Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Layla

This morning, I ran to Ben’s house because I felt suffocated under the unrealistic happiness of my mother’s new relationship. I actually do like Paul. Even if he does keep a bird-watching log by the front window and unironically wears a sweater vest. But in the back of my mind, I had always pictured it being just my mom and I for the rest of our lives—single riders who have sworn off men and are perfectly content being alone.

As I stepped onto the pavement, the bone-chilling breeze stung my skin, and I realized I had no destination in mind. Then with music blasting in my ears, drowning out the chaos of my thoughts, I set off. Before I knew it, I was standing at his front door and then eating waffles in his kitchen while trying not to eye fuck him.

Worried that I’ve overstayed my uninvited welcome, I hop off the counter right as his phone rings. I motion to the front door, indicating that I’m going to head out, as he answers the call.

Stopping to pet Hank, who’s perched on the arm of the couch awaiting pets, I overhear him. “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?” There’s a brief pause as he listens and looks around the wall of the dining room to where Hank and I are getting reacquainted. Holding up a finger, he gestures for me to wait a minute, as he responds back to his mom. “Yeah, that should work. She’s actually here right now, so I’ll…” I can hear the indistinguishable garble of Brandy’s excited voice on the other line, followed by his murmured responses.

He hangs up as I pull on my running shoes, nearly tipping over in the process as I attempt to do it while standing. Walking across the room toward the entryway, he emerges, absentmindedly scratching the back of his head. His shirt rides up, revealing the smooth contours of muscle underneath that I can’t stop my eyes from drifting toward. I mentally remind myself to fact-check whether firefighters are objectively more attractive or if it’s merely a placebo effect. Because this is not how I remember him. My mental image of him used to be of a tall, lanky, annoying guy. Now, I’m confronted with this new version of him—a grown-up transformation where his slender frame has been replaced by solid muscle and a decent sense of humor.

With a note of reluctance, he finally says, “So, that was my mom.”

“Yeah, kind of figured that when you said, ‘Hey, Mom.’” I glance up at him with a teasing smile as I tie my shoe.

“Smart ass.” With a half-smile, he continues, “She was wanting to know if we could all come over tonight. Mick’s having another good day for the first time in a while. He doesn’t get too many of those anymore. He wants to see everyone again.” His previously amused smile turns into a sad one. The realization of the situation settling over us like a plume of dust. Bursting us from our previous happy little bubble.

Clearing his throat, he adds, “You don’t have to, of course. But it’d mean a lot to him. You know how much he’s always liked you.”

“Of course, I’ll be there. It’s part of the reason why I’m here…for your family. It sounds fun. Well, besides the whole having to hang out with you part.” I’m lying straight through my teeth, because I’ve come to discover that I’m actually beginning to enjoy hanging out with him.

My comment revives his smirk. “Need I remind you, that you ran to my house—keyword being ran . It sounds like you couldn’t wait to see me.”

“I hate you,” I deadpan.

“You sure about that?” He smiles ear-to-ear. All cocky and smug and with a hidden six pack that I now cannot get out of my head.

Our back-and-forth is the only thing keeping us going this week. Perhaps also the only thing from either fist fighting or having sex—I’m not sure which at this point.

He watches as I unlock the brushed bronze lock and open the door. A blast of frigid air rushes through, sending a shiver up my spine as if it’s freezing my vertebrae one by one. Running here maybe wasn’t my brightest idea. But you know what’s even worse? Hearing my mom and Paul through the paper thin walls. I’d run hours in the middle of a blizzard, if it meant never hearing the two of them again. “I better get going. Text me the details about tonight and I’ll make it work.”

“Wait.” He walks up and holds the front door from closing. I’m on one side of the door, him on the other. And even with him not having showered yet, I can smell his mesmerizing scent. A mixture of cologne, laundry detergent, and body wash—a woodsy citrus smell that I wish I could bottle up and open to sniff whenever I’m homesick. “Let me drive you home. It’s too cold to run in this weather.”

“Oh please, I’ll be fine. I ran all the way here, I can run back too.”

Grabbing both of my shoulders, he starts to pull me back into the warmth of his house. I don’t want to admit it aloud, but it is freezing outside. The last thing I want is to be out there in the 30℉ weather with wind that’s picking up. However, the other last thing I want is to be around him for one more second. It’s not even because I hate him; it’s my own fault. Now that I’ve seen him shirtless, tasted his cooking, slept on his couch, and become his fake girlfriend, I’m getting too comfortable around him. Too open to the idea that sleeping with him wouldn’t be half bad, in fact, it might be outstanding. One look at him, and you just know he’d rock your world in the best sexual ways possible.

With those big hands cupping round my much smaller shoulders, he leads me back into the family room. “You’re staying. And the fact that you’re not even clawing your way out of my grip tells me that you know I’m right.”

“I could easily run home. But if you happen to already be going somewhere, then sure. I guess I’ll accept a ride.” Begrudgingly, I add, “Thank you.”

Walking to the hall closet, he throws on a charcoal gray utility jacket, and grabs an extra hoodie off a hanger. “Here. Wear this.”

He tosses the garment, and it hits me in the chest before sliding down into a puddle of fabric on the ground.

“I’m already wearing a jacket.”

“That’s hardly a jacket.”

As another shiver wracks my body, his eyes snap to the movement—hyper aware of every little cue and feeling that comes over me. That’s the problem with him. He knows me too well.

“Stop fighting with me and just put it on,” he sighs.

I pick up the hoodie with two fingers and an outstretched arm, inspecting it as if it’s contaminated with toxic waste. Pulling my arms through the sleeves, it’s apparent that it is incredibly too big. It’s also very warm and smells like him, so I keep my grumbling to a minimum.

Grabbing his keys and wallet from the entryway table, he nods down the hall. “Let’s go. I’m parked in the garage.”

He leads me through the hallway toward the back door that’s connected to the garage. I haven’t been on this side of his house before, so I take every opportunity to snoop as we pass by the three bedrooms connected to the hall. Each one is surprisingly clean—a stark contrast to the horrid rat lair he previously had the first day I came over. I spot two bedrooms, both with large beds on wooden frames, crisp white linens, and black-and-white photos hung on the walls. The third room looks to be a makeshift home gym, with a treadmill and some sort of fancy pulley cable machine.

Entering the garage, there are little signs of him scattered throughout—a beat up kayak, a full workbench with various tools, stacks of black organized bins, and a Christmas tree in an unopened box.

As he unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for me, I point to the artificial tree. “You know Christmas is next week. Shouldn’t you be putting that up?”

Taking a long look at it, he shrugs and closes my door with a slam before proceeding to the driver’s side. When he slides into the front, settling into the black leather seat, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to celebrate this year.”

A look of profound sadness etches into his dark brows and eyes, like a raging storm cloud rolling into the horizon.

I nudge his elbow. “You’re not missing much. Christmas is the worst.”

“I’ve actually always liked Christmas. But now I think it will just haunt me with memories of losing Mick.”

The Grinch in me wants to cheer him on and agree that, yes, holidays are indeed the worst. They can be tied to terrible memories; I know that better than anyone. My reason for hating this time of year, however, is due to a lying, cheating father, not the heartbreaking loss of someone who loved you like their own. Both are losses in profoundly different ways.

I nod, scrambling for the right words to say. Unless you need a swift kick in the ass, I’m not the person to turn to when things get tough. This situation doesn’t warrant tough love. It needs someone gentle and understanding, someone who knows the right combination of words to ease the grief, even by a fraction. Not an emotionally stunted, pessimistic pain in the ass like me. All I know is that this sucks. And that even though we’re all pretending to smile through these final moments with Mick, there’s an underlying sadness for everyone involved. The ending is inevitable, no matter how much he’s loved, how much we cry, or how much we savor and squeeze every ounce of love in these moments with him.

Ben drives down the road toward my mom’s home, the cold wind whipping at the branches and jostling the car as we travel down the deserted road. We sit in comfortable silence, both of us lost in our thoughts.

Pulling into the driveway, he shifts the car into park and raises his chin toward the front door. “Better knock first in case Paul popped a Viagra and they’re still going at it.”

I throw him a disgusted look and move to smack his shoulder, but he’s faster than I expect. He turns his upper body toward me, catching my hand in midair and holding my wrist suspended above the center console.

“Didn’t your mom tell you that hitting isn’t nice?” he asks, looking me dead in the eyes. His grasp is gentle yet firm, and for a moment, we stay locked in the unexpected closeness.

My stomach does a strange flip flop. “You know we don’t play nice.”

“So how do we play then?” His thumb strokes the smooth skin of my wrist, and it takes everything in me not to moan out loud.

“You tell me,” I breathe.

A moment of silence lingers between us, heavy with unspoken acknowledgment—a mutual understanding that a newfound fire has been ignited, illuminating a path toward uncharted territory. The last time I saw him, I wanted nothing more than to tell him to kick rocks barefoot. Which is why it surprises me that now I’d like to kick rocks with him. In a bedroom. Or a car. Or a filthy alleyway. Or anywhere really, so long as we could channel our heated energy into something more productive—like doggystyle.

His voice comes out as a deep rumble, “Layla, I?—”

A loud knock on the passenger window startles me, making me jump and nearly hit my head on the roof of his bougie sports car. He immediately drops my arm as I snatch it back, both of us acting as if we’ve been caught red-handed committing a horrific crime.

“Layla! Ben! Hi, kids.” Mom stands right outside the car, waving like the happy little maniac she is. “Come on in, it’s freezing out here.”

I open the car door and fly out, a tight smile plastered on my face with an unnatural laugh to match. “He was just on his way out.”

She makes a disappointed sound as I start to carefully power walk up the slick pathway. Much to my dismay, I hear the window roll down behind me and his deep voice call out to my mother, “On my way to the grocery store to pick up some things for tonight. I’m sure you already talked to my mom, but she wanted to know if everyone could come by tonight.”

I don’t even hear my mother’s reply, because I am out of there faster than an Olympic sprinter. In fact, the Olympics should recruit me because not only am I fast, but I’m agile under pressure—sprinting on near-frozen cement after almost jumping my childhood nemesis as if he were free Taylor Swift concert tickets

All I know is that we were two seconds away from fucking in the very small backseat of his car.

And I’m not too mad at the idea of that.