the evening.”
He glances around. “It’s April thirtieth.”
April.
I haven’t been paying attention to the days, or weeks, or months. Everything about paying attention to the normal routine of life feels pointless.
It’s all pointless.
I check my phone.
Missed calls from Clark. Texts from Georgia, JJ, and Cara. I’ve ignored them all. I don’t want to see anyone.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“This morning,” I lie.
I have been eating. Just not enough. Not regularly.
He stands and walks toward the kitchen.
“No, don’t go in there, please.”
I chase after him, but it’s too late.
He stands in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the sight. Frozen pizza boxes piled on the stove. A few TV dinners left half eaten. Trash overflowing. The sour milk smell hangs in the air like guilt.
“When was the last time you left the apartment, Layla?”
I don’t answer. I’ve left, for groceries, occasionally. But I don’t like being away for too long.
It feels like I’m leaving Ben behind when I do.
“I’ll get your money,” I say, mostly to end the conversation.
I go to the drawer beside the bed and count the cash.
I’m short by a month and a half.
And this is all I have left from my own savings.
I slide it into an envelope and return. Max is back on the couch, his blue plaid shirt blending into it.
I hand him the envelope.
“This is all I have, Max. Once I start working again, I’ll get you the rest. I promise. I’ll even pay extra if you want.”
I’m not sure how, but I need to keep this apartment.
He looks at me with the same expression he had at the door.
“Layla, I can’t lease you a free apartment. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just need to start working again.” I’ve had missed calls from the bakery. I’m pretty sure I no longer have a job there, but I could always try to see if I can get it back. “I need more time to—”
He rubs along the top of his bald head.
“Have you considered going home?”
“This is my home.” My voice hardens.
“I mean your dad’s. You said he lives out in Rockport, right? That might be good for you. At a time like this, you need your family.”
Ben is my family.
I haven’t seen Dad since he packed my bags in the middle of the night and forced me onto a plane to live in Louisiana with Aunt Fern, almost six years ago.
I was seventeen then. Aunt Fern passed away last year, he didn’t even so much as call to check in on me.
The kind of family I have isn’t the kind to offer comfort.
“That’s not an option.”
He hands me the envelope.
Then he tells me I can have two months to move out.
Two months.
He says it like he’s doing me a favor. But he’s kicking me out of our home. The only home that has ever truly felt like mine.
After Max leaves, I kick over the coffee table in a rage. Ben’s mug smashes against the hardwood floor. I fall to my knees, crawling to it.
“No… no… no… no!”
I pick up the shattered pieces and try to piece it back together. The broken porcelain cuts through my skin. The white mug has drops of my blood on it, and when it won’t fit back the way it was, I rest my head against the cold floor, and I cry.
The tears fall out next to the mess I’ve made of my hands.
And Ben’s mug.
I curl into myself.
Two months.
Two months until another piece of Ben is gone.