Chapter 36
Time to go home
Layla
The rain taps relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Tina’s downtown Seattle office, streaking the glass in silver ribbons.
The city below is a gray blur—tall buildings disappearing into low clouds, taillights bleeding red on wet streets, the constant hum of traffic fourteen floors down.
Inside, the conference room smells like fresh coffee and printer ink, the long table scattered with manuscript pages, marketing mockups, and half-empty water bottles.
My hands are folded in my lap, fingers twisting the strap of my bag.
“Well, Layla, I have to say this novel was amazing,” Walt says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “My wife and I read it in two days. Couldn’t put it down.”
I nod, small, automatic, my smile tight and practiced. The words should feel good. They don’t. They bounce off me like rain on a tin roof.
Tina and the team launch into the next phase: pre-orders, promo schedule, cover reveals, tour dates.
Their voices layer over each other—excited, professional, fast. I hear fragments—“targeted ads,” “BookTok strategy,” “launch party in New York”—but it all blurs into white noise.
My eyes are fixed on the window, watching rain trace slow paths down the glass.
The drops remind me of Tennessee storms—thicker, warmer, drumming on the barn roof while Cole and I sat on the porch swing, his arm around me, thumb brushing my shoulder.
I love him. It’s killing me. Every second being away from him feels like someone carved out a piece of my chest and forgot to stitch it back.
He doesn’t have to say it. I know he does.
He proved it with everything he did for me, the pool he built just because I teased about wanting one, the coffee left on my porch at dawn, the way he ran into a burning barn to pull me out, the way he held me like I was the only thing keeping him steady.
I left to prove a point. All I did was hurt myself.
“Layla?”
I blink. Tina’s voice cuts through the fog.
“Hello… Layla? You’re zoning out on us,” she says in that sing-song tone she uses when she’s trying to be gentle but still wants your attention.
“Yeah. Blue. Perfect.” I murmur, still staring out the window, not really seeing anything.
“Are you okay?” Tina asks, brow creasing.
I take a deep breath—the air tastes like a recycled office and rain. I turn to face her, then the rest of the team. Their faces are expectant, confused.
“I’m sorry, Tina. I can’t do this.”
The room goes quiet. Walt’s pen stops tapping. Someone shifts in their chair.
“I need to go home.”
Tina blinks. “You just got home.”
“No.” I bite my lip, feel the sting of it. “Home to Tennessee.”
I stand up, slow, deliberate, grabbing my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. My laptop and notebook are already inside, heavy against my hip. I walk toward the door, heels clicking on the polished floor. Halfway there, I turn back.
“I don’t have to be here, in Seattle, to be an author. If you don’t want to publish it, I will do it on my own—from my home in Tennessee—”
“What is in Tennessee?” Walt asks, genuinely puzzled.
I smile—small, real, the first real one in days.
“My family.”
I turn and walk out. As the door swings shut behind me, I say over my shoulder:
“I’ll be waiting on an email.”
The hallway is quiet except for the echo of my heels and the muffled sound of rain. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just keep walking—past reception, past the elevators, straight to the exit.
The biggest smile ever is on my face and I feel a tear slide down my cheek. But all I see is him.
The airport is crowded, too bright, too loud, too many voices overlapping.
My knee bounces under the gate seat, restless energy I can’t burn off.
I stare at the boarding pass on my phone: Seattle to Atlanta, Atlanta to Knoxville, then a rental car drive to Clover.
Two flights. Too many hours. Not enough time.
When it’s finally time to board, I settle into my window seat—cold vinyl against my thighs, the faint smell of recycled air and coffee.
I pull out my laptop, open a blank document.
Emotions like this deserve to be on a page.
Maybe a new book. Maybe a novella. Who knows.
But he is my inspiration. He is what motivates me. I’ll be in his arms tomorrow.