12. Layla
layla
. . .
The soft hum of my laptop is the only sound in the apartment.
I’ve been glued to my screen for hours, trimming clips from Ruby Ridge, Reed’s bar glowing under string lights, the laughter spilling from Boots sharp, expensive, suffocating. “You’ve been so busy lately,” he murmurs, fingers grazing my shoulder. “How about we fix that? Let me take you out tonight.”
I blink. “Out?”
What’s gotten into him?
Brian hasn’t wanted to “take me out” in months. The sudden sweetness feels off. “Uh, yeah. Sure,” I say, because it’s easier than arguing. Because I know he wants something, and pretending keeps the peace.
He grins, satisfied. “Perfect. Be ready by seven, okay?”
When he disappears down the hall, I exhale shakily, turning back to the laptop. My reflection stares back from the dark screen, perfectly painted, perfectly staged, perfectly trapped.
I drag myself to my bedroom to get ready, slipping into a white, flowy dress that looks right but feels unsettling. The whole time, my chest aches with the ghost of Tennessee air; of warm nights, laughter, and a certain bar owner’s quiet eyes.
My phone buzzes on the counter, taking me out of my trance.
His name alone punches the breath out of me.
Reed
Been thinkin’ about you.
I grip the counter, heart pounding, caught between the reflection in the mirror and the one that still smells like oakmoss and sandalwood.
For a minute, I stare at Reed’s text.
His words feel like warmth on my skin, like someone remembering me just because they wanted to, not because they needed something. My fingers hover above the keyboard.
I type it, erase it. Type again. Add a smiley. Erase that too.
Instead, I settle on:
Layla
Hey. Missed hearing from you.
Hitting send before I can overthink it. The little “delivered” bubble pops up, and I shove my phone away, the nerves settling low in my stomach.
I know this is wrong in many ways, but it feels like my relationship has been slowly suffocating me for almost eight years.
I’m afraid to leave or speak up because a small part of me still believes he will change.
I still hope he’ll open his eyes and see that he has a good woman in front of him, but I’m tired of begging for scraps of attention.
I don’t need much, but I shouldn’t have to beg for the bare minimum.
Brian has slowly been changing into a man who’s comfortable with what he has; he’s beginning to lose his temper, blaming it all on me, and I don’t think I can hold on much longer.
Turning my focus back to the mirror as I curl my hair, I let out a long exhale. My hands are trembling when I put on mascara. I tell myself to breathe.
Maybe Brian really does want to make things right tonight.
Maybe he’s trying.
Finally, I step out of the bedroom, my head spinning with my thoughts, making me feel a sense of queasiness.
Brian’s already waiting. Freshly showered, clean-shaven, wearing the cologne I used to love.
“You look beautiful,” he says easily, his smile too perfect, practiced.
“Thanks,” I manage, smoothing the hem of my dress with shaky hands.
We walk through the parking garage, our footsteps echoing off the concrete. I watch our linked hands sway between us; his grip possessive, mine limp.
In the car, city lights blur across the windshield. For the first ten minutes, everything feels… almost normal. He discusses his friends, new contracts, and a brand’s interest in having him promote a luxury watch line.
I nod when I should. Smile when it’s safe.
“I saw that Lauren got engaged,” I say lightly, scrolling through my phone. “She looks so happy.”
Brian laughs once, a short, cutting sound. “Happy? Please. She probably trapped the guy.”
I blink, thrown. “What? No, she’s been with him for years.”
He cuts his eyes toward me. “You’d know, huh?”
My stomach drops. “Brian, come on, it’s not that deep.”
His jaw flexes. “You always say stupid things like that and then act shocked when I call you on it.”
Why is he mad about this?
“Brian, I was just saying—”
“Just saying,” he mocks, slamming his hand against the steering wheel so hard the horn bursts for a second. “You never shut up, Layla.”
“Please don’t—”
“God, you’re doing it again,” he snaps. “Don’t play the victim.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are. Every time you cry, it’s the same act.” His hand crashes down on the dashboard; the glove box rattling. “Crybaby,” he spits. “You think that works on me?”
My eyes sting. “I’m not trying to—”
“Save it. You know what? Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should walk away and find someone who actually loves me.”
“What?”
He throws a humorless laugh into the dark. “Yeah. I could do it. Wouldn’t be hard. You think you’re the only one who wants me? Please.”
I grip the edge of my seat, voice trembling. “Can you stop saying things like that?”
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
“Brian—”
“Don’t,” he snarls and slams his palm into the steering wheel again.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them. I turn toward the window, the cool glass biting against my skin.
“Layla.” His voice sharpens.
I don’t look, I can’t because I’m so confused as to what is fucking happening.
“Layla, look at me.”
Silence.
He reaches across the console, grabbing my chin, forcing me to face him. His grip is hard, the angle of his fingers pressing into the jawbone.
“Listen to me,” he says, pushing his fingers deeper into my jaw. “Why do I have to yell, why do I have to threaten to leave, before you’ll fucking listen?”
My breath catches, and a quiet sound escapes before I can swallow it. He holds my face there a moment longer, until my eyes start to water more, then jerks his hand away.
The rest of the drive is silent. Only the hum of the tires, the pulse in my ears, and the quiet question looping through my mind.
How did this become normal?
Thirty minutes of suffocating silence crawl by before we reach the restaurant.
We pull into the restaurant’s valet line, and the argument disappears from Brian’s face like it never happened. He quickly shifts back into charm mode, handing over the keys, complimenting the hostess, and smiling so broadly that strangers might think we’re perfect.
Inside, the dim lighting is soft, casting a warm amber glow over the patrons. Everyone around us laughs, forks clinking against plates. I try to match the energy, pretending the bruised silence in my chest doesn’t exist.
He orders for both of us without asking, his hand brushing mine across the table.
“Layla’s been dying for a night out,” he tells the waiter, tone easy, practiced. “Haven’t you, baby?”
I nod, forcing a fake smile. “Yeah. It’s nice to get out.”
The waiter leaves, and I can feel Brian’s gaze lingering, waiting for me to make things normal again. So I do what I’ve learned: I laugh softly at something that isn’t funny while nervously picking at the linen napkin in my lap.
It’s a performance, and I know my lines by heart. Strangers probably stare at us and wonder what a cute couple we make, but if they really knew what was going on.
He’s laughing again, sharing a story about an ad campaign, gesturing with his glass as if he didn’t just threaten to leave me thirty minutes ago.
I excuse myself quietly. “I’m just gonna use the restroom.”
He barely looks up. “Don’t take forever, okay?”
Making my way over to the restroom, I open the wooden door softly, letting out the breath I’ve been holding in. I lock myself inside a stall anyway and press my back to the door, swallowing down the tears.
My phone vibrates in my palm as Reed responds to the text I had just sent.
Reed
When you comin’ back out this way, sunshine? Bar’s too damn quiet without you.
Shit. I never booked the flight.
I sit down on the closed toilet lid, open my travel app, and before I can talk myself out of it, make up some excuse as to why I shouldn’t go; I book the damn flight.
Two days. Round-trip to Ruby Ridge.
It’s impulsive, stupid, and in this moment, I don’t fucking care.
I type back quickly.
Layla
Two days.
Don’t make any plans without me.
Three small dots appear instantly, then disappear just as quickly.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Reed
Wouldn’t dream of it.
I chew the inside of my cheek, pushing my phone back into my bag. Opening the stall, I walk over to the mirror to fix myself up before heading back out there.
Pushing open the restroom door, everything feels overwhelmingly loud again. The dim lighting, the gentle clinking of cutlery, the low hum of conversation; it’s all too much.
Brian’s laughter is the first thing I hear.
He’s leaned back in his chair, talking animatedly with the waiter. He gestures with his glass, that confident tilt of his chin. The same man who’d slammed his hand against the dashboard not an hour ago now smiles as though he’s never raised his voice in his life.
I slip quietly into my seat. His eyes flick toward me, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He nods, reaching for the bottle on the table, topping off my wine before pouring more for himself. The waiter drops off our entrées, and Brian thanks him with that polished charm that used to make me melt.
We eat. Or rather, he eats. I move food around my plate, pretending.
He finally asks for the check, and I exhale quietly, my shoulders dropping half an inch. He slides his card to the waiter and leans back, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. “You tired?”
“A little,” I answer.
“Good dinner, though, right?”
I nod because disagreeing would make him mad.
He stands and helps me with his coat, the gesture so gentle that it almost feels cruel. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric as he drapes it over my shoulders. His palm stays on my back a second too long. “C’mon, let’s go.”
We step out of the restaurant, and the night air is damp and heavy with city noise. Streetlights smear a hazy yellow across the pavement, and the valet’s whistle echoes somewhere behind us. Brian’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk, his fingers pressing just hard enough to guide.
He thanks the valet with that same polished grin, slips into the driver’s seat without opening my door for me, and checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror before we pull away.
For a few minutes, there’s silence—just the sound of tires sliding over slick asphalt and the low hum of the radio. I stare out the window, watching storefronts blur by like a reel I can’t pause.
“So, I never asked how Tennessee was.”
Oh, now he asks.
I glance over, caught off guard. “It was fine, nice seeing my friends, and filming new content for our page.”
He snorts, one hand tightening on the wheel. “It better be good.”
My pulse flickers. “It wil—”
“It better be, Layla,” he interrupts, sarcasm curling around every word. “It’ll do even better if I was in them.”
I blink, unsure if he’s serious. “It’s something new I’m trying; you don’t have to always be in my videos.”
He laughs sharply. “Our content will always be better because of me. What, are you fucking someone out there?”
“It’s not like that, Brian.”
He slams his hand against the steering wheel; the sound cracks through the car. “Then how is it, Layla? Because it looks like you’re trying to build a brand on me not existing.”
My throat tightens. “It isn’t personal—”
“It’s personal when you don’t include your fiancé!” he snaps. “People don’t give a shit about you frolicking around hick town.” He laughs under his breath, bitter. “But sure, keep pretending it’ll do you some good.”
I stare down at my lap, my nails digging into my palm.
He exhales hard, shaking his head. “You know what? Maybe I should stay out of it. You’re nothing without me anyway.”
I swallow. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, voice low, “you’re good at it.”
The rest of the drive unfolds quietly. The city disappears into quieter streets, then into the empty echo of the parking garage. When the sensor light flickers on, it casts a harsh white glow on his face, the same face that women melt over.
He parks, kills the engine, and leans back with a sigh that sounds almost tired. “Another trip coming up, I assume.”
“Yeah.” I force my voice steady. “Actually… I fly out in two days.”
He scoffs, eyes still on the dash. “Of course you do.”
“It’s work.”
“Right.” His lips twist into a smirk that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Whatever you say, Layla.”
I unbuckle slowly, the click echoing like punctuation. My purse strap slips off my shoulder as I open the door. Cool night air pours in, fresh and unfamiliar.
Closing the door with a dull thud, I stand there for a moment, breathing in the quiet, the space, and the fragile sense that the world outside this garage still belongs to me.
Two days.
Just forty-eight hours until I can breathe again.