9. Layla
layla
. . .
Brand meetings are over, and I’m piled with content that I need to film, edit, and post before a deadline. All of it requires my fiancé to be featured because, according to them, our couple content is booming, and these brands only agreed to these deals as long as Brian is involved.
The Santa Monica breeze hits me, the smell of exhaust and food trucks blends on the sidewalk, while the chatter of people on their phones merges into a restless hum. My heels click against the concrete as I walk to the parking garage, my shoulders tense, replaying the meeting over and over.
Pulling my keys out of my bag, I click the key fob, a beep reverberating throughout the garage, and open my car door.
The leather seats are hot, sticking to the back of my thighs as I toss my tote into the passenger seat and start the engine. The air conditioner blasts me in the face, but it doesn’t do much to cool the heat prickling beneath my skin.
My engine roars as I peel out of the parking garage, anger bubbling in my chest, causing me to grip the steering wheel tighter as I merge onto the street.
Traffic is a tangled mass of brake lights, crawling along Ocean Avenue. I rest my elbow on the window ledge, watching palm trees sway against the hazy blue sky.
A couple on scooters zooms past, laughing, their hair whipping in the wind, and the sound slices through me.
I want to laugh like that. I want to feel like that. Instead, I’m here, stuck in a box of metal and noise, wishing I were strong enough to leave, but I’m not.
I’m scared to leave, worried that my content will be nothing without him. I’m afraid of being all alone while my best friends have their happily-ever-afters.
That’s all I really want, someone to call home. Someone to love me, for me, not just my content and a quick cash grab.
Pulling into the underground garage of my Santa Monica apartment, my jaw aches from clenching it. I slam the car door shut harder than necessary; the sound echoes off the concrete walls, and I take the elevator up.
The ride is silent except for the buzzing fluorescent light above me.
I pause in front of my apartment door, hesitating to go inside. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I exhale, finally unlocking my front door.
The familiar scent of peony and cherry blossom candles, along with the lingering aroma of takeout, greets me. It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
Brian is exactly where I knew he’d be: sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, thumb scrolling as if it’s the only muscle in his body that works. He doesn’t even bother looking up when I come home anymore.
“We need to film a video,” I say, dropping my tote on the entryway table. My voice is steady and practiced, just like my smile. “For the skincare collab.”
He groans dramatically, dragging his eyes up at me for the first time since I walked in. “Fine.”
I pace over to the hallway closet, dragging my tripod out from it, the legs squeaking as they extend. The ring light flicks on, buzzing faintly, and the apartment transforms under its glow.
He remains slouched on the couch, still scrolling through his stupid phone. His jaw tics when I adjust the angle.
“Hurry up,” he mutters, not even looking at me.
I make my way over to the couch after the tripod is set up, sitting closely next to him.
The moment I press record, he becomes a different person.
His phone vanishes, his posture straightens, and suddenly there’s a dazzling smile on his face; one he reserves only for strangers online. He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side as if he can’t get enough of me, his lips brushing my temple.
“Look at my girl,” he says, grinning into the camera, voice full of fake warmth. “Her skin’s glowing, right? This stuff is magic.”
I laugh on cue, the sound rehearsed and hollow, leaning my head against his shoulder as I broadcast the skincare I’m using.
My stomach twists. Ten minutes ago, I was just background noise to him. Now, in front of the camera, I’m his everything.
He kisses my cheek once, then again, lingering longer, tilting my face so the camera catches it. It looks sweet. It feels wrong.
His mouth is warm, but it’s empty. His thumb strokes my jaw for show, not for me.
I faintly feel a flutter through my chest, a glimpse of how he used to be with me, but that quickly fades.
We go through the routine: the product demo, the exaggerated reactions, the flirty banter that makes my chest ache with how fake it is. I can feel the stiffness in his body, the way every gesture is calculated, every laugh a little too sharp.
I plaster on a wider smile, even as my insides feel smaller, because this is what sells.
Couple content. Happy, glowing, showing the world that we are the perfect couple.
But not for long, I hope my experiment works so I can finally leave him and do what I want to do.
Twenty minutes pass in a blur, a blur of muted noises, our voices colliding that I don’t hear anymore.
It’s all I can handle before I stop recording. My face aches from forcing the smile, as my stomach clenches, leaving my palms sweaty. I quickly stand, reaching for the camera, to get away from him, but he’s already standing, muttering under his breath.
“I’m done with this shit,” he snaps, shoving my shoulder as he pushes past me. “Have fun fucking editing, and zelle me the money when it’s in.”
The breath bursts out of me in a sharp scoff. “Whatever.”
He laughs without even turning around, the sound hollow as the bedroom door slams shut behind him.
Silence swallows the apartment.
The ring light hums faintly, casting a false glow over everything, and the camera’s red standby light blinks like a cruel reminder of the lie we just filmed.
I sink back onto the couch, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes, trying to breathe past the tightness in my chest.
Unbidden, Reed’s face flashes in my mind. He looked at me across the bar, never once looking away. How his voice dropped when he said I wasn’t intruding, as if it weren’t up for debate. It was just a moment, almost a breath.
But it felt like something real. Something I have been craving for years.
My phone is warm in my hand before I even realize I’ve picked it up. My fingers hover, hesitating, until I finally type.
Layla
Heyyyyy
Would you maybe want to keep me company while I edit sometime? I don’t mind flying out there; I could use the distraction.
I stare at my message as my thumb trembles above the screen. I shouldn’t send it. It’s stupid and fucking reckless.
The whoosh of the sent message makes my heart skip a beat.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Ping.
Reed
Yeah, say when. I’ll be here to pick you up.
No questions or hesitation.
For the first time today, my smile comes unforced, curling slowly across my lips. The sensation of butterflies fluttering through me again makes me feel giddy with nerves.
I quickly switch apps as my thumb moves on instinct before I can talk myself out of it, feeling the weight of guilt press down on me.
No, Layla, it’s nothing.
Expedia loads slowly, and my heart beats faster with every second the screen takes to load. Finally, rows of flights appear, and I tap the one leaving in two days, round-trip from LAX to Nashville.
My thumb hovers over the screen as I switch between tabs, checking the date, opening my calendar, and doing the mental math of how quickly I could disappear back to a place that makes me feel normal, happy.
A small, hopeful smile slips onto my face before I can stop it.
“What are you smiling for?”
Oh my God, I didn’t even hear him walk out of our bedroom.
His words come from behind me, quiet but strong enough to make me jump.
Turning quickly, I drop my phone on the floor.
He’s leaning over the couch with his arms crossed, watching me with a glare, like he was trying to see what I’m doing on my phone.
“I— I’m not,” I say too quickly, turning fully towards him, crossing my hands and praying to whatever God he doesn’t pick my phone up off the floor.
He walks around the couch slowly, studying my face. When he stops in front of my phone, he picks it up and gently sets it down on the glass coffee table in front of me.
Once he sets the phone down, he reaches out and presses his hand against my shoulder, pushing me enough to fall back into the cushions.
“You know,” he murmurs, leaning in until our noses are touching. “I should be the only one who makes you smile like that.”
He says it like it’s a joke, like it’s sweet.
Like I should feel some kind of way that my man is jealous. But I’m not. All I feel toward him is emptiness, nothing, an ache where my love for him used to be.
He leans back enough to look at me before claiming my mouth with a searing kiss, his tongue pressing past my lips as nausea swirls through me.
I push him off of me, and he glares at me. Without a word, he walks back into our bedroom and slams the door shut. A faint sound of his game turning on a second later.
The knot in my chest tightens, and the excitement I felt just a moment ago fades away.
Walking toward the kitchen, I grab a dish towel and turn back to the sink, the thought of Nashville slowly fading as I continue moving through the kitchen.
Crouching down as I scour the cabinets, I grab the kettle, fill it with water, and place it on the stove.
The kettle shrieks, a sharp whistle that cuts through the silence, and I pour boiling water over a tea bag, watching amber seep into the steaming cup.
On the balcony, I hold the mug against my chest and breathe in the ocean air.
Below me, Santa Monica hums with the noise of traffic, chatter, and screams spilling out along the pier. It’s everything I used to love, everything I thought I’d built for myself. But right now, the city feels like a backdrop, and I’m the only one who doesn’t belong in the scene.
When the tea cools, I make my way back to the kitchen and rinse the mug, load a few stray dishes into the dishwasher, and wipe the counters.
Back on the couch, I open my laptop again. The files automatically load, the rainbow wheel of doom spinning until Brian’s face fills the screen. His grin’s wide, charming, and directly aimed at the camera.
I press play, watching him slide his arm around me and tilt my chin so the camera captures his kiss. It looks perfect. God, it’ll sell.
But my stomach knots. Because I see the emptiness in his eyes that no one else will notice. The calculation behind every gesture. The way his thumb stroked my jaw was as if I were a product, not a person.
I cut the clip, trim the edges, and brighten the frame until we glow. The edits pile up, my fingers moving on autopilot while my heart aches with every keystroke.
Quickly, I glance at my phone.
Reed’s reply is still there, eleven simple words.
Yeah. Just say when. I’ll be here to pick you up.
It shouldn’t mean so much, but it does.
I run my thumb over the screen, reopening our thread and rereading the message until I memorize it. I almost typed something else—Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.
But I delete it before it’s even sent, my breath getting stuck in my throat.
I let the words play back in my mind: his steady, gruff voice and his quiet confidence.
For the first time today, my lips curve into something unpracticed.
The video stays paused on the laptop screen, frozen mid-laugh. But I’m no longer paying attention to it.
Instead, I’m staring at Reed’s name glowing on my phone, wondering how someone who began as a friend suddenly feels like the quiet place my heart has been searching for all along.