Chapter 26 Layla
Layla
As soon as the wheels of the plane touch down in Washington, Star Lake reality rushes back. It’s raining. The clean, mossy weather chills my bones in a way that only the mountains and fresh air can.
When I take my phone off Airplane Mode, I find three texts from Faith, two from my landlord about the garbage pickup schedule once it begins snowing, and none from a number I’ve been checking for since I landed.
Nothing.
I tell myself that’s a good thing. We’re adults. Mature. Not needy. Friends.
Or at least, that was my mindset before my common sense got screwed senseless into a puddle on a Scottsdale mattress, over and over again . . .
“Welcome home, liar.”
I am so, so weak.
By the time I claim my luggage, I’ve rewritten our last hour together into twenty different versions—every one of them ending the same way: me walking away with my head held high and intentions clear.
It was just a brief thing—not a forever thing—and at some point in the near future, I promise myself I’m going to force myself back into the dating pool.
Faith:
You home yet?? Coffee? I have gossip.
Faith:
Or I’ll bring coffee to You. I can be at your place in ten.
I stare at her bubbles, thumb hovering. Coffee with Faith is usually an automatic yes.
But at the moment the inside of my head is a muddled mess. If she looks me in the face, it will tell her everything she needs to know: that I thought I could walk away from Hayes and Benny without all the emotional entanglement, but the truth is I can’t.
When he said the sex was going to make him impossible to forget, he wasn’t wrong.
It’s not just the sex, though, is it?
It’s everything about him. It’s the way he parents—steady, funny, relentlessly present—and how Benny’s bravest version of herself seems to bloom when he’s in the room.
It’s the quiet after, when neither of us feels the need to fill it.
He’s dark and light and broody but soft. Kind and caring but protective.
And I already miss him.
Funny how that works, hey?
Me:
Can we rain-check? I’m gross and my suitcase lost a wheel on the trip back. It’s been one of those days . . .
Three dots appear immediately.
Faith:
You get One grace period if you promise to send me voice notes later.
She is going to pester me until I relent.
Me:
I am too tired even for those!
Faith:
Girl, it was like—a 3-hour flight.
Faith:
And you’ve been gone for what, four days?? Hello, I have shit to tell you and you have shit to tell me.
Yet another message comes through: What if you come here instead and we sit in the hot tub and drink wine??
My brows rise. Hmm. Hot tub and wine? That’s something I can get on board with.
It’s tempting. So tempting.
Hot tub and wine sounds like exactly the kind of steam I can handle and might help me get my mind off Hayes—not to mention, it might dull the ache between my thighs.
Me:
Alright. I’ll be home soon enough. Give me 2 hours to freshen up and get my life in order and I’ll be over.
Faith:
Yay! Perfect!
Once I’m finally home, I move on autopilot, letting small chores keep my hands busy while my brain idles.
Suitcase to the hallway where my washer and dryer are, I sort without thinking—jeans, tees, the dress that will forever smell like Arizona and decisions I don’t regret. I toss it all in, along with the swimsuit I wore when we had our steamy kiss in the pool.
The machine hums to life, water rushing.
Back to the dresser. I open the “summer” drawer and dig until my fingers find the Lycra. Pull out the ugly Speedo swimsuit I have shoved in the back and mostly wear for swimming laps at the community center. I hold it to my nose and discover it still smells like chlorine.
Hair up in a knot, I slick on ChapStick. Change out of my airport joggers and sweatshirt and into the swimsuit and a clean pair of joggers and sweatshirt. Ha!
Star Lake is misty and soft as I drive. Faith’s cottage sits right on the curve where the pines lean in to eavesdrop; her porch light glows warm through the drizzle. I skip the front door, cut down the flagstone path on the side of the house, and head straight for the back.
Steam billows over the cedar fence in lazy white ribbons. The lake lies beyond it, pewter and quiet, a single loon stitching a black thread across the surface.
“About time,” Faith calls without turning.
She’s on the deck in a chunky sweater and bare feet, already unscrewing a wine bottle like it personally wronged her. Two glasses wait beside a plate she has arranged by tearing the brownies into chunks and calling it rustic. Strawberries. Almonds.
All the trappings of a girls’ night.
“I brought a bottle too,” I say, lifting my bag.
“Excellent. Get in and let the bubbles fix our lives.”
I kick off my shoes, drop the tote, and peel out of my sweatshirt and joggers. Climb in, relishing how comforting the water is as I settle onto a seat beneath it, Faith sitting across from me, curls puffing in the mist, glass balanced on the ledge. We clink. Sip.
Say nothing for a full minute while the hot water does the first round of friendship therapy.
Faith breaks the silence first, tipping her chin toward the lake like it’s sworn to secrecy. “Okay, I’ll start with my news so you don’t have to jump straight into telling me whatever that glow on your face is.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s called jet lag.”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes a prim little sip, then can’t hold it. “I signed the papers.”
I blink. “For what? Please say ‘cult.’”
“For a studio,” she says, grin blooming. “Downtown. The lease. It’s mine.”
I haven’t mentioned this before, but Faith is an interior designer.
She’s taken dozens of lake homes and transformed them into cozy retreats, sophisticated spaces, and rustic retreats.
And she’s been working out of a corner of her tiny cottage for years, sketching layouts and mood boards, waiting for the right place to come along.
I sit up straight so fast that water sloshes over the edge of the hot tub. “Stop it, you did not!”
“I did.” She’s beaming, cheeks pink from triumph. “I’ve got a contractor who doesn’t seem like a scammer and a spreadsheet of repairs that makes me want to cry.” She takes a sip from her glass. “But it’s mine.”
The happy hits clean and bright. “Faith, this is huge.”
“It is.” She pops an almond into her mouth. “And also—because the universe enjoys chaos—you know Caleb from the kayak shop?”
Who could forget? He blew into town from Colorado but had a girlfriend at the time. The plaid-wearing do-gooder who said “mountain vibes” every third sentence and made it known they were together.
“Who could forget those forearms.” I nod.
“Well. He asked me out. For an actual dinner that isn’t tacos.”
I slap the water. “Our girl is thriving!”
“Obviously I had to turn him down. He didn’t realize I was seeing someone,” she says, and then her eyes go soft. She nudges the plate toward me. “Your turn.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to move on from your news. That is some good shit!”
Faith rolls her eyes. “Please. I’ve been content with the random text messages and that phone call, but now you’re back in Star Lake and I want the details.”
I take a brownie chunk from the charcuterie board, chew, and stare at the steam until she nudges me beneath the water with her toe. “I don’t know where to start.”
She doesn’t fill the silence. Rather, she lets me stew.
“Fine.” I swallow the brownie. “He’s easy to be around. No performative man stuff. And Benny is this little ray of sunshine, and the whole time I kept thinking how sweet and perfect these two humans are. It’s like they were meant to be.”
The perfect pair: father and daughter.
Faith’s mouth tilts. “Uh-huh . . .”
“And then I got on a plane. It felt . . .”
Horrible. Sad.
I felt empty?
“I’m being so dramatic about this.”
“You’re not being dramatic. You’re . . .” She pauses. “He was the last person you expected to come along and sweep you off your feet.”
I nod. There are no truer words. “I want to keep talking to him. I want to see if this survives real life.” I pick at a strawberry. “But. You know—I’ve never had a long-distance relationship, and it’s not like I’m going to do something nutty like move for some man.”
Faith shakes her head. “Don’t you dare move. I need you here.”
“I know.” I take a bite from the bottom of the strawberry and chew. “Listen, he hasn’t even messaged me, so who knows. Maybe he never wants to see me again.”
Faith splashes more water at me, sharper this time. “No. Don’t twist it like that. He’s into you.”
I wipe droplets off my face, scowling. “Then why radio silence?”
“Because he’s a single dad, Layla. His life isn’t exactly built for constant texting. He’s a dad. Like, his one job is making sure his kid doesn’t only eat Goldfish crackers for dinner.”
I slump back against the tub. “I hate how reasonable that sounds.”
Faith smirks. “This is real life. You had your fun, and now you’re done playing house. Trust me when I say this man is not sitting around staring at his phone with sad violin music playing in the background. He has all kinds of shit to do.”
Ouch.
Give it to me straight.
I let out an embarrassed laugh because the truth is, it would be great if Hayes was sitting at home staring at his phone, getting ready to call me so I didn’t have to make the first move. “You’re right. I know you are, but five hours feels long when you’re waiting.”
“Then don’t wait,” she says, leaning forward. “Text him first. Stop acting like this is a game and you have to wait three days. You like him, right?”
“Obviously.” I just said as much.
“Don’t be a chickenshit about it.”
I Am Not Being a Chickenshit.
I nibble my bottom lip. “I’ll do it later when I’m alone.”
I love Faith, but the last thing I want is an audience, especially one with strong opinions, whose favorite thing to do is meddle in my business.
Faith narrows her eyes. “Later is code for never, and you know it.”
“It’s not!” I protest, swirling the wine in my glass. “I just need space. Not commentary. No side-eye while I craft the most humiliating sentence of my life.”
Her laugh is quick and sharp. “Layla, I promise you—if you text Hey, I miss your face, he’s not going to think you’re a thirsty bitch. He’s going to grin like an idiot.”
Doubtful. “I don’t want to come off as needy.”
“I really think you’ll regret it if you don’t message him.” She leans back, her curls damp, her expression softening. “Send the text, Layla. Worst-case scenario, he doesn’t respond the way you hope. Best case . . .” She gestures with her glass. “You get to keep the glow you had since you met him.”
Faith tops off my glass as steam curls around us, the jets humming, the surface of the water distorting our bodies below—and I’m exactly one more glass from taking her advice and actually sending that note to Hayes.
“I’ve had a glow?” I sink deeper until the hot water laps my collarbones. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”
Faith laughs. “Look at us—we’re a mess.”
I chuckle. “Speak for yourself.”
She grins. “A vibrator can only come in handy for so long, you know.”
“Facts,” I say, tipping my glass at her in a mock salute. “May your days be filled with orgasms and zero talk about sports.”
“Please. Caleb is a paramedic—he’s into all adrenaline-fueled activities. Oh! Maybe he can give me mouth to mouth,” she sighs, dreamy. “It’s the forearms for me.”
“Ugh, the forearms again.” My brain immediately pictures Hayes’s hand braced on the doorjamb of the guest bedroom, the way his veins roped around his wrist. Heat pricks my cheeks, and it’s not from the jets. “Okay, I’m convinced. I’ll text him later.”
Faith tilts her head and says to the sky, “You hear that? That was the sound of ‘never’ turning into ‘later’!”
“Let me be a coward for a minute longer, would you?” She is too much sometimes. “I need to do this at my own pace, you know this about me.”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I love about you—you do things on your terms, not because someone tells you to. But . . .” Her grin widens. “Sometimes you wait until the heat death of the universe before making a move, a.k.a.: Jared Catalano.”
She must be talking about the time in high school when I finally let Jared Catalano kiss me.
After senior year, the summer before he left for college.
Everyone thought we were already dating, but we were only hanging out, and yet somehow I could never bring myself to make a move.
Not until the annual senior bonfire the last day of summer, but by then it was too late.
I didn’t see him again until our five-year class reunion.
Faith brings it up whenever she wants to make a point.
Like now.
I laugh into my wine at the memory, bubbles from the jets tickling my skin. “I prefer to err on the side of caution.”
“Mm, caution is for crossing the street. This is texting a hot single dad with great hands.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not exactly life or death.”
My face flames hotter than the water. “I realize this, Faith. You don’t have to belabor the point.”
“Oh but I do,” she says cheerfully. “Only ’cause I know you. You like him, and he likes you. So if you wait too long, that’s not being cautious—that’s self-sabotaging.”
I tip my head back against the edge of the tub, staring at the sky. “Okay. Fine. Later tonight. At home. When I can obsess over punctuation without you breathing down my neck.”
I sink deeper into the water, letting the bubbles roar in my ears for a moment before surfacing again. “This feels different, though. Plus, there is a child involved.”
“Sure,” Faith says, softer now. “But don’t turn that into a reason to hold back so long you miss your chance.”
I hate when she’s right.