Chapter 23 Hayes
Hayes
I practically skip into the kitchen, pep in my step that wasn’t here days ago.
Benny’s already on her stool waiting for me, elbows on the counter like she’s hosting a morning show. I drop two frozen waffles into the toaster, going back and forth from the fridge to the cabinet, doing the morning breakfast dance I’ve perfected over the years.
“Dad?” my daughter says as I plop the waffles onto her plate.
“Mmm?”
“Do you love Layla?”
I almost choke. Feel my face get hot for a second time in the past twenty-four hours, unprepared for the question. “I like her a lot.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Benny rolls her eyes. “Do you love her? And are you going to marry her?”
I huff a laugh, both proud and unready. “Those are two very loaded questions for a kitchen that only serves frozen waffles.”
She blinks, unrelenting. “But do you?”
I pull her plate closer, buying a second. “Love is a thing you show over time, Bernadette. Layla and I are . . . getting to know one another.”
She chews her breakfast. Swallows. “I only asked because I told Madison’s mom that Layla was going to be my mom.” She says it casually, as if she just asked to wear her hair in braids.
There it is—the information I was wondering if she would confess.
“I know,” I tell her. “Skylar told me.”
Benny tilts her head and squints at me. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”
“No, you’re not in trouble.” I lean forward on the counter, resting my elbows there so I can get down to her level. “You’re not in trouble. But we should talk about it.”
Her shoulders relax. “I didn’t mean a wedding. I meant, like, a person who helps with hair tangles and knows my cereal and tells me I can have a sleepover at Madison’s house.” A beat. “Who wants to hold your hand.”
Jesus—is she trying to make me feel guilty? ’Cause it’s working.
I clear my throat. “Here’s the truth: I care about Layla. I like who I am when I’m around her. And I’m being careful, because the decisions I make aren’t just mine—they’re ours.” I nod between us. “Yours and mine.”
Benny considers this information. “So you like her, but you don’t love her.”
Shit.
“I do like her.” That’s the simple fact. “But it’s important we don’t put labels on things she didn’t sign up for. Or make promises about her to other people before she and I decide things together. That’s called having boundaries.”
Benny sighs as if she were bored. “So I shouldn’t say ‘mom.’”
I shake my head. “You can say we’re friends who are seeing how it goes. You can say she’s nice and you like her laugh and she’s Dad’s friend.” I tap her plate. “That’s it, sorry.”
She pushes a piece of waffle around in syrup, absorbing my words. “I just wanted to keep her.”
“I know.” I smooth a hand over her wild hair.
“But if you loved her, you would tell me?”
“Yes.” I tap her plate. “But I’d tell her first.”
A beat passes. She chews. I breathe. The kitchen reverts to normal—coffee drip, toaster hum, the ordinary music I’ve learned to trust.
“Do you think Layla wants to hold your hand?” Benny asks, back to casual curiosity.
“Obviously.” I wink at my daughter. “And for the record, you did nothing wrong by talking to Madison’s mom. You’re allowed to want things for yourself.”
She nods sagely. “You’re allowed to want things too.”
I gulp back more guilt. “I’m working on it.”
Benny’s already demolished most of her breakfast—all that remains is the sticky syrup. She uses the fork tines to push scraps around.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll do toast and fruit,” she tells me solemnly, licking syrup off her thumb. “Change things up a bit.”
I nab her plate and rinse it before tucking it neatly into the dishwasher.
“I finished my reading packet,” she adds, swinging her feet. “And I put my gym shoes in my bag because I’m responsible.”
“Nice,” I praise her, and she grins. “Put the packet in your folder after breakfast so you don’t forget. Mrs. Harris is going to ask.”
The sound of the guest room door opening and closing can be heard from down the hall.
Benny brightens. “Sweet. Layla is awake.”
Layla steps into the kitchen with damp hair curling at the ends, snuggled in a black matching hoodie and sweatpants. She looks a little bashful, as if we fucked all night and she isn’t sure how to behave.
“Morning, guys,” she says, ruffling Benny’s hair.
“Morning,” I echo, clearing my throat so it sounds like a fatherly “morning” and not a last-night “morning.” “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She tucks a strand behind her ear and slides onto the stool next to Benny’s. Layla gives me a secretive little smile as I slide a coffee mug across the counter toward her. She gives Benny a gentle nudge. “Anything exciting going on today?”
My daughter shrugs her little shoulders. “Besides boring school? Nope. What are you and Dad doing?”
I lean my elbows on the counter, grinning at them both. “Well. After we drop you off at school, I’m going to work from home for a bit—I have a call with Jack.” My agent. “Then I was thinking I would take Layla on a romantic lunch date.”
“A romantic lunch date? Can I come?” Benny asks, hopeful.
“You have school, goof,” I remind her, taking a bagel out of the bread drawer and sliding it into the toaster. “But we’ll be downtown, and I’ll bring you a macaron.”
She cheers, then turns her attention to our guest. “What are you gonna do while Dad is working?”
Layla blows on her coffee. “I’ll answer a few emails this morning and message the team who helped me coordinate Fall Fest to make sure they’re surviving without me.”
Benny perks up. “Do they miss you?”
“I doubt it,” Layla groans good naturedly. “But I should check on them all the same.”
“Anything else?” Benny asks, swinging her legs, the tips of her toes kicking the counter wall.
Layla’s eyes tic to mine, then back to Benny. “Lunch with your dad. And probably . . .” Her voice trails off. “Packing.”
Packing? The word lands like a blow to my chest. I mean, I knew she wasn’t gonna stay forever, but I was hoping she’d stay through the weekend.
Benny tilts her head. “Packing for what?”
“For home,” Layla says gently. “I think I need to head back tomorrow.”
“But you just said you don’t think your team misses you.”
Layla looks uncomfortable. “I know, but I’ve been gone for two days already and I . . .” She swallows. “I feel guilty.”
Benny’s mouth opens to protest. Closes. Finally, her face scrunches. “But tomorrow is so soon.”
Layla’s gaze flicks to her, then to me. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The moment hangs over all our heads, lingering until the toaster pops the bagel up, its springs surprising all of us like a jack-in-the-box.
“Are you sad?” Benny asks me suddenly.
I meet her eyes. “A little.”
A lot.
She turns to Layla. “Are you sad?”
“A little,” Layla admits slowly, taking the bagel plate when I slide it her way.
My daughter goes quiet, huffing. Thinking to herself, clearly stewing. “This is dumb.”
“What’s dumb?” I ask, for clarification.
“Grown-ups.”
Benny’s declaration makes Layla and me both laugh, but there’s something about the way her little shoulders pinch forward that sticks with me. She’s got her chin tucked down to hide the expression of hurt on her face.
“Grown-ups are dumb sometimes,” I agree, trying to keep it easy, light.
“Not sometimes. All the time,” Benny corrects, tearing her napkin in half and setting the pieces on the counter.
Layla’s smile falters. She leans over, smoothing a hand down Benny’s hair. “Hey. I know it feels unfair.”
Benny shrugs her off, eyes on Layla’s plate. “Whatever.”
She slides down from the stool, then trudges toward her backpack in the laundry room.
From the outside it looks like normal kid sulking—but I know my daughter’s tells. The way she huffs when she’s trying to hide tears, the set of her jaw when she’s deciding something without saying it out loud.
“I’m so sorry,” Layla begins. “I should have told you first before telling her. I should have—”
I come around the counter and move behind her, then rest my hands on her shoulders, leaning forward. “Hey. Don’t,” I murmur, thumbs kneading the tight lines of her traps. “We knew you were going to leave. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Layla nods, but her shoulders stay tense under my hands. In the laundry room, a cabinet bumps shut. Zipper teeth rasp. Too many sounds, too fast.
“Bens?” I call, checking the time. “Wrap up getting ready. We gotta roll soon.”
Silence.
Layla angles a look over her shoulder, worry tucking the corners of her mouth. “I’ll go talk to—”
“I’ve got it.” I squeeze once and head down the short hall to the mudroom.
No Benny.
The laundry room is empty too. Backpack is still hanging on its hooks on the wall. I could have sworn she came this way.
Nothing.
My pulse trips.
I force easy into my tone. “C’mon, kiddo. We’re wheels up in five.”
Dang kid. Usually very easygoing. When she goes quiet, it’s because she’s sleeping or reading or playing a game on her tablet, not because she’s staging a protest.
“Benny?” I knock my knuckles on her bedroom door and push it open. “You all right?”
She doesn’t leap out at me from the closet. Doesn’t giggle. Doesn’t laugh when I crouch down on the floor to look under the bed—it’s just a dust bunny, a lone sock. A chunky silver-and-rhinestone ring.
Her bathroom? Empty. Linen closet? Empty.
I circle back to the living room, peer behind the couch, part the drapes. Look behind the TV hutch angled in the corner of the room.
“I feel like I’m searching for my Easter basket,” I joke. “This is no time to play hide-and-seek,” I warn her. “We have to leave for school, Bernadette.”
No answer.
I head for the mudroom again. Layla pushes off the stool at the counter to join me in my search.
The air shifts. That creeping sensation settles in my gut—I know her better than anyone, and she’s not here.
I head for the mudroom again, urgency climbing my throat.
Pulling open the door to the garage, I glance around: hooks full of stadium seats, umbrellas, hiking backpacks. Our bikes. The lawn mower. Workbench.
Cold morning air hits my chest as I press my hand to the big doors and they begin to rise, along with a wave of dread, my eyes going to where her scooter helmet typically hangs. That is empty—so is the scooter rack.
I don’t breathe for a beat.
Benny isn’t hiding—she’s gone.