I head toward the automatic doors, the late-night chill sweeping in from outside.
My sneakers shuffle against the concrete of the parking garage ramp as I drag my luggage toward P6. The echo of each step bounces back at me, reminding me how alone I am now.
And how alone I was before Reed.
I press the unlock button on my key fob, and my car chirps, its headlights blinking. The sound is too loud in the cavernous garage; I flinch anyway.
Lifting my suitcase into the trunk, my arms straining, as my breath shortens, I finally slide into the driver’s seat.
My fingers hesitate before starting the car.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Reed
Text me when you’re home.
My heart squeezes.
Layla
I will. Promise.
I notice my reflection in the rearview mirror; my eyes are still a little swollen from trying not to cry on the plane, and my makeup is smudged just a bit from sleeping against Reed’s chest earlier this morning.
God, he held me.
I swallow the ache rising in my throat.
The engine roars to life as I pull away from the space, winding up the ramp toward fresh air. The exit gate ejects me onto the main road, airport chaos fading into the monotony of the freeway.
Taillights cast red reflections on the wet asphalt. A plane rumbles above, vanishing into clouds I long to follow.
Santa Monica greets me with palm trees swaying in the night breeze, and the ocean’s salty breath caressing my windshield, but nothing feels warm about being back home.
Driving into the underground garage of our building, the same spot I’ve parked at a thousand times, but tonight it feels like I’m driving into a cage.
Taking a deep breath before I get out of my car, I say a silent prayer for myself, hoping Brian is in a good mood. Once I exhale, I get out, slamming the door shut, and grab my suitcase from the trunk before heading up.
The elevator ride up is quiet enough that I hear my pulse in my ears.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Home, or what once felt like home.
I take a deep breath that doesn’t ease my nerves and unlock the front door to my apartment.
Brian stands in the middle of the living room, his posture stiff, arms crossed and jaw clenched so tightly it could crack teeth.
The TV flickers behind him, but he’s not watching it; he’s watching me.
His eyes scan every inch of me as if he’s searching for a lie beneath my skin.
“Well,” he says, voice dripping with sour disappointment, “look who finally decided to show up.”
My suitcase handle digs painfully into my palm, but I keep my tone steady.
“I told you it was for a brand deal,” I say, nudging the door closed with my heel. “Work. You knew that.”
