My breath catches, and a quiet sound escapes before I can swallow it. He holds my face there a moment longer, until my eyes start to water more, then jerks his hand away.
The rest of the drive is silent. Only the hum of the tires, the pulse in my ears, and the quiet question looping through my mind.
How did this become normal?
Thirty minutes of suffocating silence crawl by before we reach the restaurant.
We pull into the restaurant’s valet line, and the argument disappears from Brian’s face like it never happened. He quickly shifts back into charm mode, handing over the keys, complimenting the hostess, and smiling so broadly that strangers might think we’re perfect.
Inside, the dim lighting is soft, casting a warm amber glow over the patrons. Everyone around us laughs, forks clinking against plates. I try to match the energy, pretending the bruised silence in my chest doesn’t exist.
He orders for both of us without asking, his hand brushing mine across the table.
“Layla’s been dying for a night out,” he tells the waiter, tone easy, practiced. “Haven’t you, baby?”
I nod, forcing a fake smile. “Yeah. It’s nice to get out.”
The waiter leaves, and I can feel Brian’s gaze lingering, waiting for me to make things normal again. So I do what I’ve learned: I laugh softly at something that isn’t funny while nervously picking at the linen napkin in my lap.
It’s a performance, and I know my lines by heart. Strangers probably stare at us and wonder what a cute couple we make, but if they really knew what was going on.
He’s laughing again, sharing a story about an ad campaign, gesturing with his glass as if he didn’t just threaten to leave me thirty minutes ago.
I excuse myself quietly. “I’m just gonna use the restroom.”
He barely looks up. “Don’t take forever, okay?”
Making my way over to the restroom, I open the wooden door softly, letting out the breath I’ve been holding in. I lock myself inside a stall anyway and press my back to the door, swallowing down the tears.
My phone vibrates in my palm as Reed responds to the text I had just sent.
Reed
When you comin’ back out this way, sunshine? Bar’s too damn quiet without you.
Shit. I never booked the flight.
I sit down on the closed toilet lid, open my travel app, and before I can talk myself out of it, make up some excuse as to why I shouldn’t go; I book the damn flight.
Two days. Round-trip to Ruby Ridge.
It’s impulsive, stupid, and in this moment, I don’t fucking care.
I type back quickly.
Layla
Two days.
Don’t make any plans without me.
Three small dots appear instantly, then disappear just as quickly.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Reed
Wouldn’t dream of it.
