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“Oh, Layla. Hold on a second.” There was noise in the background. “Sorry, listen, they’re asking us to sit. I love you. Come home tomorrow. I’ll come and be with you. Until we get this all sorted out. I know we can fix things with Dad.”
That was the thing. I didn’t want to sort things with Dad. Not anymore. Maybe not again. “I love you.”
I disconnected the call and managed to take off my undergarments without too much pain before I lowered myself into the water. The next time I ran from a wedding, I was goingto make sure I was wearing sneakers. I let my hand hang over the side of the bathtub so my phone didn’t get wet. With a sigh, since I felt about two hundred years old, I leaned my head back and tried to relax. My poor feet were throbbing.
Or better yet, if I ever had another wedding—and sitting where I was now, I doubted that would ever happen because I was going to be paying my father back for this one for the rest of my life—I was going to go barefoot on the beach. With a car waiting to whisk me away right next to the sand should I have to make a run for it.
The tears I’d been holding back, sometimes well, sometimes not so well, since the drink at the hotel, flooded my eyes. I’d blame Hope for this. Her tears had brought my own. Even as I thought that, I knew that wasn’t true, but I wasn’t good at handling emotions. I’d had no examples on how to do so in my life.
My mother certainly hadn’t managed hers very well.
I pushed that away, way back in my mind. I wasn’t her. I’d been proving that my whole life.
When the water went cold to match the frozen direction of my thoughts, I pulled myself out of the tub. The towels had been laid out nearby, and I grabbed one. Considering he never had guests in here, the house must be in a constant state of ready just in case someone showed up. They must open the rooms every day, air them out, make sure everything was clean. It was quite an undertaking, but it must have been worth it to Zeke.
A house that was instantly ready to house a stranded woman with nowhere to go.
It was time to doctor my feet. I winced at the thought. This was going to hurt, big time, but lately, most things did. I got to it.
My phone dinged as two messages came through, and although I was quasi-dripping and really uncomfortable, Ipicked it up to look at it because I was basically leashed to the thing, and I had no idea what to do about that.
Bridget:Just heard you’re at Zeke’s. Wow! That’s like getting invited to the Batcave.
I doubted I would find him somewhere beneath the house inventing materials to go eliminate the Joker somewhere in Paris. That was a sweet thought, though. He would look seriously gorgeous in all black, running about in the night saving lives. Bridget couldn’t know what her remark would do to me. My crush on Zeke was a secret I’d take to my grave. If my sisters had men they fantasized about, I didn’t know about that either.
She was trying to be funny.
But my humor fled the second I saw the next message.
Justin:I’m sorry, Layla. I’m really fucked up.
I stared at it for a second before I set my phone down on the counter. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with that. Was he sorry? And what difference did it make if he was? I knew next to nothing about addiction. Could I really be angry at him if this weren’t the least bit his fault but something out of his control?
My own reflection caught my attention. There I was. Everyone said I was so beautiful. I’d always thought out of the three of us that Hope was the prettiest. Her curves were more pronounced than my own. Although Bridget had the most expressive eyes. It didn’t matter. Right there was the commodity I brought to the family. My face. My hair. The fact that, according to the PR people at my dad’s company, the camera seemed to love me.
What was it that Justin brought? He was the male. The one who had been expected to carry on my father’s legacy. His son. He’d been the bright light, the man with the destiny. And now he was apologizing to me over a text message for stealing from me and leaving me in a foreign country with no way to pay for myself.
I couldn’t even bring myself to be angry at him because it was just so sad.
Well, I hoped wherever he and Kit had run off to, they were happy with their choices. But that reminded me. I had my own apology to make, and it was a big one.
I dialed Kit’s number and listened to it ring. He didn’t answer, and I hadn’t expected him to. I’d done a shit thing to him, even if it were the right choice to make. He at least deserved to tell me off personally and not over a text message.
“Hey, it’s me. Listen, I suspect you know why I did what I did today, but that doesn’t make it okay. If I hurt you, I am so sorry. I know I must have embarrassed you, and your family has to be through the roof angry with me. I need to tell you how sorry I am about any pain you are having. And that I wish you well. When you feel like talking, even if it’s to yell at me, call and I’ll answer.”
I almost said I love you. That was habit for me to say to Kit. He said it to me, too. How terrible were we that we said that to each other and neither of us meant it? Did anyone mean it when they said it anymore?
Were they worthless words?
I dried off my hair and limped over to my bag to find my hairdryer. I had no idea how long I’d be staying here, or if I’d be here at all, which meant I wasn’t going to unpack more than I had to. This would be the first time I ever did that in my life. Even when I stayed in a hotel room one night, I put away my clothes in drawers. I liked things orderly and where they were supposed to go.
But since I didn’t even know where I was supposed to go, that seemed pointless at the moment.
I’d packed for two nights in Paris and an entire trip to Bali, where we were going to stay at a resort on the beach. My honeymoon I’d gotten to pick. The idea seemed sort of ridiculous now. Kit and I had never spent as much time together as wewould have on that trip. What would we even have talked about? There was always something in life to do to separate us, and break up the time so I didn’t have to notice how little we had in common.
He had calls to make—business, purportedly, but truthfully, I had no idea what he did on the phone. Meetings to take. Again, it seemed so completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like he really worked. I’d had photo shoots to go to. Interviews to give. Parties that I was expected to attend. Lunches where I pretended to eat.
What in the hell would we have discussed for a week in Bali?
