Chapter 20
Say Something
Layla
We’re all waiting on the steps. Maggie got the call they were almost back, so we decided to greet them.
Of course I want to see Cole. John and Luke are a plus.
But mostly Cole. The porch light is on, casting a warm yellow glow across the gravel, moths fluttering in frantic circles around the bulb.
The night air is cooler now, carrying the faint scent of cut hay from the fields and the distant lowing of cattle settling for the night.
My bare arms prickle with goosebumps, but I’m not cold. I’m buzzing. Embarrassed. Hurt. The tit pic still burns in my mind—the way I sent it drunk and hopeful, the way he just liked it. No words. No “sexy” or “I want you.” Just a heart. And then the phone call.
That laugh. I keep replaying it, wondering if she was pretty, if she touched him, if he smiled at her the way he smiles at me when he thinks no one’s looking.
I need to take a step back before I get hurt.
Which is always me in every past relationship, falling too fast, giving too much, ending up alone with my heart in pieces.
“Oh here they are,” Nancy says, voice soft but excited.
I see headlights cut through the dark, then the crunch of gravel as the big truck pulls up and parks. The trailer rocks gently behind it, horses shifting inside with soft snorts and thuds.
Maggie runs to Luke before he’s even out of the cab. Nancy hurries to John, arms open. I stand here on the steps, heart hammering, hands twisting in the hem of my shirt.
Cole is in the driver seat. Staring at me. Looking me up and down—slow, deliberate, eyes dark under the brim of his hat. My stomach flips. I give a smile. A small, polite, faint smile. Nothing more. I won’t give him more until he gives me something.
He hops down out of the truck, boots hitting gravel with a heavy thud and walks over. I walk down the porch steps to meet him halfway, gravel sharp under my bare feet.
“Hey Scrooge. Congratulations,” I say with a smile, giving him a hug, quick, arms loose, pulling back before he can hold on.
He smiles big, real, crooked, the one that usually makes my knees weak—and nods slowly, letting me go. “Yeah, I want to—”
“Congratulations big bro!” Maggie interrupts, throwing her arms around him, laughing loud.
I stand there for a minute, saying hi to John and Luke. They tell me all about the big win, Molly’s perfect run, the crowd roaring, the buckle so heavy it pulled Cole’s belt down.
I nod, smile, murmur “that’s amazing,” but my eyes keep sliding to Cole talking to his sister.
Why does he have to look so damn good? Dust still on his jeans, shirt wrinkled from the drive, stubble darker than when he left, hair messy under his hat. Why can’t he be ugly? It would make this easier.
I smile and turn around with my hands in my back pockets, content with our small hello. I head back toward my little home—the guest house—kicking gravel as I walk on the path toward the front door. The crunch is satisfying under my feet, grounding.
Then I hear footsteps running behind me, fast, heavy.
“Hey…” he says, breathless.
I don’t stop walking.
“I want to talk to you,” he says, closer now.
“I’m really tired, Cole,” I say, opening the front door. The cool AC rushes out, smelling faintly of lavender and my shampoo.
“So are you going to stay or what?” he asks bluntly. His jaw is tight, clenched, voice rough like he’s been holding it in the whole drive.
And something snaps inside me. I stop, turn, let it out.
“Stay?” My voice cracks high. “You couldn’t even text me back! You’ve been gone for eight days. Eight days, Cole.”
“I know, Layla. That was—”
“You’ve been hot and cold with me. You could’ve invited me to go with you. I could’ve written there. I can write anywhere. You didn’t even ask if I wanted to go. You just left.” I shout, voice shaking, tears already hot in my eyes.
His adam's apple moves as he gulps, not saying anything, just listening. Standing there in the doorway, hat low, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for me but won’t.
“And then your ex was here.”
“My ex?” He interrupts, brow furrowing.
“Skinny. Perfect. Blonde.” The words taste bitter. “Is that what you want? Is that why you’re weird with me? Guys have treated me weird my whole life because I’m fat—wanted to keep me a secret, never wanted to make me the official girlfriend. I’ll be damned if I’m treated that way as an adult.”
He stands there stunned. Meanwhile I can see the family watching this all go down from the front porch of the main house, silhouettes in the light, quiet now and honestly I don’t give a fuck. He’s toyed with me long enough.
“When a girl sends you a titty picture you respond with something other than a like and an I KNOW.” I walk into the house; he stops the door with his boot and follows right in behind me.
I go to the counter, pour myself a shot of tequila, glass clinking hard against the bottle. Throw it back. The burn is sharp, welcome, spreading heat through my chest. I turn around. He’s standing there watching me, eyes dark, jaw still tight.
He nods—like telling me to keep going.
“Anything else?” he asks, voice low.
“Then I hear the girl at the bar and she’s giggling in your ear.” I roll my eyes, fresh tears stinging.
He steps closer, rubbing my arms with his fingers, softly, calluses catching on my skin. He looks me in my eyes so close our lips are almost touching. His breath smells like coffee and road dust and him.
“I want you to stay,” he admits, whispering.
My heart stutters. “I need time.”
He looks at me deep in my eyes for a moment, like he wants to say something, something I might want to hear.
But he doesn’t. He puts his hat on, turns, walks slowly out the door, closing it gently behind him.
The click of the latch is deafening.
I stand there, chest heaving, tequila burning in my throat, tears finally falling hot and fast. I got the good side of Cole while he was here, the breakfasts, the pool, the nights tangled up talking until dawn.
I’ve seen how he could be. What we could be.
And then he left and was different. Distant.
Cold. I don’t deserve that. That was the bad side of Cole, the side that shuts down, that can’t say the words, that leaves me guessing.
I just don’t know how to process this. I need communication. Open communication. I need space.