“Yes, I did,” she interrupts softly, her voice a gentle contrast to the sharpness she’d just delivered. Her hand brushes the bar top between us, close enough that our fingers almost brush. “Don’t argue with me, Reed. Let me care a little.”
Her words sink in deeper than they should, burrowing into places I’ve kept locked away for years. My chest hurts with it, but it’s not the usual pain; it’s something dangerous.
Something that feels a hell of a lot likehope.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a slip of paper, and scribbles quickly. When she slides it across the counter, her gold jewelry shimmering beneath the natural light.
“My address,” she says with a half-smile. “Just… to have. In case. Or if you need it. Or, I don’t know, if you wanna write me letters.” She laughs softly, shaking her head at herself.
I stare at the paper, the neat loops of her handwriting blur for a second before my vision clears.
Her address?
A piece of her world is placed willingly into my scarred hands. When my eyes meet hers again, she’s still watching me, eyes wide.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more, how badly I want to keep it, or how impossible it feels to deserve it.
I let the silence hang heavy between us. The crumpled paper sits on the counter as my hand hovers above it, my rough fingers twitching, before I finally give in and slide it toward me.
When I glance up again, she’s grinning at me.
“There,” she says brightly, brushing her hands together as if she’s accomplished something big. “Now, if you everget tired of brooding in here, you can send me letters. Or, you know, a pizza. I accept both.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Pizza, huh?”
“Obviously.” She leans in closer, resting her chin on her hand, yellow-gold bracelets softly clinking. “Pepperoni with extra cheese, and cheese crust, duh.”
I shake my head, but the warmth in my chest won’t fade. “You talk too much.”
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Excuse me, but that’s my brand. Sunshine and sass. You don’t like it?”
I meant to tell her I don’t mind. I like it more than I should. But the words are stuck in my throat. Instead, I settle for something safer.
“It suits you.”
She beams at me anyway, all teeth and fire, like I just gave her a crown.
For the first time in a long, damn time, I don’t feel like my scars are the only thing people notice.
layla
. . .
Brand meetings are over, and I’m piled with content that I need to film, edit, and post before a deadline. All of it requires my fiancé to be featured because, according to them, our couple content is booming, and these brands only agreed to these deals as long as Brian is involved.
The Santa Monica breeze hits me, the smell of exhaust and food trucks blends on the sidewalk, while the chatter of people on their phones merges into a restless hum. My heels click against the concrete as I walk to the parking garage, my shoulders tense, replaying the meeting over and over.
Pulling my keys out of my bag, I click the key fob, a beep reverberating throughout the garage, and open my car door.
The leather seats are hot, sticking to the back of my thighs as I toss my tote into the passenger seat and start the engine. The air conditioner blasts me in the face, but it doesn’t do much to cool the heat prickling beneath my skin.
My engine roars as I peel out of the parking garage,anger bubbling in my chest, causing me to grip the steering wheel tighter as I merge onto the street.
Traffic is a tangled mass of brake lights, crawling along Ocean Avenue. I rest my elbow on the window ledge, watching palm trees sway against the hazy blue sky.
A couple on scooters zooms past, laughing, their hair whipping in the wind, and the sound slices through me.
I want to laugh like that. I want to feel like that. Instead, I’m here, stuck in a box of metal and noise, wishing I were strong enough to leave, but I’m not.
