11. Laila
Laila
I opt for a hand basket instead of a cart in an effort to only buy what I came into the store for, champagne.
I resist the temptation to walk down the aisles that have nothing to do with why I am in the store and make my way over to the liquor section.
A candle from an end cap that was on the way over did end up in my basket but it’s on sale so it practically doesn’t count, right? Right.
When I find the aisle I need, I grab two bottles off the shelf and place them in the basket.
I contemplate whether that's enough before grabbing another for good measure.
I turn to leave the aisle the same way that I came but of course at the end of the aisle a man is standing off to the side looking at bottles of sangria, with his shopping cart blocking the entire aisle, making it impossible to get by.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to get his attention while keeping the annoyance out of my voice.
“Sorry,” the man says.
He turns and moves his cart, maneuvering it from the middle of the aisle to off to the side, like it should have been in the first place. The action gives me a glimpse of his face and I immediately feel sick in the pit of my stomach.
Why does the universe hate me?
I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him immediately, and I hate that I hadn’t, because if I had there is no way that I would have said a damn thing to him.
When he sees me recognition hits him as well, but the unease and revulsion that I feel are clearly not reciprocated based on the way he greets me.
“Laila, hey it’s good to see you.”
The shock from the audacity of those words coming from Devin, as if I am an old friend and not an ex who he manipulated and lied to for years, is immediate. The shock quickly turns into anger and instead of acknowledging him, or his words, I start to walk past him.
“C’mon Laila don’t be like that,” Devin says in a tone meant to soothe but only makes my blood boil more.
I halt my steps whirling around to face him.
“Don’t be like that?” I seethe. “You don’t get to tell me what to do or feel after the shit you put me through. Matter fact, don’t talk to me at all.”
Devin is one of those men who knows he’s attractive. His hazel eyes and loose hair texture has given him no shortage of women who have boosted his ego in his life, and unfortunately for over two years I was one of them. The girl on his arm who was ‘lucky’ to be the one he chose to be with.
Devin and I met at a networking event for small businesses in Rosewood.
I had just graduated college and joined Lovely Day full time and Cass asked me to go to the event with her.
During social hour, Devin approached me and struck up a conversation that led to an exchange in contact information and then later a relationship that lasted for over two years.
Things started out great, he was sweet, attentive and charming.
He said and did all the right things that made me fall for him, made me fall in love with him.
And then somewhere along the way it all changed.
He became distant, and secretive, and when I would call him out on it he would tell me it was ‘nothing’ or ‘in my head’ so I brushed it off.
I believed him until one day he told me that he had a baby on the way with someone else. A real life Confessions Part II.
I couldn’t fully see it while I was living it, but once the rose colored glasses were off I saw just how toxic our relationship was. The times where he would invalidate my feelings and cause me to not trust my intuition. The ways he made me feel small in our relationship.
“I know you’re probably upset,” Devin says. “But there’s no need to be dramatic, it was all a misunderstanding-”
At those words I see red and I know that I need to get very far away from him before I catch a charge for laying hands on him in the middle of this store. There are so many things I want to say, including that he’s a bitch ass piece of shit and I hope his dick falls off. But I don’t say that.
I take a second to calm my rage enough to simply say. “Go to hell, Devin.”
This time I don’t stop when I turn to walk away, putting as much distance as I can between me and him to buy the contents of my basket and get the fuck out of this store.
***
“Hey,” I say when the FaceTime call connects.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Bryce asks.
He’s laid out on his couch, relaxed, one arm behind his head and the quiet sounds of his TV in the background.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I didn’t even say two words, I’m fine.”
I desperately want that to be true, but even hours after my run in with Devin I feel unsettled.
Like he came and infiltrated the safe bubble I’ve been building for the past eight months that we’ve been broken up.
One run in and all the anger and pain that I thought I was over, came flooding back.
I thought that I had tucked that all away when I answered the phone, but clearly not.
“Nah something’s bothering you, and that’s not nothing. What’s going on?”
“What makes you think I’m not fine,” I ask with a huff, frustrated that he was able to read me so easily.
“It’s not a specific thing. But after all the times we’ve talked, something is different. Something or someone has dimmed your light, and I don’t like that shit.”
After I told Bryce that I’m a bad texter, our conversations have shifted to mostly talking on the phone.
Nearly everyday we FaceTime and talk about our days, nothing specific or special, just easy, friendly conversation.
Sometimes it's only a few minutes other times it’s a few hours, but it has become a part of my day that I look forward to
“I just,” I pause and take a deep breath. “I just don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“Aight, that’s fair but if you do, I’m here to listen.”
I nod, unable to form words because all the anger and irritation I felt has now morphed into appreciation and gratitude of my emotions being seen without having to verbally express them, of someone paying enough attention to notice when things aren’t as they usually are.
That small act has caused a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat that doesn’t ease until Bryce starts talking again.
“A friend of mine was telling me about a new sushi spot downtown and I thought you might want to go.”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I have neglected to feed it for most of the day unless you count the iced coffee and croissant that I had hours ago.
“Sushi sounds amazing, but I still don’t think being in public together is a great idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not trying to have pictures of me and you together sprawled all over the internet.”
“They won’t be,” Bryce says.
“You can’t guarantee that,” I argue. “I can see the headlines now ‘Singer Sonny seen out with mysterious woman’ and then they do a deep dive into my life and find pictures of me from when I was 12 with braces, fully in my awkward stage. No thank you.”
“That’s not gonna happen,” Bryce says. I start to interject but he keeps talking. “And I can guarantee that, if you come over instead. I’ll get the food delivered and we can watch whatever show that you love so much you can recite it from memory.”
I blink hard, shocked by the invitation Bryce just gave. Of all the retorts I expected him to give for my pushback on not wanting to be seen in public, this was not one of them. I chew on my bottom lip contemplating the offer.
“It’s not a big deal,” Bryce says, picking up on my hesitation. “If you don’t want to, that's cool too. I just thought I’d offer.”
“That would actually be really nice,” I say.
“I’ll send you the menu, tell me what you want and I’ll place the order.”
“Okay,” I reply in agreement.
My phone buzzes with a text notification from him and I see two links, one for the restaurant’s menu and another for the rideshare he ordered from my place to his.
“Thank you for the ride, you didn’t have to do that.”
“You don’t have to thank me Laila. I asked you to come over, it’s the least I could do. I was gonna offer to come get you myself, but I had a feeling you’d shoot a nigga down again.”
I giggle at his words.
“Mmhm, like I thought,” Bryce says. “When you get here, tell the front desk your name and they’ll let you up. Send me what you want and I’ll see you soon aight?”
I nod and we end the call. I send him the sushi I want and gather my things to leave my apartment right as the rideshare arrives.
I was expecting Bryce to live in a nice place but the bougie luxury that surrounds me when I walk into the lobby of his building still catches me off guard. The marble floors gleam, as if they have just been polished and are free of any signs of snow or salt that existed right outside the doors.
“Good evening miss,” the man at the desk says as I approach. “How can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m here to see someone.”
“What’s your name?”
“Laila, Laila Eden,” I reply.
“Ah yes, welcome Ms. Eden, Mr. Taylor already added you to his approved visitors list just give me one moment.”
The man taps away on the computer in front of him for a minute and then hands me a keycard.
It’s black with the name of the building, Halcyon , etched into it with gold lettering.
Slightly confused, I look towards the man for guidance, but he simply gestures towards the elevators behind him and says, “Floor 37.”
I take the short walk to the elevators and press the call button.
The doors almost immediately open and I step on, pressing the ‘37’ button on the keypad.
The doors close behind me, but the elevator doesn’t move.
I start to press the button again but then see why I needed the keycard.
I tap it against the nondescript scanner next to the numbers and the elevator is set in motion.