“Work,” I say too fast. “Brand footage. Nothing interesting.”
He hums, chewing on his lower lip as hesteps closer. His cologne hits before he does; sharp, expensive, suffocating. “You’ve been so busy lately,” he murmurs, fingers grazing my shoulder. “How about we fix that? Let me take you out tonight.”
I blink. “Out?”
What’s gotten into him?
Brian hasn’t wanted to “take me out” in months. The sudden sweetness feels off. “Uh, yeah. Sure,” I say, because it’s easier than arguing. Because I know he wants something, and pretending keeps the peace.
He grins, satisfied. “Perfect. Be ready by seven, okay?”
When he disappears down the hall, I exhale shakily, turning back to the laptop. My reflection stares back from the dark screen, perfectly painted, perfectly staged, perfectlytrapped.
I drag myself to my bedroom to get ready, slipping into a white, flowy dress that looks right but feels unsettling. The whole time, my chest aches with the ghost of Tennessee air; of warm nights, laughter, and a certain bar owner’s quiet eyes.
My phone buzzes on the counter, taking me out of my trance.
His name alone punches the breath out of me.
Reed
Been thinkin’ about you.
I grip the counter, heart pounding, caught between the reflection in the mirror and the one that still smells like oakmoss and sandalwood.
For a minute, I stare at Reed’s text.
His words feel like warmth on my skin, like someone remembering me just because they wanted to, not becausethey needed something. My fingers hover above the keyboard.
I type it, erase it. Type again. Add a smiley. Erase that too.
Instead, I settle on:
Layla
Hey. Missed hearing from you.
Hitting send before I can overthink it. The little “delivered” bubble pops up, and I shove my phone away, the nerves settling low in my stomach.
I know this is wrong in many ways, but it feels like my relationship has been slowly suffocating me for almost eight years. I’m afraid to leave or speak up because a small part of me still believes he will change. I still hope he’ll open his eyes and see that he has a good woman in front of him, but I’m tired of begging for scraps of attention. I don’t need much, but I shouldn’t have to beg for the bare minimum.
Brian has slowly been changing into a man who’s comfortable with what he has; he’s beginning to lose his temper, blaming it all on me, and I don’t think I can hold on much longer.
Turning my focus back to the mirror as I curl my hair, I let out a long exhale. My hands are trembling when I put on mascara. I tell myself to breathe.
Maybe Brian really does want to make things right tonight.
Maybe he’s trying.
Finally, I step out of the bedroom, my head spinning with my thoughts, making me feel a sense of queasiness.
Brian’s already waiting. Freshly showered, clean-shaven, wearing the cologne I used to love.
“You look beautiful,” he says easily, his smile too perfect, practiced.
“Thanks,” I manage, smoothing the hem of my dress with shaky hands.
We walk through the parking garage, our footsteps echoing off the concrete. I watch our linked hands sway between us; his grip possessive, mine limp.
