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Even if Cora refuses to see it, it is more than obvious Jonas likes her. Hell, any man who looks at a woman the way he looks at Cora doesn’t just want to be friends. He may even love her.
At the thought, my skin prickles. He could be soothing her right now. Wiping her tears away. Holding her in his arms. Shushing her cries over another man. A man who claims to love her, but supposedly has a fiancée. A fake fiancée.
And suddenly it feels as if I just handed over the love of my life to another man. “What the fuck was I thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking. That much is now obvious. My reaction to a friend’s unfortunate situation was simple. Or so I thought at the time. My friend needed help and I offered up my solution. To make people believe we were engaged. An easy, straightforward way to improve her life. No big deal, right?
Wrong. Evidently.
But it isn’t real. And Layla damn well knows nothing about our engagement is tangible. There will never be a wedding or vows or permanency. No flowers or additional jewelry or change of name.
So why the show? Why the hell did she act like a catty bitch last night? I saw the wicked gleam in her eye, the vicious curl of her lip. Why did she intentionally try to hurt the one person who matters most to me? I don’t get it. Don’t understand her motive. What does Layla stand to gain by ruining what Cora and I have? If Layla really was my friend, if she really cared about me as a person, she would have cheered me on. Not shattered my dreams.
So many questions need answering, but they will have to wait until later. Right now, I need to focus on fixing my relationship with Cora. It will take time to mend our relationship, but she needs to know the truth. From my lips. A truth I should have told her from the get-go.
Once I fly back to California, circumstances will change. Life will change. And unfortunately for those in my line of fire, the people stepping on my toes with stiletto heels, they will wish they never fucked me over.
It is one thing to fuck with me, individually. But it is a whole new ball game when you involve people I love.
My internal tirade gets disrupted when I hear a car pull into Cora’s driveway. When I lift my head from my hands, I catch her profile behind the tint. But she is so focused on parking the car, I don’t think she has spotted me yet. Not like most people survey their house the second they get home.
So, I choose to stay seated on the stoop and let her see me when she is ready.
My eyes remain glued on her as she opens the car door and steps out. As she swipes her fingers under her eyes and sniffles. As she steps around the front of her car and starts for her back door. Her eyes swollen and red. Cheeks blotchy and wet. Hair windblown. Clothes the same she wore last night. Posture defeated. And the second she notices me on her back stoop, I catch the break in her stride as she stumbles a little and takes a step back.
“Gavin?” she asks as if it is impossible for me to be here. Her voice gruff and scratchy and parched. “What are you doing here?”
I rise, roll my neck and shoulders, and take a few tentative steps toward her. But when I do, she steps back again and keeps the distance between us. There may be ten feet between us, but it feels like ten miles. And she wants this distance because I hurt her. Again.
“Hey, baby. I was worried about you after you left last night. You were so upset. A little after you left, I got a ride here to make sure you were okay. When I saw your car wasn’t here, I worried. So I stayed, wanting to be here when you got home. I needed to know you were safe and knew you wouldn’t answer if I called or texted. And at some point, I must’ve fallen asleep.”
We stand there and stare at each other. She doesn’t say a word while I study her more in-depth. Her eyes are bloodshot, her green irises more opaque. Dark half-moons paint the pale skin below her dark lashes. Lines crease her forehead and the small space just above her nose pinches her brows together. She bites the inside of her cheek as she looks everywhere but at me. The blotchy patches on her cheeks spread down her neck and onto her chest.
It has only been one night and she already looks like she hasn’t slept for weeks. And I am the sole reason. If she looks like this now—after just one night—how will she look for the several days I am gone? How did she look for the years I was gone?
A red hot poker scalds my heart at the pain I have caused her. The pain evident in her eyes and her posture and the way she reacts to me. How she purposely backs away when I try to get close. When I try to repair the shifting fault lines in her heart.
But I refuse to let everything we have gained get thrown aside like last week’s leftovers. Our relationship isn’t garbage and neither is how we feel about each other. Last night’s debacle with Layla was just another rift. But we will get past this. We will flourish. Together.
“Gavin, I think you need to leave.”
“Baby, please—”
“No,” she yells. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. You don’t get to be smooth and sweet and all baby this or baby that. Not after what just happened. It’s time for you to leave. I’m exhausted and Luna is probably crying for me. So, please. Just. Go.”
“If you’d just let me explain—”
“No, Gavin. The time for explanations has passed. You should’ve told me about her a week ago when we were catching each other up on life. I haven’t withheld anything pertinent from you. And I’d thought you’d done the same. But I guess that’s what I get for thinking.” She stops for a moment, chest heaving and fists clenched at her sides. When she speaks again, her voice drops and I have to fight to hear what she says. “So, please, I beg of you. Please leave.”
I don’t want to stand out here and argue with her. Cause a scene and have her neighbors come check to see if she is okay. If anything, I want to walk her inside and wrap her in my arms and tell her everything will be okay. That I will fix the problem I created. That I will right my wrongs. And that I will return to her again.
But actions speak louder than words. And right now, she needs actions. Actions that tell her I won’t break my promises. Not again. Actions that prove Layla is what I say she is. That she is a friend I did a favor for and nothing else.
I take a step toward her, and this time she doesn’t back away. Her frame wilts like a sad flower, I know it’s due to hurt and sleep deprivation. When I stand an arm’s length from her, I reach for her hand. She doesn’t stop me, but closes her eyes and hangs her head in defeat. She is tired and hurt and needs time to think. But I need her to not give up. Not on me and not on us.
Taking advantage of her non-retreat, I hold her hand for a beat. “Baby,” I whisper. “I know you’re upset with me. I would be, too. But I promise you, I will make this right. You and me—I am not giving up. It’s not my style. Never has been. My initial reason for returning may have been for work, but once I laid eyes on you again… it was as if I could finally breathe for the first time in thirteen years. As if I became whole again. I screwed up. Big. I own this mistake. Am punishing myself for it. But when I fly back to Cali tomorrow, they won’t know what hit them.” With my other hand, I lift her chin so her swollen eyes meet mine. “Once I’ve fixed my mistakes there, I will be back. And then, I will fix what I’ve messed up here.”
Her chin trembles in my grip. She tucks her lips between her teeth to keep from breaking down in front of me. Tears pool in her eyes as they dart between mine. She wants to believe me—I see a tinge of hope just beneath the surface—but doesn’t know if she can. When all is said and done, I will be the man she deserves. The man she can believe and count on. No matter what.
