Chapter 24 Layla
Layla
“Where would she go?” I ask, voice hollow, like the house swallowed the soft parts of it.
“Park or Skylar’s,” Hayes says, already moving. His jaw is tight in a way I didn’t see last night. “I’ll take the cut-through. You check the street.”
“Okay.” I nod with confidence but have no idea where I’m going or where to look.
I’ve only been here a handful of days, and every adobe-colored house looks the same. Wide driveways, scrubby yards with mesquite trees throwing stingy shade. Cacti. The kind of place where space yawns between houses, wide enough for the desert to reclaim if it weren’t for the landscapers.
“Benny!” I call, aiming for bright calm—the voice you use with skittish puppies and kids on the verge. “Benny Boo Boo!”
No answer. Just the sprinkler two doors down that ticks on, and the heat lifting off the sidewalk despite it only being seven thirty.
Where would a nine-year-old go here?
There’s nothing in this neighborhood except houses, a park with swings and a slide at the end of it. Any businesses are well over a mile away—if not more—and she can’t reach her school by foot, not even with her scooter or bike.
I walk and walk some more.
“Benny!” I try again. “Time for school!”
A neighbor eases his big SUV out of the driveway and slows when he sees my face. Window down, forearm on the ledge. “Everything okay?”
“Looking for Benny Fielder. She might’ve scooted off.”
He grimaces, already nodding. “I’ll loop the block.” He pulls away; I keep moving.
My phone buzzes—Hayes: Park’s empty. Heading toward the main road.
I stop in the middle of a long stretch with nothing but space between me and the mountains, empty lots on either side choked with cacti and creosote bushes.
The desert looks gorgeous and carnivorous at the same time—thorned, sun white, full of places a small person could disappear.
Coyotes sleep out there. Javelina trot across roads like they own them.
There are freaking rattlesnakes.
Fear spikes so hard I spin back toward the house.
Through the side gate—metal hot in my palm, latch sticking, gravel snapping underfoot. I round the corner into the yard, eyes sweeping. We didn’t check back here.
No time to breathe. I skim past the patio, don’t dare glance at the pool, and clock the clues scattered like breadcrumbs: chalk smeared across the pavers, a plastic dinosaur wedged by the fence post, Benny’s scooter toppled mid-flight.
“Benny?” My voice scrapes.
The yard is still. Too still. Until—there, at the far edge where the wall meets desert.
A tangle of bougainvillea. A burst of flowers hiding something bigger.
A playhouse.
Bright paint faded by sun, windows half hidden by vines, curtains breathing in and out like lungs. A tiny porch cluttered with popsicle sticks and juice pouches as if she’s set up a store. A place built for make-believe, fit for a princess.
I rush over. Pull open the door.
There’s a toy stove with plastic eggs in a pan, a stack of books, a desk with ribbons and brushes and jewelry on its surface. Blankets.
“Hi,” I breathe, the sound coming out in a sob.
Benny doesn’t answer, just pulls her knees up tighter under her chin. Her pretty little face is blotchy the way it gets when a person has cried so hard before deciding not to cry anymore.
I ease myself inside next to her. “Is this okay?”
A beat. Then she lifts one shoulder, not quite a shrug.
Invitation adjacent.
I text Hayes: Found her. We’re in the backyard, in the playhouse.
Hayes:
On my way
“Can I sit with you while we wait for your dad? We can not talk for a minute if you want.”
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and moves several inches to accommodate my bigger size, shifting closer to the wall, hands still around her knees.
I keep my voice quiet when I say, “Thanks for letting me find you.”
She sniffles again. “I thought if I left, you wouldn’t.”
A dagger to my heart! In a short amount of time, this tiny human has pried open my chest with her little hands and laid her reality on the line.
I can feel it. The fragile truth of it.
I blink hard, doing my best not to show how jarred I am by her statement. How touched I am that she wants me to stay this much.
“We’ll talk about my leaving,” I say, and promise myself we will. After she’s in her dad’s arms. Not now. Not this second.
“Do you want to sit for a minute? Or should we head back slow and make your dad jog toward us so he feels important?”
She scoffs through her nose. “He does like to jog.”
We’re cross-legged on the small rug spread out on the floor, our knees touching, and I clear my throat, racking my brain for how to best articulate my next words.
“Benny?” I keep my tone serious. “Can I tell you something very grown up?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Of course.”
“When . . . two people like each other like your dad and I do, it’s tempting to jump into things headfirst without thinking too much about it—because it feels perfect. But the best things usually take time.”
She studies the scuffed floorboards. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Your dad and I just met last week, sweetie. We thought we were just going to be friends, and we’re learning each other, but we need more time to know what it looks like because I live too far away.” I hope I’m making sense.
“Dad is usually so grumpy,” she says, which earns a tiny laugh from me. “But he hasn’t been.”
That fills my stomach with warm heat. “Yes, I realize that. But going back to Star Lake is me giving your dad and me a chance to think about things. We don’t want to mess things up.”
“You’re not,” she insists. “You and Dad are perfect.”
I put my hand on her arm. “Oh, sweetie, if only you knew how far from perfect I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” I hesitate to think of an example. “I kill every houseplant I’ve ever owned, including herbs. I forget laundry in the washer until it reeks. I cry at reality TV.”
Benny scrunches up her nose in confusion. “How is that bad?”
I . . . it’s not. But I’m scrambling for something to say and cannot very well admit I let her father bang me without a condom, now, can I? Talk About Imperfect and a Lack of Planning.
Outside, a footstep crunches in the gravel, close. She lifts her chin. “That’s him.”
I nod. “He found us.”
“Dad.” She rolls her eyes.
Hayes appears, big and strapping and so much better looking than he was yesterday; something about him being a hot dad is messing with my ovaries . . .
“Hey, ladies.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. He crouches to fit inside the doorframe, one palm braced on the flower boxes. “You doing okay?”
Benny lifts her chin. “We were talking.”
“I can see that.” His gaze flicks to me—Are you okay?—and I nod.
“Layla was explaining how relationships are supposed to take time and shouldn’t be rushed,” Benny reports, easily summarizing our conversation.
Hayes ducks lower, the frame groaning under his hand as he leans in, filling the playhouse with too much body for too small a space. “She was, huh?”
“Exactly.” Benny crosses her arms, pleased with her summary. “She said it’s tempting to jump into things without thinking about them, but the best things usually take time.”
Damn, she’s good. That’s literally what I said.
Hayes huffs a laugh, low in his chest, then reaches for her hand. “That sounds about right.”
She lets him take it, then leans her head against his shoulder, her verdict rendered. “Okay. I’m satisfied. You can take me to school now.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, surprised. “Now? You don’t want to go back into the house and talk about this some more?”
“Nope, we’re good.” Benny is matter of fact, already climbing to her feet and dusting her knees as if they were covered in dirt. “I’ll grab my backpack.”
We stare slack jawed after her once she’s trekking across the yard, her ponytail swaying jauntily back and forth. I drag my gaze from her retreating figure back to Hayes, and we both blink, caught in the absurdity of it.
His mouth quirks first. “Did she just dismiss us?”
“Yeah. Like a boss.” I am a little stunned, but what do I know about having kids. Is it normally like this? Wouldn’t know.
Hayes scrubs a hand down his face, laughter tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Ten minutes ago she was traumatized you’re leaving, and now she’s demanding to be taken to school.”
I huff a laugh. “Whiplash is real.”
He angles toward me in the tiny doorway, voice dropping so only I can hear it.
“Hey—stay here. Do whatever you need to do—drink more coffee, rub lotion all over your tits, return emails.” His eyes flick to my mouth. “I’ll run her to school.”
“Okay.”
He leans in, thumb brushing my jaw, and the look he gives me makes my knees weak. “And when I get back,” he says, heat threaded through every word, “you’re going to be naked and waiting in my bed.”
Slowly, I nod. “Yes, Dad . . .”