Chapter 31 Hayes
Hayes
I drop the bag by the mudroom hooks and open the fridge like it’s going to fix my life.
Bottled water. Half a rotisserie chicken. A slice of cheesecake Benny left three bites of and didn’t finish because it felt weird.
A sticky note in her handwriting: Dont Eat My Pudding Dad I Licked It. There are three pudding cups lined up on the left side of the bottom shelf—she definitely did not lick them.
I twist the cap off a bottle, drink, lean my hip against the counter. Read the note again until the corners of my lips curve into a reluctant smile. Humor sneaks in even when it shouldn’t. That’s the thing about Benny—she leaves little reminders of herself all over the place.
But me? I’m empty.
Tired—so fucking tired. Muscles dragging, head full of static, chest tight like I’m carrying something I can’t set down.
And you know what I wish I could do? Forget about Layla.
My body doesn’t listen. It still sees her in my dreams.
Still hears her laugh. Still remembers the sharp little gasp when my nose teased her neck, remembers the way she opened for me when I went down on her, the taste of her pussy, the sound she made when I made her come.
It’s everywhere. In my blood, my lungs, my skin. Memory like a runner’s stitch—and I haven’t changed the sheets on my bed for a reason, wanting to smell her.
“Stop.” The word scrapes my throat as I scrub a hand over my jaw, like I can physically erase her. “You’re done.”
Except I’m not.
Because the second I let go, my brain whispers, Text her. Just a quick hey.
“Terrible idea.”
She deserves better than me popping in like a ghost when it suits me.
So I do the only thing I can: I lace up my sneakers and head back out. Streetlights blur past as I run, pounding pavement like I can outrun what I left behind.
I try to outrun it. Pump harder. Push until my lungs burn and the air rasps in and out like sandpaper. Streetlights blur past. Houses with warm squares of yellow in the windows, families inside, laughter muffled by walls I’ll never walk through.
My own feet echo too loud in my ears. Heart in my throat, sweat in my eyes, and still—still she keeps pace.
Layla.
The shadow I can’t outrun . . .
By the time I loop back to the house, my shirt clings damp to my back. My body aches, but not in the way I was hoping for. This kind of pain doesn’t numb anything. It sharpens it.
I bend forward, palms braced on my thighs, and spit onto the pavement. My chest heaves from the pace.
I didn’t lose her. I drove her to the damn airport.
My shower is a quick rinse, the water hot enough to sting, and the whole time my mind is a tug-of-war: Text her. Don’t text her.
Text her. Don’t be that guy.
Do it, what’s the harm?
Her heart and mine.
After I towel off, I pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, pad back to the kitchen, and yank open the refrigerator door, then take the note off the puddings and flatten it on the counter.
Dont Eat My Pudding Dad i Licked It..
I take a picture of it with my phone: the goofiest, most innocent, softest thing I could send her, my thumb hovering over her name in my contacts.
Me:
Benny left me a threat this morning about eating her pudding.
Me:
It’s in all caps.
I hit Send.
Layla:
All caps?! She’s not messing around, better not eat that pudding, Dad ;)
Me:
I’m terrified. Considering witness protection.
Layla:
I’d settle for diplomatic immunity. Also: hello, stranger.
It’s been days. We haven’t spoken in days, and I wonder what she’s been up to.
I glance at the photo of the note again, the ridiculous sweetness of it, proof that my life is more than empty rooms and a hum from the fridge.
Me:
What are you doing right now?
Dots vanish. Come back.
Layla:
Getting ready to go out.
Something tightens low in my ribs. I angle a look at the oven clock like time might explain why that hits hard.
Me:
With a friend?
Instantly I regret asking for clarity. Or asking at all.
Layla:
Sort of but not really.
Ahh. Of course.
Jealousy is a quick, mean heat, the kind that makes you want to do the dumb thing. I breathe through it until it cools into something bearable.
Me:
Nice. Hope it’s fun.
I hit Send before I can dress it up with anything else—like a joke or a tease or words that show what I’m actually feeling.
Layla:
Thank you. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I want to say, Don’t. I also want to tell her not to go. Stay home, wait for me. I want to say I’m the one who makes you weak in the knees and knows how to make you come by using my fingers.
Me:
Be safe.
I hit Send and stare at the microwave door until my reflection looks like a stranger, unable to face myself in an actual mirror, barely registering when she responds with a Thanks.
Be safe?
I am a fraud.
I want everything. I want impossible: proximity, ordinary mornings, her mouth, her laugh in my kitchen, someone to tell me to throw out the damn rotisserie chicken.
Who crawls into bed with me at the end of a long day and lays their head on my chest, or climbs into the shower with me.
Someone I can fuck before we sleep, who smacks my ass in the kitchen once breakfast is served.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently so.