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“You’re a coward, Mr Martins,” she says quietly. “You spend all day teaching other couples to open themselves up to love. But you’d never do it yourself. You tell other people to take risks you think are too dangerous for yourself. You’re a hypocrite and a coward. And I hate cowards.”
She leaves, slamming the door behind her.
***
SIXTY-FIVE
***
LUKE
After Layla leaves, I sit alone in the hotel room for almost two hours, watching the sky darken outside the windows. I don’t remember the last time I felt so awful.
Eventually, I muster up the energy to pack up mine and Zack’s suitcases and order a taxi. Josh needs to be at the post-wedding breakfast tomorrow morning, and after a lot of deliberation, I leave him a quick note saying Zack was struggling, so we’ve all gone home. I feel bad lying to him, but I know he won’t be able to leave before tomorrow afternoon, after everything has been cleared up. There’s no point putting extra stress on his shoulders. Layla’s gone; he may as well enjoy the time with his family.
That night, I don’t sleep. I can’t. Layla’s words keep running through my mind like a broken record.
You can’t tell me you didn’t know I was falling for you. You knew. You all knew.
I’ve been so stupid. I never should’ve even kissed her, let alone slept with her. I shouldn’t have held her in my arms at night, or invited her to a family function, or tied her to a bloody headboard. She’s absolutely right; we’ve all been treating her like our girlfriends. We can’t turn around now and say that none of it was real. It was.
We were supposed to be helping her find love. Instead, we strung her along, encouraged her to open up to us, and then broke her heart.
The only thing I can console myself with is that I nipped it in the bud when I did. If I’d caved last night, and just grabbed her and kissed her like I wanted to, it would have hurt her so much more in the long run.
I can’t be with Layla. And soon, she’ll see that. She doesn’t want to be with some forty-year-old divorcee with commitment issues and a history of bad romantic choices. We did all of this so she can find someone else; someone suited to her.
So I don’t know why I feel so bad about it.
Zack finally gets back to the flat at nine the next morning, just as I’m giving up on sleep and heading into the kitchen for a coffee. He’s a mess; his suit is crumpled and stained with dirt, and I can smell the sour scent of beer and sweat on him. He doesn’t say a word to me, heading straight to his bedroom and locking the door. I make my drink and pull out my laptop, settling in for a day of work. I need something to distract me until Josh gets home.
* * *
Almost four hours later, I’m halfway through a blog post about setting healthy boundaries when a massive clatter rocks the flat.
“IDIOT!” Zack’s muffled shout easily pierces through his bedroom wall. There’s another crash, like he’s kicked something over. “GODDAMN IDIOT! What the HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
Alarmed, I shut the lid of my laptop, but before I can go check on him, Zack barges into the lounge. He looks half-mad; his eyes are wide and red, and he’s still in last night’s suit.
“Zack.” I stand. “Are you okay?”
He ignores me, storming into the kitchen and yanking open the cupboard under the sink. He starts rooting around inside, pushing out armfuls of cleaning supplies. Bottles of dish soap and grease remover clatter to the kitchen tile, bouncing and rolling under the cupboards.
I follow him, alarmed. “Hey. Calm down. What is it?” I reach down to touch his shoulder, and he shoves me away.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” He roars, standing and moving onto the next cupboard. He slams the door open so hard all the plates inside rattle. “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!” He tugs out a pile of plates, dropping them onto the wooden counter. I hear the porcelain crack.
“Zack.” I grab him by the shoulders, spinning him to face me. “What’s happening? Are you looking for something?”
He looks down at me. He’s panting like a dog. His pupils are so dilated his eyes look black. “I can’t find her ring,” he forces out, his voice rough.
It takes a few seconds for that to sink in. “Emily’s ring?” I ask. “The one you wear around your neck? When did you last see it?”
He runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know,” he snarls. “I don’t know. I had it at the wedding. But now it’s gone. I lost it.” He kicks the dishwasher, slamming his foot into the door with an awful clang. “I FECKIN’ LOST IT!”
Oh, Jesus. “Zack. Stop. We’ll find it.”
“What if we don’t?!” He kicks the dishwasher door again, denting the metal.
