Tomorrow I leave.
But tonight, tonight, he’s still holding me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
I’m coming back to him. I always do.
reed/layla
. . .
The morning light filters through the curtains, gentle yet harsh.
My bed feels cold. The sheets carry her scent, cherry and vanilla, and I swear if I breathe too deeply, I’ll fall apart.
I sit at the edge of my bed, running my fingers through my hair, feeling the sting of tears welling in my eyes.
My throat burns as I drag my hand over my face, trying to steady the breath that won’t come. “Damn it, Layla…”
The house feels foreign without her.
Her iced coffee glass sits on the counter, the unfinished canvas leans against the wall, and her hair tie lies on the nightstand.
Little ghosts of her everywhere.
I grab my keys from the hook and shove my jacket on. My helmet sits next to hers, where she left it on the bench.
Picking up my helmet and tossing it on, I trace the paint on hers with my thumb. The breath that leaves me isn’t steady.
I finally push open the door, and the cool autumnbreeze hits sharply. The sun’s barely up, burning gold over the horizon. Dew clings to the grass, glimmering as if the world is trying to look beautiful just to spite me.
My motorcycle sits where I left it, its black metal catching the light. I swing my leg over, and for a second, I sit there, gripping the bars, staring at the open road stretching out ahead.
I miss her.
The engine roars to life beneath me, rattling through my bones as its vibration hums up my spine as I ease it onto the road.
A cool gust of wind hits my face through the visor the moment I pick up speed.
The fields blur past in streaks of green and gold, and the smell of wet dirt and honeysuckle cuts through the ache.
She’s everywhere out here.
In the way the light hits the trees, in the stretch of sky that still looks half-asleep, and in the damn song that keeps looping in my head.
I blink hard, swallowing the lump in my throat. She’s embedded herself in my veins, and I don’t want to wake up to another sunrise without her.
Blue Moon Ranch comes into view, the wind’s dried the tears I wouldn’t let fall. I turn onto the gravel road toward Carter and Catalina’s, the hum of my bike slowing as I pull into their driveway.
Their farmhouse looks just the same, their porch swing swaying, the faint sound of music inside, and the smell of coffee strong enough to pull you in.
I kill the engine.
For a second, I almost turn back.
Almost.
The front door creaks open, and Carter steps out,wearing his worn wranglers, black boots, black Henley, and his infamous black cowboy hat, holding a coffee mug, squinting against the light.
He takes one look at me and frowns. “You look like shit,” he says.
