by Eden Butler
“Hi Donovan,” he heard, but didn’t acknowledge that soft, female voice with more than a dip of his chin. It could have been a Victoria’s Secret model who spoke to him, it could have been a troll, he didn’t care. His frustration led him here, right in front of Layla’s classroom intent on getting an explanation, whether the brat liked it or not.
And then, that door opened, the crowd grew heavier, and Donovan looked over the moving heads, ignored the loud chatter and the smell of rain on the damp clothes around him as students milled from the soaking weather outside into the hallway and past the classrooms.
When he saw her, Layla didn’t look like herself. She was still beautiful, she still made him ache at the sight of her light hair twisted in a messy bun on the back of her head. She walked from the room with her head down, her arms sliding through the sleeves of her black, waist length leather jacket. He followed her, weaving around the crowd, unable to keep his gaze from her ass and those worn jeans and knee-high black boots that she managed to make look classic and tempting.
“Layla,” he called, nearly running into her when she stopped in the middle of the hall.
One look at her face and Donovan could tell she’d lost weight. Her skin was still flawless, luminous, but her cheekbones seemed more pronounced and when someone brushed past her, knocking her knit black and white scarf to her shoulder, Donovan caught the slight protrusions of her collarbone underneath her black sweater.
“Hey,” she said, pulling her bag further up her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
She wore red lipstick and Donovan had to curl his arms over his chest to keep from touching her mouth. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
He didn’t understand her hesitation, why she looked around him, nodded to a few girls who smiled at her, adjusted the white button up she wore under her sweater and coat, kept her gaze and attention on anything but him. “You can give me a second, right? I think I need an explanation.”
“Why?”
Tired of being bumped by the crowd, Donovan twisted his head to his left, to the empty classroom just three doors down from the first one he’d bullied her into all those months ago. Surprisingly, she didn’t argue, didn’t give him some stupid excuse why she couldn’t spare a minute for him. Layla simply walked into the room without waiting for him, as though she’d expected this conversation to happen and had been waiting for him to start it.
The room was empty of anything other than one row of metal desks, at least twenty years old, and a small wooden table—worn, with chipping green paint—in front of the white board. It was that table that Layla leaned against, slinging her bag at her feet as she waited for Donovan to stand in front of her.
“So? Talk.”
“What’s going on with you?” He wanted to say “What the hell, Layla?” and “Why are you ignoring me? Why won’t you be with me?” but all those things sounded simple and desperate and Donovan was trying to get answers, not beg her to keep him company at night again.
“Nothing. I’ve just been busy.” She still wouldn’t look at him for very long, keeping her attention on the window to her right and the storm that flooded around the campus and coated the glass with fog and water.
“Too busy to return my messages?”
“Yeah,” she finally said, staring back at him. “Sorry. My dad is pushing me to apply for graduate school. I’ve been trying to work on my design portfolio and a few designs and get some references.”
“That takes all day and night?”
“No.” Layla’s skin didn’t flush and Donovan noticed there was little fire in her voice. He missed it; that spark that had never ceased to unnerve him, have him wanting to scream right back at her. But it was gone. He wanted to know why.
“Then what’s going on?” Her back straightened and he caught how she held herself, defensive, suspicious, when he pulled her chin up so she couldn’t avoid is eyes. “Really?” He didn’t hold back then, not happy that she was being dismissive, wasn’t bothering to hide how awkward she felt or how much she didn’t want to be alone with him. “I piss you off?”
“No.” She moved her chin out of his reach and scooted back on the table. “Not really.”
“’Not really?’ What is that supposed to mean?” She shrugged. “Layla, that’s a non-answer. If I pissed you off, you need to speak up.”
There was a hesitation, the brief pause she took to stare a bit longer out of the window before she finally moved her gaze back to him. “That last time, after the fight. What… what was that exactly?”
Donovan knew what she wanted to hear. She’d left that night not smiling. She hadn’t tried to kiss him goodbye, something she did because she knew it only annoyed him. The moment she left, Donovan’s room had grown cold, empty and he dismissed it as nothing—the weather, him not cranking up the heat. But deep down he’d known why she’d left quiet, without making attempts at irritating him. He’d known, he knew even now as he looked down at her and that intense gleam in her eyes. He’d been sweet, easy and it must have thrown her. It must have scared her. He couldn’t have stopped himself. It was a small thing, him loving her, him giving and not taking and he knew it had scared her. But Donovan was finding out how hard it was to reign in his emotions. He had touched her because that’s what he needed—just a small part of her that Layla would never give him freely.
But he couldn’t admit anything to her. Not if he didn’t want her disappearing completely. “What do you mean? It… um… was same as always.”
“You think so, huh?” When Donovan nodded, Layla stared down at her fingers, fiddling with the band on her silver watch. “I thought it was different.”
“Why? Because I went easy with you?” She gave off clues, small signs that told Donovan that she itched to reject him. Sighs, the stiff way she leaned away from him, how she avoided his touch. He’d scared her the last time, he caught that easily enough and so Donovan wouldn’t let her think that things had changed. He needed her to lead him. He needed her to promise that whatever happened, she wouldn’t walk away from him. He just couldn’t bear that.
“I was keyed up after that fight and I was tired. But being inside you, wanting to stay inside you the whole next day?” It all sounded stupid, harsh and Donovan dismissed the faint lines that dented with her frown. “That was just me wanting to be a little greedy.” He stepped closer and she let him, she at looked up at him, but she didn’t smile, didn’t seem to think his lame attempt at a joke was funny. “Did you think it meant something else? Did you think I was too easy? Too soft? Did you think I wanted to stay in bed with you because I like your company? You know better than that, princess.” He was deflecting, he knew it, but he couldn’t give her the truth. Not then. Maybe not ever.
“I should be used to your mouth by now.” He didn’t think she said that for him. Donovan got the feeling, in fact, that Layla was reminding herself of who he was to her, who he’d always be.
“Yeah, you really should be,” he said, moving to her side on the table. She slid over, kept her distance from him and he grinned, seeing a small flicker of that stubborn spark that always lit her up. “You still didn’t answer me.”
“Donovan, I told you, I’ve been busy. I’m trying to do whatever I can to get my shit together before graduation in the spring. Parsons is competitive.”
“Parsons? As in New York Parsons?” He cleared his throat, trying to wave off how tight his voice sounded.
“Yeah.” Those great big eyes shifted toward his face and Donovan noticed the small dip of her mouth, how her eyebrows pulled together as though she wondered why his voice had sounded a little anxious. “My dad wants me to be doing something productive if I’m in New York instead of living in a closet trying to break into the fashion industry. I have a good shot at it.”
He didn’t like her being gone, being so far up north, unprotected and then it hit him; just then, right then, Donovan understood how much he would miss her. Shit, how had that happened? What would happen when he couldn’t
see her for months at a time? When she was somewhere else and he was stuck in Cavanagh?
“Well, um… cool.” Now he was the one not overly eager to look into her eyes. Donovan ran the heel of his Chucks along the floor, smudging the gray tile while he tried to get his thoughts in order. He didn’t want to worry about Layla. He didn’t want to care enough to worry, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Still, she didn’t need to know that. “Just answer me this. You done with me?” Finally he looked at her, expecting something vicious, something that would deflate him, to leave her mouth. It was something she always did, something he’d learned to almost like. “You want to stop coming to me?”
“I might.”
Donovan nodded, clenching his jaw to keep from glaring at her. “You find someone else?”
He didn’t breathe for a minute, not just then. Not when she stared at him like she was thinking of the best insult to level at him, but when she spoke, the only venom Donovan found in that room came from his own impatience.
“No. I haven’t.”
“Then why stop?”
“Things were different last time. I didn’t like it. It got a little intense.”
“Layla, it was just sex.” He wanted to kick his own ass for that lie. It tasted rotten, bitter on his tongue.
She paused again, opened her mouth as though she wanted badly to say something, but she didn’t and then Donovan saw that spark completely burn out. She breathed low, shoulders falling just a bit and he tried not to let that expression, the sadness she tried so hard to keep off her face give him any hope. She stood then, pulled her bag onto her shoulder but didn’t leave. “Nothing was different? It didn’t mean anything?”
He debated what he should say. Something shifted in her eyes, a small flicker of the spark he’d just see leaving her. And Donovan wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to admit to her that things had changed. But she was a Mullens and he was a Donley. He was broken, still, by the heartache of betrayal. She was light and funny and full of something that he was starting to feel he was too dirty to touch. She had plans away from him and he couldn’t face the rejection he knew she’d leave behind.
Finally, with the shift of emotion working over her features, Donovan shook his head, tried to keep his tone light. “Of course not,” he said, hating the words before he spoke them. “It was what it always is, brat.”
“Yeah,” she said, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”
Then Layla slipped through the door and left Donovan alone, wondering what he’d done, wondering how he could remedy this. Wondering how he’d gotten to this point, but also knowing that it was vitally important that he did.
Small things aren’t supposed to wreck your life.
Small things like science wrapped up in plastic and glass can mock you. Decades of precise thought and ingenious chemistry all collected, evolved into that moment when she held that dangerous small thing in her hand.
She picked it up for the third time and then, just as quickly, replaced it on the countertop in her bathroom.
Two more minutes. Just two. Two that would leave devastation or relief. One hundred twenty seconds that would pause the knowledge of who she’d be next year: college graduate or first time mother. Single mother. Unmarried mother. Very, very bad Catholic. She would shame her family. Her life could unravel in just two small minutes.
In love or out. Passion or possession. Fear and loathing. All were question marks she could not sort through. Her mind was too full of possibilities and dread. What would her father say? He was liberal, God he had to be, the life he led, but would even he, that great liberal bear of a man who raised fear in other men, whose voice could both scare and comfort, would not see past this. She was certain of this.
And the man. The other one; her protector, her lover, the one that controlled and guided, the one that did things to her body that she’d never thought possible, what would he say? Would his long held fear have him running? Would all those things he spoke with each kiss, each touch, fall away with the reveal that their lives would never be the same?
Would he still want her?
She looked at her phone, watched as the numbers rolled back, pushed her closer and closer to inevitability.
Her stomach felt weighted. It felt thick and numb and all those adjectives she tried to think of, tried to collect into something resembling understanding, explanation. She tried to ignore it, the sensation of fear, of loathing, of abject terror as those numbers got lower, as those two minutes became one.
Such a stupid thing, irresponsibility. Such desolation that can be made when you forget that sensation, passion, even love, pushes away the sense of responsible adult living.
But she didn’t feel like an adult, not just then. She felt like a kid. She felt lost and frightened and worried that those lowering numbers would erase the person she wanted to be, the life she’d dreamed she’d have.
Small things aren’t supposed to wreck your life.
Not small plastic things that reveal your future.
Not small things like love.
Not small things like fear.
Small things are supposed to be forgotten. They are meant to be handled.
Small things like tests and loyalty and expectation and babies.
They all fuck you over.
The rain had stopped, leaving the pitch a sodden, soggy mess. Donovan sat on his already wet ass, arms on his knees, glaring at his squad as they practiced without him. He didn’t care that he wasn’t playing, had already been pissed at Mullens and Declan for calling this last minute practice. He wanted to be home, in his own bed, forgetting about the weather and the annoying refrain of “One month! Just one month left until Conference. Move your asses.” God, but Coach could be an asshole. But then, he probably was projecting. After all, it wasn’t Mullens’ fault that Layla was planning to leave Cavanagh. It wasn’t his fault that she was through with Donovan. Coach wanted good things for his daughter. He wanted her happy. Donovan wasn’t a good thing. Donovan was a rotten, distracting thing.
Still, when the rain dried up, the frigid temperatures dropped even lower and
Donovan ran the field cursing himself for forgetting his gloves. He cursed himself louder when he spotted Mullens’ glare and his best friend joining their coach as they both scrutinized Donovan’s performance. He was a miserable mess, but he blamed it on the weather, not the girl with great blue eyes. It wasn’t those full, perfect lips or the delicious peach scent that had him grumpy. He told himself it wasn’t even that he’d missed all those things that kept Layla vivid in his mind more often than he’d ever admit. That wasn’t why he was snapping at his squad mates. That certainly wasn’t what had him brushing shoulders with Ricky Tibbit when he asked Donovan what he had planned for the Christmas break.
“Fuck off” probably wasn’t the answer Tibbit had expected to hear and Donovan had forgotten about his squad mate’s temper, wasn’t prepared when the guy pushed him so hard, Donovan landed on the wet grass. “Like that, motherfucker?”
And then Declan and Mullens and the other grumpy, pissed off, wet squad all hurried into the fray, punching, screaming, until Declan gripped Donovan’s neck and pushed him toward the sidelines. “Calm yourself, arsehole and have a rest.”
The snow wasn’t heavy, barely touched his ankles, but it made passing, even keeping upright at the scrum damn near impossible. It also made Donovan’s ass numb as he sat watching the practice in front of him.
“Why aren’t you playing?” Autumn’s voice came from behind him and Donovan stretched around, just noticing that she and Sayo sat on two chairs that hadn’t been there when Declan tossed him from the pitch. He turned back around, not really in the mood for Autumn’s nosy questions. “Are you ignoring me, Donley?” God, but she a nosy shit sometimes.
Donovan caught Declan’s gaze across the field then lowered his shoulders when his best friend frowned at him. “Your jackass boyfriend benched me.” He didn’t bother to look at her as he a
nswered.
“Your ankle hurting?”
“Fuck, Autumn, no. I’m in a shitty mood.” Declan came nearer, likely catching something in his girlfriend’s face that annoyed him, and Donovan, not eager to hear more bitching, looked back at her. “I was being an asshole and Deco and Coach didn’t want me on the pitch. I’m sorry for barking at you. I don’t wanna be here.”
The redhead smiled at him, and for the thousandth time Donovan was reminded why Declan and Layla and all their friends loved her so much. She was always looking out for everyone but herself. Her expression told him she understood, that she probably hadn’t even minded him yelling at her, which only made him feel shittier.
“It’ll be over soon, Donovan. Then you can go home and catch a shower and be done with practice for at least a week.”
“Lucky me,” he said, turning back around when Declan approached. He didn’t listen to the low timbre of his best friend’s voice when he spoke to Autumn or how he greeted Sayo with an equally soft tone. That was Declan. He was stupid around women, especially that woman and her friends.
After months of being with Layla, Donovan had a better understanding of why. That only annoyed him further since he thought he hadn’t wanted anything from Layla except what she could do to his body. Now, even that was gone.
“You better, mate?” Donovan waved off Declan, disregarding his question and he thought his friend would yell at him for not answering, but then Autumn called to Donovan and both men turned toward her.
“Have you talked to Layla?”
He turned, catching the barely there grin on Sayo’s face before he watched the pitch. “Earlier, but just for a few minutes.”
“Did she seem okay to you?”
No, he thought. She didn’t. She’d seemed distant and not herself and not annoyed at him and poking his temper with that sharp tongue. He’d hated seeing her like that. There’d been no fire in her eyes, no spark that made him want to kiss her. “I didn’t notice, Autumn.”
