He’s pacing back and forth across our apartment. “So you’re leaving,” he finally says, “Another trip.”
I keep my eyes on the pile of jeans in front of me. “It’s work, Brian.”
“Work.” He laughs softly. “Work this, work that. Must be nice to do whatever the fuck you want.”
My eyes still don’t meet his as I fiddle with my packed clothes, anything to keep my hands busy. “You knew about this weeks ago. It’s for my?—”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t start with your ‘my page’ crap. Just answer me one thing.”
He moves before I can prepare, crossing the room in three long strides.
My back hits the dresser, the edge digging into my lower spine. His hand quickly rises, his palm flat against my collarbone as his finger presses into my skin, right where the bone meets flesh.
It hurts; I feel pain blooming underneath, and all he’s doing is pressing harder.
“Have fun on your little work trip,” he says, the words dripping with venom. “You better not be cheating on me, Layla.”
Pain radiates with his touch. I flinch, my hands trembling by my sides. His eyes are dark and unrecognizable.
He does it constantly; flirting, DMing models, coming home with lipstick stains on his collar, like I wouldn’t notice.
But somehow, I’m the one being accused.
I mean, Layla, you are emotionally cheating. Fuck.
“Brian, you’re scaring me,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, eyes flickering like he’s debating whether to keep pushing, but he scoffs instead. “Oh, please. Don’t make me the bad guy. You love playing the victim.”
He steps back, his tone already shifting back to casual, careless charm. “Have fun on your little work trip,” he says. “Bring me something nice.”
He stares at me for a beat that feels like forever, then scoffs again.
“And Layla?” he says, stepping back. “Maybe you should be scared.”
His words hang in the air as he turns, grabs his keys, and slams the door so hard the picture frames rattle.
I let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the edge of the dresser.
The spot where he pressed his finger throbs, already tender. I pull down the collar of my shirt, and I see the faint red marks where his finger was pressed, already knowing a bruise is going to form on my delicate skin.
Tears spill before I can stop them. I press my palms to my face, sobbing until I can’t breathe anymore.
When the shaking finally subsides, I go back to packing. One shirt. Then another. My movements are slow, trying to keep myself moving so I can hold myself together.
My phone buzzes on the bed. I sniffle and reach to grab it, the bright light making me wince.
Reed
You leavin’ soon, sunshine?
Truck’s ready. So am I.
I stare at his messages, the ache in my chest loosening just a little. My fingers tremble as I type back.
Layla
Yeah! I’ll be there tonight.
