Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Layla’s eyes crinkle at the corner. “I’d be honored.”
Silence again after Benny skips off. The washing machine timer goes off.
Layla tucks her legs up, hand sliding over my forearm. “Ian Faulkner,” she says, lips twitching. “Devastating loss.”
“I’ll be sure to send flowers,” I murmur, mustering a smile. Wondering what the fuck I’m gonna do.
She studies me for a beat, not pushing. “Want to start the movie, and then I’ll run up and check on her?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“I’m an excellent tucker, by the way.” Layla smiles, teasing. “I do voices. I do dramatic pauses. I do the special tuck so the blankets are extra tight at the foot of the bed so you feel like a burrito.”
“Burrito,” I repeat. “She’ll love that.”
Layla studies me a few moments before squeezing my forearm once and slipping off the couch. “I’ll be back,” she whispers. “Time for tuck tuck.”
I nod like my head isn’t packed with regret.
Upstairs, floorboards creak, and then I hear her doing a voice I don’t recognize, high pitched and too dramatic for bedtime, followed by a scandalized scream that can only be Benny’s.
A laugh. Then quiet, which can only mean they’ve calmed down and it’s time for lights out.
It’s so fucking domestic that it’s a gut punch right behind the ribs.
It knocks the wind out of me—how easy it sounds.
How normal.
Benny hasn’t had that kind of normal. Not in the way her friends do, with moms who drive them around and take them to the mall and braid their hair.
I mean, I try, but my hands are so fucking big.
Still, she has me, with my bad jokes. Take-out dinners. Fast food and DoorDash. The calendar with color-coded practice schedules and appointments that I split with the nanny.
I broke the one rule I have for Benny and me the second I said yes to Layla staying here. Because it felt harmless. Because it felt good to be reckless for once.
I shouldn’t have asked Layla to come. Never should have had her stay here—she should be in a hotel.
Protect the perimeter.
But then from upstairs, Benny laughs again, and nothing about this feels wrong.
Layla is out of state, yes. The logistics are a nightmare. Long distance with a kid is like juggling knives on a treadmill.
I know all of that.
So maybe the answer isn’t to shove Layla to the curb. Maybe the answer is to be the fucking adult I keep pretending to be. Set the pace, choose careful over being cowardly. Go slow. Be honest. Make no promises I can’t keep . . .
Light footfalls return to the stairs.
My heart does the stupid stutter it always does right before I run out onto a field.
Layla rounds the corner to the living room. “Burrito complete,” she whispers, sliding back beside me, already reaching for a snuggle blanket. “She’s out like a light.”
“Good.”
Maybe tonight I just sit with the ideas in my head instead of voicing them to Layla.
Let all the what-ifs settle in my chest.
Chapter 20
Layla
Is it my imagination, or is he being weird?
He’s sitting too straight on the couch, when he should be relaxed. Smiles without showing teeth.
The house is quiet except for the dryer doing lazy laps. Pool lights throw a ripple of blue across the kitchen bay windows; somewhere outside a sprinkler hisses and clicks on.
He was fine before Skylar dropped Benny off and they had their quiet conversation . . .
Don’t poke at him, Layla. Don’t pry . . .
Whatever it was, IT’S None of Your Business.
“Are you sure everything is okay?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself, and instantly groan along with it. Jeez, Layla, that is one thing guys hate! Snooping!
“I . . .” He takes a pillow and sets it on his lap. “I’m not sure.”
Oh.
Ohh . . .
Why was I expecting him to lie and say, “Yes,” and then change the subject. Deflect. Say nothing is wrong.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I add quickly as heat climbs my neck.
He thumbs the corner of the pillow like he’s smoothing a crease that isn’t there. “It’s not . . . bad. Just a lot.” His eyes flick to mine and away. “Benny.”
My hand reaches for his. “Is everything okay? Did something happen while they were all at dinner?”
Hayes waffles, indecision etched across his brow. “Yes and no.”
My brain starts speed-scrolling through every possible subject a nine-year-old could announce over chicken tenders and fries, my mind coming up blank.
Did she announce I’m sleeping in the guest room? Did she tell Madison’s parents her dad and I kiss? Did she tell them she hates me and wants me to leave?
Wait.
Why am I assuming I’m involved?
This could be about Christmas. Or a sleepover. Or volleyball.
But if that was the case, he wouldn’t look so serious, would he? He’d be flirting and touching me and possibly kissing me with his hand up my shirt . . . He rubs his thumb along the pillow again, eyes on the seam.