Layla – Present
My alarm goes off at four. I hit the snooze button for the third time before I finally decide I need to get up. It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t stayed up so late working on recipes.
I tap the base of the lamp beside me, and it lights up. I like that lamp. I don’t know why they ever stopped making them like that. I think I might have to take it with me.
Blinking a few times as my eyes adjust to the brightness of the room, I sigh. I’ve got thirty minutes before Jacob gets here to help me finish painting the bakery.
I already regret refusing his offer to let his men do it. They did everything else, but painting was the one thing I wanted to do with Jacob. I’ve stared at different shades of lilac paint for the better part of two days, and now I think I’ve changed my mind about the color scheme.
I force my feet to the floor, shuffle through the open bedroom door, across the hall, and into the bathroom. Mable likes us to sleep with both doors open at night. Apparently, that’s how she used to do it when her daughter still lived at home.
We end up talking until we both fall asleep most nights.
I’ve lived here for a little over two months, and there still hasn’t been a rental come up that I liked. Nearly all of Jacob’s clients are long-term renters, and even the few places that have come up were too far inland. I want to be close to the bakery.
Thankfully, Mabel says she likes the company.
I finish brushing my teeth, get changed, and head downstairs, trying not to make too much noise.
When I get to the bottom step, I can already see Jacob setting out the paint supplies.
“I’m not going to lie, I’m looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow morning,” I say as my foot hits the last step.
He looks over his shoulder and smirks.
I walk behind the white counter. With the lights on, the multicolored specks in the countertop glisten. I start making coffee while Jacob pours out the paint.
“It shouldn’t take us long this morning,” he tells me. He stands on the customer side of the counter and leans against it.
I pass him a mug.
“I can’t believe it’s almost finished.”
With a team of workers here every day, it came together fast. Painting is the last thing to do. The tables and chairs arrive next week, along with the outside sign. After that, I really need to start thinking about an opening date.
I yawn.
“You can go back up to bed. I’ll finish this,” Jacob offers.
I shake my head. “No. I want to help.” I yawn again, mid-sip. “I’ll be fine once the caffeine kicks in.”
He sets his mug back on the counter. I push mine next to his before we start pulling out the rollers and brushes.
Jacob does the cutting in. We learned yesterday that I don’t have the patience, or the hand, for a straight line.
I roll the lilac paint onto the white walls, the soft pastel hue sweeping across each surface. After the first coat, we step back, and I look at it. All of it.
It’s coming together exactly how I always pictured. The white counter tops with the flecks of color, the case where the day’s bakes will go, the industrial coffee machine, the same brand I used in Louisiana.
It’s becoming real.
I wipe at the tears that come before I can stop them. There’s so much of me in this room. So many dreams stitched into every detail. It’s impossible not to think about how I got here.
Jacob puts his arm around me, his hand gently holding the back of my head to his chest.
“Sorry,” I sob. “It’s just… this is…”
I trail off, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling without making it heavier. I don’t want him to think I’m not grateful. I am. I love him. I love Ben too.
It’s this overwhelming mix of emotions that feel wrong and right, upside down and inside out, all at once.
It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, the pain of losing Ben moves right along with it. In some ways, I’m grateful, it reminds me of him, of us, and everything we had. But sometimes, like now, it feels too fresh.
And I feel guilty. Because I have every reason to be happy. And yet, I’m crying.
“It’s okay,” Jacob says softly.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, trying to steady my shaking voice.
He kisses my forehead, then guides me to a chair. He lifts the water bottles we’d left there onto the table, then kneels down in front of me.
“Talk to me.” He rests his hands on my thighs.
“I…” I pause, voice trembling. “I miss him.”
I look everywhere but at him. I know that’s probably the last thing he wants to hear.
But he reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“You don’t have to hide that from me. You know that, right?”
I glance down at our hands and squeeze back.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine.
“This was as much his dream for you as it is yours,” he says gently. “I don’t ever want you to hide that from me. I don’t expect you to. I want you to talk about him.” He brushes away another tear. “I love every single thing about you, Layla. And nothing you ever tell me will change that.”
I put my arms around his neck and press my lips to his. It’s a kiss that’s full of raw, unyielding emotion, tender, timid, and exactly what I need.