14. Stetson
STETSON
“The flooring is all set, and everything is primed,” I reply to Layla as we lay in bed––the bed I’ve woken up in every morning the last two weeks. “Now’s the part where dating a painter comes in hand.”
“Wall colors?” Excitement fills her voice. She shifts and rests her leg across my waist.
“You’ll have to help me choose.” I kiss her head. “Or you can paint murals on all the walls.”
Layla’s eyebrows scrunch together as she looks up. “That might be a bit much indoors.”
“I want to think of you every second you’re not by my side.” I’ve already looked into plans for building her a studio steps from our front door.
“You can hang a photo of us.” She pats my chest. “I'm already your phone lock screen.”
“When the place is ready, how would you feel about moving in?” She stills. So does my heart when her cheeks suck in. This was not the reaction I was anticipating.
“That’s thoughtful, Stetson.” Her eyes meet mine with apology.
“And I love all the time we’ve been spending together.
I know my apartment isn’t much to others, but it’s changed my life for the better.
” Her voice wavers. “It’s not that I don’t want to move in, but I worked hard to get here and I’m not ready to let it completely go. ” I smile gently.
“No rush, baby.” My phone dings on the nightstand closest to Layla. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.” Another ding. “Do you mind handing me my phone?”
“Oh, it’s Karli…” she chirps.
“What’s she need?” Layla swipes the screen. Her face falls before turning the screen for me to read. “Is she okay?” I sit up. “The baby?”
Karli: Why does social media have your name as an ATTENDEE for the upcoming western event THIS WEEKEND!?
Shit. I need to cancel that. I agreed a while back thinking maybe Layla would join me, then her gallery got pushed to the same weekend. My manager will have to figure this out.
Karli: I may have spent the past hour vomiting, but I’ll find strength to twist your balls off.
“Layla, I’m not going. I forgot to cancel.”
“I didn’t know you agreed to attend.” She pulls the sheet over her. “Go. I’ll be busy talking with clients anyway.” Layla stares at the screen instead of me. “People are counting on you.”
“You are counting on me.” Taking the phone from her, and setting it aside, I cup her face. “You’ve worked so damn hard for this.”
“You’ve worked hard to be invited to these events.” The defeat in her voice breaks my heart.
“I’m. Not. Going.” Except my words haven’t done the best to match my actions in the past.
“It’s fine.” It’s not because she gets out of bed with the sheet around her. “I need to shower and finalize things for my gallery.” I’m out of bed and behind her. “It’s hard to focus with you here anyway.” Her arms cross, guarding herself as she leans against the doorframe.
“Are you...kicking me out?” My jaw tightens. The lump in my throat denies my swallow.
“I am.” I admire the strength in her voice, but damn if it doesn’t feel like being thrown off a bull two seconds in. She places a kiss on my lips, but steps away when my hands lift to cradle her face. “Please be gone by the time I’m out of the shower.” Air whooshes out of me.
“We’re not…over.” Shit isn’t ending this easy. I won’t let it.
“No. But I’ve spent the past eight months setting boundaries for myself and healing to make sure I curate the life I want.” Me accepting the event without telling her, for the second time around, crosses all the boundaries she’s set.
“I know, Layla.” She holds my eyes, taking a deep breath of disappointment.
“I told you to take a deal awhile back, and you gave a whole speech about being done and how you’d be there for me.” She’s one hundred percent right. “Now I’m not the most confident in your words.”
“Layla, I lov––” She cuts me off, her finger pressing to my lips.
“Now is really not the time for that, Stetson.” The firmness in her voice hits hard, dragging my heart down to my gut.
“I’m gonna be there for you.” Sadness fills her eyes before walking to the bathroom.
“Do whatever you need to do.” There goes the tightening in her voice, holding back emotion she doesn’t want me to witness.
I need to prove I’m a man of my fucking word.