Chapter 19 Hayes
Hayes
I can’t get her taste out of my mouth.
Not that I want to.
I want so bad to drown myself in her pussy, live on the sweetness she left on my tongue even though it left me horny.
The house is quiet except for the dryer thumping a lost button around the drum and the storm nosing the gutters. The back porch lights are on, casting a glow out onto the pool water, and Layla is relaxing cross-legged on the couch in one of my sweatshirts, curled hands tucked into the sleeves.
So sexy, especially in my clothes.
“When is Benny supposed to be back?” Layla asks, pointing the remote at the TV but not looking at it. She’s looking at me, waiting for my reply.
I check my wrist. “Any second now.”
No time to fuck you again . . .
I’m surprised when the doorbell rings.
I freeze. We don’t use the doorbell. The doorbell is for packages, and restaurant and grocery deliveries—which I usually ignore until the delivery person is gone.
When I open the door, a cool breeze blows in along with Benny, who rushes in, still in her volleyball uniform and knee pads, ponytail swinging.
“Hi, Dad, bye, Dad,” she says as she skids across the hardwood floor, then sees Layla on the sofa and squeals as if she’d forgotten her guest would still be here. “Layla!”
In the doorway stands Skylar.
Huh. Weird.
“Hope I’m not bothering you.” She steps into the foyer without an invitation, a to-go bag clutched in her hand. “Benny insisted on ringing the bell.”
I clear my throat, shifting into Dad Mode before my brain can replay the last ten minutes in Dolby Surround. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Skylar says. “Dinner ran long because the girls decided to debate whether a churro is a pastry or a donut.” She lifts the bag. “We brought you a treat.”
I take the bag she’s holding out and take a peek inside at the clear container with a slice of cheesecake—then back at Skylar. “You didn’t have to bring us anything.”
“I know.” She tucks a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear, eyes flicking from my face to Layla on the couch, then back at me. Her pause feels . . . loaded?
Skylar clears her throat. “I also thought you might want a heads-up.”
My brows rise. “About?”
“So.” She steps closer. “At dinner,” she says carefully, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Benny told Greg and I that Layla is going to be her new mom.”
Fuck.
Fuck Fuck Fuck.
My stomach sinks. This is what I’d wanted to avoid by bringing Layla to our home; this is a problem I created—false hope inside my daughter.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She said that?”
Actually I don’t know why this news surprises me. It sounds exactly like something my daughter would announce; daydreaming and manifesting things into existence seem to be her specialty.
“She did.” Skylar steps back now, giving me space. “I’m not sure what your relationship is with, um, Layla—and it’s certainly none of my business—but Benny seems to think . . .”
I scrub a hand over the stubble on my jaw. “I’m sorry she put you on the spot like that.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.” Skylar’s tone is kind. “I only came to give you a heads-up before you hear it from the rumor mill.”
“Appreciated,” I say, and mean it. I look to the living room, where Layla is half watching Skylar and me chat, half watching television.
Skylar glances her way, then back at me. “For what it’s worth, Benny wasn’t bragging. She was hopeful, you know? ’Cause that’s what little girls do.”
“Layla and I are friends—we’re not dating,” I hear myself blurt out because I’m not sure what else to say.
We’re . . .
She’s . . .
“She’s from out of state.”
Skylar nods as if she already knew this information. “Ahh. I see.”
“It would never work.” I have no idea why I’m telling this woman this information, guilt immediately taking root in my gut.
Her gaze slides toward the living room, to Layla tucked into my sweatshirt like she’s always belonged in it. “I’m sure it will be fine. Everything has a way of working out the way it’s supposed to.”
“Right.” The word tastes like acid on my tongue.
“Obviously she adores Layla,” Skylar adds.
“I’m sorry I won’t get to know her better if she’s leaving soon—I’m sure a little chat between the three of you at bedtime will do the trick.
” She exhales. “Well. I’ll get out of your hair.
And hey, if you need a friendly adult to run interception on a very enthusiastic nine-year-old? I’m a text away.”
Robotically I nod.
The door hushes shut behind her. I stand there a beat. Do the death march to the living room. Drop onto the edge of the couch, leave a polite inch of space, try to breathe past the rancid taste in my mouth.
Layla mutes the TV, eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”
“She brought cheesecake,” I say, because small talk is easier than the truth.
A tiny smile. “That woman is a saint.”
“Mm-hmm.” I stare at the coffee table blankly, trying to think of something intelligent to say, but the only words playing on a loop in my brain are Skylar’s. My tongue won’t shape words.
From the kitchen, Benny barrels into the room, walking too fast for someone balancing a mug filled with marshmallows.
“Okay, important update!” She stops, scans our faces, and grins like she’s solved world peace.
“Yes, yes, I know I said I was going to jump in the shower, but Madison told me Ian Faulkner is moving to Florida. Florida! Can you believe it?”
I have no idea who Ian Faulkner is. “And do we like Ian?”
Benny scrunches up her face. “Absolutely not.”
Layla laughs. “You’re adorable.”
I sniff the air. “You stink—go take your shower and get your jammies on.”
My daughter rolls her eyes, beseeching Layla. “Will you tuck me in tonight? Dad tells the same lame jokes.”
Layla’s eyes crinkle at the corner. “I’d be honored.”
Silence again after Benny skips off. The washing machine timer goes off.
Layla tucks her legs up, hand sliding over my forearm. “Ian Faulkner,” she says, lips twitching. “Devastating loss.”
“I’ll be sure to send flowers,” I murmur, mustering a smile. Wondering what the fuck I’m gonna do.
She studies me for a beat, not pushing. “Want to start the movie, and then I’ll run up and check on her?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“I’m an excellent tucker, by the way.” Layla smiles, teasing. “I do voices. I do dramatic pauses. I do the special tuck so the blankets are extra tight at the foot of the bed so you feel like a burrito.”
“Burrito,” I repeat. “She’ll love that.”
Layla studies me a few moments before squeezing my forearm once and slipping off the couch. “I’ll be back,” she whispers. “Time for tuck tuck.”
I nod like my head isn’t packed with regret.
Upstairs, floorboards creak, and then I hear her doing a voice I don’t recognize, high pitched and too dramatic for bedtime, followed by a scandalized scream that can only be Benny’s.
A laugh. Then quiet, which can only mean they’ve calmed down and it’s time for lights out.
It’s so fucking domestic that it’s a gut punch right behind the ribs.
It knocks the wind out of me—how easy it sounds.
How normal.
Benny hasn’t had that kind of normal. Not in the way her friends do, with moms who drive them around and take them to the mall and braid their hair.
I mean, I try, but my hands are so fucking big.
Still, she has me, with my bad jokes. Take-out dinners. Fast food and DoorDash. The calendar with color-coded practice schedules and appointments that I split with the nanny.
I broke the one rule I have for Benny and me the second I said yes to Layla staying here. Because it felt harmless. Because it felt good to be reckless for once.
I shouldn’t have asked Layla to come. Never should have had her stay here—she should be in a hotel.
Protect the perimeter.
But then from upstairs, Benny laughs again, and nothing about this feels wrong.
Layla is out of state, yes. The logistics are a nightmare. Long distance with a kid is like juggling knives on a treadmill.
I know all of that.
So maybe the answer isn’t to shove Layla to the curb. Maybe the answer is to be the fucking adult I keep pretending to be. Set the pace, choose careful over being cowardly. Go slow. Be honest. Make no promises I can’t keep . . .
Light footfalls return to the stairs.
My heart does the stupid stutter it always does right before I run out onto a field.
Layla rounds the corner to the living room. “Burrito complete,” she whispers, sliding back beside me, already reaching for a snuggle blanket. “She’s out like a light.”
“Good.”
Maybe tonight I just sit with the ideas in my head instead of voicing them to Layla.
Let all the what-ifs settle in my chest.