41. Layla
layla
. . .
“What the actual fuck, Layla!” he yells, slamming our bedroom door shut behind us so hard the framed photo on the dresser jumps and clatters face down. “That fucking freak threatened me!”
My suitcase is already open on the bed.
I started packing at dawn, before he woke up, before I even knew I’d have the courage to finish. My hands tremble as I reach for a folded cardigan I haven’t worn in months.
“I didn’t know he did that,” I say. The words come out small, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. “I didn’t ask him to.”
“Didn’t ask him to?” He laughs, walking towards me. “You think I’m blind? You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him across the bar, like he’s your fucking knight and I’m the monster?
You are a monster.
I keep moving, packing methodically.
My favorite jeans, my pastel yellow dress, the one my sweet Reed loves, anything and everything to get me the fuck out of here.
“I’m leaving you, Brian!” I yell, squeezing my jeans as I pack. “I can’t do this anymore!”
The room goes eerily still, as if all the oxygen has vanished, and suddenly I can’t fucking breathe.
He grabs the bedside lamp and hurls it; its ceramic base shatters against the wall, a shower of jagged white shards.
Moving across the room, he kicks over the laundry basket as clothes cascade onto the floor in a tangled heap. His arm sweeps the dresser top, causing perfume bottles to crash, a glass jewelry tray to flip, coins and earrings, scattering across the vinyl wood.
“Leaving me?” he screams. “After everything I’ve put up with? After I dealt with your moods, your crying jags, your ‘I need content’ bullshit every time you left for Tennessee, when I knew you were fucking him!”
I don’t answer as I reach for the small wooden box hidden on the top shelf of the closet, behind the winter coats I never needed because of SoCal weather.
He sees me fumbling with it and lunges toward me. He smacks the box out of my grasp, pushing me hard as I fall onto the floor, screaming.
The box clatters all over the floor as the lid springs open, and letters spill everywhere.
Dozens of them.
Folded notebook pages, every single letter Reed has ever seen. Every “I miss you,” scrawled in his messy handwriting. Every “I’m waiting for you, sunshine.”
They flutter across the carpet like promises.
He drops to his knees as he snatches the nearest one and unfolds it with shaking fingers.
His eyes scan the page, then he begins to read aloud in a mock tone. “If you ever wonder how I feel, just remember this: you’ve got a man in Tennessee who hasn’t stopped thinking about you, not even for a day. And no matter what happens, I’ll always be waiting for you, sunshine.”
He laughs, a venomous, nasty, mocking laugh. “Jesus Christ. Forever? This guy’s got a death wish.”
He grabs another one. “I keep thinking about you. About the way you laughed that night. About the kiss. I don’t think I realized how much it would stay with me. I miss you more than I expected to.”
He looks up at me, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “What the fuck are these?”
I take a step back as my heel crunches on broken glass. “Brian—”
He stands slowly, clutching the papers so tightly they tear at the edges.
“You fucking whore!”
I turn and bolt, barely making it three steps down the hallway before his hand fists in my hair.
He yanks hard.
My scalp screams as my back slams against his chest.
His arm snakes around my chest, tight enough that each breath burns.
“You think you can just walk out?” he hisses in my ear. “After I put up with your whining, your crying, your pathetic videos? You think you get to leave me like I’m nothing?”
I try to wriggle out of his hold, but it’s useless.
“You’re nothing without me,” he whispers in my ear, wrapping his arms tighter around my chest. “No one is going to believe a word you say about me.”
He twirls me around, and I can smell the sharp mix of beer and anger on his breath. He pushes me against the wall, my spine slamming into the drywall as pain blooms.
“After everything I’ve done for you,” he says, gripping my throat, voice rising, “You embarrass me like this?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t want my answer anyway as he tightens his grip.
Seeing the flash of fury in his eyes, I know, this time it’s different.
He lets go of my throat and hits me, his fist connecting with the peak of my cheekbone.
I stumble back against the wall, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through my skull.
Feeling a sharp pain shoot across my cheek, my hand automatically rises to cradle my throbbing face. The taste of blood floods my mouth, and I feel a warm trickle run down my nose.
He looms over me, his breath ragged. His eyes are wild, and his hands are clenched into fists, ready to strike again.
“You fucking whore,” he snarls. “How long has this been going on? How many times have you fucked him behind my back?”
My vision blurs as I struggle to focus.
All I see are the letters scattered across our bedroom floor, the words of love and longing between Reed and me now twisted into weapons of betrayal.
“Brian, please,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “It’s not what you thi—”
“Bullshit!” he roars, cutting me off. He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh. “You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t see how you look at him? You’ve been fucking him for months, haven’t you? Admit it!”
He shakes me violently as my teeth click together.
I feel panic rising in my chest, my fight-or-flight response screaming at me to do something.
“Brian, please!” I yell, pushing weakly at his chest.
He doesn’t listen to my pleas, and this time I know he isn’t holding back anymore; he has murder in his eyes.
With a swift flick of his wrist, he backhands me across the face, and I cry out in pain.
The room spins, and my knees buckle as I struggle to stand.
Before hitting the ground, he catches me, his grip rough and demanding.
He pulls me against him, his face inches from mine. “You’re mine, Layla,” he whispers. “You’re my fucking fiancé, and you’ll never leave me. Do you understand?”
I nod weakly, tears streaming down my face as they mix with the blood from wherever I’m bleeding.
He presses his weight against me, and I feel the hardness of his erection against my hip.
“Brian, please,” I think to myself, but the words don’t come out.
With a sob, I close my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. His hands roam over my body, and I know this is my punishment for betraying him.
His hands keep roaming, and a wave of nausea washes over me. His touch is rough and brutal, a stark contrast to the tender caresses I’ve shared with Reed. His breath is hot and heavy against my ear as he mutters obscenities and threats, his voice a low, menacing growl.
“This pretty cunt is mine, and I’ll show you how much I fucking love you, Layla.”
He shoves me roughly against the wall, his body pinning mine and trapping me.
My heart races in my chest, and I feel the cold sweat of fear slide down my back.
I turn my head to the side, trying to avoid his lips, but he grabs me by the hair, forcing me to look at him.
“Look at me, you fucking bitch,” he snarls, his eyes wild with rage. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. You’re going to pay for every fucking time you spread your legs for that freak.”
With a cruel laugh, he grabs the hem of my dress and slowly pulls it up, his knuckles grazing my thighs.
I whimper and try to squirm away, but he holds me fast, his grip bruising. He pushes my panties aside and shoves his fingers inside me.
Tears stream down my face as he suddenly invades me. I push against his shoulder, but he pushes me harder against the wall, grunting as he forces his fingers inside me.
He finally pulls away, licking his fingers clean of me, his eyes cold and distant as he watches me. “Remember this, Layla,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “Remember what happens when you try to leave me. You’re mine, and I’ll never let you go. I’ll kill us both if I have to.”
I slide down the wall, tears flowing freely as my body trembles from sobs.
He laughs, grabs his keys, walks to the front door, then slams it shut.
The apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
I raise my head from my knees and take in my surroundings.
The torn letters are scattered across the floor like ghosts, fragments of my handwriting staring back at me in looping ink.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I ache everywhere, my head a little foggy, but my body moves before my brain catches up, the adrenaline pushing me to move.
Standing, I move as fast as I can and go to our bedroom, grabbing my half-packed suitcase.
My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely hold onto anything. My vision tunnels, my breathing is shallow and rapid, and my head hurts so fucking bad, but I can’t stop. If I stay here, I’m as good as dead.
I whisper to myself, move, Layla, move. I know you’re hurting, baby, but we have to leave NOW.
Yanking open my nightstand, I stuff my wallet into my tote. I find my phone charger and a small velvet pouch holding my grandmother’s ring. My hands hover over it for a second before I tuck it into my pocket.
I slip my feet into my sneakers without untying them. The soles crunch over glass as I make my way to the front door and grab my car keys off the counter.
Turning back to look at the apartment I earned on my own, I feel a sense of loss, but I shake my head. This is going to be a new beginning, and if I stay here, I know I won’t make it out alive.
My reflection appears in the mirror—puffy eyes, red cheeks, mascara smudged halfway down my face, faint bruises beginning to form around my neck and eye.
I look hollowed out.
Still, I turn the handle. Still, I go.
The hallway outside feels endless as my footsteps echo loudly, dragging whatever I can carry to get the fuck out of here.
The elevator chimes, and I flinch.
By the time I reach the parking garage, the tears I’ve been holding back start to fall.
My car sits beneath the dim yellow lights, dust settling on the hood because I haven’t driven anywhere important in months. My hands shake so badly that I drop my keys once, twice, before I finally manage to unlock the door.
The stench of my old perfume and air freshener hits me as I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door, sealing myself in with the sound of my heartbeat.
I fucking break.
The sobs burst out of me before I can control them. My whole body trembles as my breath comes in quick, uneven gasps, blurring my vision.
It’s everything all at once—fear, guilt, grief, exhaustion. The years of pretending, the months of tiptoeing around his temper, and the ache of losing Reed again and again in silence.
My fingers dig into the steering wheel as another sob escapes, and I fold forward until my forehead presses against it.
The horn blares, and I choke out something between a laugh and a scream.
As my tears finally start to slow, I lift my head, wiping my face with the sleeve of my hoodie.
My reflection in the rearview mirror looks like a stranger, but I made it out.
I take out my phone, my fingers shaking as I open my airline app.
The confirmation for tomorrow’s flight stares at me.
LAX to Nashville, 6:00 A.M.
Tomorrow feels too far away.
I whisper to myself. “I can’t stay here another night.”
Scrolling through the flight options, I finally find a ‘change flight’ option and click on it to check their availability.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type.
The screen loads for what feels like an eternity, showing no available flights until tomorrow.
Fuck.
I press my shaking hands to my face, trying to steady my breathing as my chest becomes rigid, the walls of my car closing in around me.
Steadying my breathing, I look around my surroundings one last time, the one where I curated my life, where I thought I’d spend it with Brian forever.
It’s the place where I used to be happy and make videos.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “No more,” I whisper.
I start the car. The hum of the engine fills the silence. Backing out slowly, I check my mirrors even though no one’s around.
Every red light feels too long. Every passing car is too loud. But the farther I go, the easier it becomes to breathe.
I don’t even realize where I’m headed until I’m on the freeway, the city lights fading in the rearview mirror.
The 405 extends ahead of me, and I roll down the window, feeling the cool air sting my face.
Salty breeze wraps around, and I let myself scream, releasing everything I have been holding in.
I stop at a red light, the glow washing the inside of my car in a dull, pulsing crimson.
My hands are still shaking when I pick up my phone.
I shouldn’t be doing this while stopped in traffic, but I do it anyway.
The map loads again, that thin blue line stretching impossibly far across the screen. I zoom out once, then again. The distance feels unreal, like something meant for someone braver than me.
A twenty-nine-hour drive from Santa Monica to Tennessee. Fuck.
I let out a shaky breath, staring at the number.
Twenty-nine hours of driving. Of gas stations, roadside bathrooms, and cheap coffee—twenty-nine hours of being alone with my own thoughts.
I glance back in the rearview mirror and imagine staying.
No.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Twenty-nine hours suddenly feels manageable.
The light stays red, the seconds ticking by on the crosswalk sign. I watch a couple cross the street, laughing, completely unaware that I’m about to change my life in the middle of the intersection.
I tap the screen again, tracing the route with my thumb. It’s a long drive. It’s exhausting. It’s better than fucking staying.
The light finally turns green, and the sound of horns behind me snaps me back into my body. Dropping my phone into the cup holder, I ease off the brake.
As I press the gas, my chest loosens just a little.
Twenty-nine hours is nothing compared to a lifetime of feeling trapped, manipulated, hated, and unloved.
I pull into the flow of traffic heading east, and for the first time in eight years, I don’t look back.
The city passes me in a blur, buildings thinning and lights growing farther apart as I head east.
I keep my eyes on the road, my hands steady on the wheel, even as my heart still races.
And in the quiet of my car, I hear Reed’s voice, the way it always is when he is trying to ground me without taking anything from me.
You’re safe now, sunshine.