by Eden Butler
“Well, she hasn’t been around.”
When Donovan ignored her, the two girls started talking to each other and Donovan caught small phrases like “New York” and “distracted” and “not like her.”
Declan looked up from his phone when Coach called him and he nudged Donovan. “You ready to go back in?”
“No, man. My ankle is bothering me. I think Tibbit swiped it.” He looked up at Declan, ignoring how his best friend clenched his jaw, watching Donovan for any break in his expression. “Give me like ten more minutes and I’ll be out there. Okay?”
“Aye. Fine, but don’t nurse your bitty ankle too long, sweetheart.”
“Shut up, asshole,” he told Declan, flipping him off when the Irishman laughed at him.
Donovan’s ankle hadn’t bothered him in months, barely a twinge since Layla buttered his bathroom floor that caused the sprain in the first place. He wasn’t in the mood to practice, which for him was out of character. He loved this game like breath, always wanted on the pitch, but today his mind was elsewhere, focused on details being discussed behind him that he hoped would fill the gaps in Layla’s excuses. Donovan tried to be subtle, hoped that Autumn and Sayo wouldn’t catch on to him leaning back on his hands, trying not to curse about the snow burning his palms, just so he could listen in on their conversation.
“Mollie too. She told me last night she thinks she’s getting the flu.”
“It’s going around. They had to pull two nurses from the children’s ward at the hospital when they starting throwing up.”
Donovan closed his eyes, feeling stupid for worrying about Layla and what might or might not happen if she left, when Sayo was still dealing with her cousin’s looming death.
“But Mollie hasn’t talked to her much this week either. They’re both a little off, if you ask me.” Donovan knew that tone. Autumn always used it when she was trawling for details. Sayo made small little noises of agreement and Donovan looked over his shoulder, wondering why it seemed to him like she was trying to keep quiet around Autumn. He caught her gaze and she smirked at him, both of them ignoring Autumn steadily texting someone on her phone.
Shit, he thought. Did Sayo know? That smirk meant something, but he didn’t think Layla would tell her friends about him. She hadn’t been willing to face all the nagging they both knew they’d get if anyone found out that they’d been sneaking around.
“Hey, there’s a sale at the mall. When Declan’s ready we’ll hit the road for Knoxville and stop at the mall first…”
Then the girls started talking about shopping and Christmas and Declan being a caveman for not wanting Autumn and Sayo to drive in the snow. And just when Donovan was about to dust off snow from his hair, Sayo cleared her throat and the conversation returned to Layla.
He didn’t move.
“So Quinn hit on Layla again?”
“Oh yeah. As always. I swear, that boy is a living, grunting, breathing hormone. You’re not… I mean, does that bother you?”
“What? Quinn being Quinn? No. He’s been nice to my cousin but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still a little slut.” The chair behind him squeaked and Donovan thought Sayo might be shaking her foot, a nervous little tick she got whenever she was annoyed. “So what did Layla do?”
“Screamed at him in front of the entire crowd at McKinney’s. He went after her when she left and Declan wanted to follow, but I told him she could take care of Quinn if she got too handsy. I mean, God, I saw Walter yesterday and his nose is still a little swollen.”
The shaking foot must have sped up because the creak in the chair only grew louder. “Well, I hope she clocked Quinn like she did Barney Fife. They both deserved it.”
“Bring your arse, young lady!” Declan shouted to Donovan and he shot up, jogging toward the squad, shaking his head at his best friend’s attempted insult.
He was grateful from the break in gossip. Donovan already had too many images, too much imagination about Layla to distract him. He didn’t need to wonder what she’d done to O’Malley or why the asshole had gone after her in the first place. He already made up enough fictional bullshit about her, worried why she’d been off that morning, why she’d been spooked by him. That she continued to consume his thoughts, that Quinn trying to have a go at her pissed him off, was nothing to how angry he was at himself for falling for her and being an asshole for letting her slip through his fingers.
Twelve presents nicely wrapped, apple green bows and iridescent paper all around her, had done little to keep Layla from her snippy mood.
“Merry freakin Christmas,” she said to her empty room.
It had been an attempt to keep her from thinking of stupid things. Things like Donovan and him following her from her Marketing class two days before. Things like his attitude and how easily he dismissed what had happened the last time they’d been together. Christmas was supposed to be a time of happy, happy, joy, joy and lots of liquor and laughter and buying her friends things they didn’t need. She’d gone shopping alone, like every year, earlier that day because pulling together scarves and gloves and jewelry she knew would match Mollie’s olive complexion or Sayo’s eyes, or Autumn’s hair, calmed her. Fashion kept her focused, kept her mind distracted enough that she didn’t have to think on whatever weighed down her thoughts.
It worked every year when the semester ended and Layla’s constant worry over her finals and her GPA and what the next semester would bring, never failed to overwhelm her. But, today at the mall in Knoxville, not even the winter collection of Coach bags could pull a smile from Layla. And it was all Donovan’s fault.
“The Demon,” she told herself, mentally kicking her own ass for not remembering that. “The boy who put a frog down my shirt during our eighth grade field trip to the Knoxville Zoo.” She threw the box holding Mollie’s small pearl studs onto the floor. The boy who made sure everyone in our high school thought me and Father Benson were having a torrid affair.
She wouldn’t focus on the other thoughts, the ones that made her sick to her stomach. The ones that promised disaster if she paid attention to them. The ones that promised her she’d never be the same after Donovan. She hated herself for missing him. She hated him for acting as though the last time they’d been together was just another night of naked debauchery that meant utter shit.
“Layla!” That scream from downstairs could have woken the dead. “Did you text Ethan about lunch on Tuesday?”
God, but was her mom’s voice shrill. Her hearing had always been terrible—the constant tone-deaf tune of every conceivable Christmas song she’d been humming all week was evidence enough of that—so Layla crawled from her spot in front of her bed and reached up to open the door. “Yes!” Her voice was loud, shouting really, but the woman wouldn’t hear otherwise.
“What?”
“Jesus, Mary…” she stopped cursing when her father stopped in front of her door, eyebrow arched in a silent warning. “Will you please tell her Ethan will be here at eleven?” She decided not to tell her father about her smart ass brother’s text of “I’ll get there when I can, Cinderella.” And because she forgot to remind him that morning, she smiled at her father, hoping her voice was sweet enough to keep the scowl from his face. “You forgot the trash. It’s in the laundry room waiting for you.” Her father sighed and Layla shut out the noise of her parents shouting back and forth information from the stairs to the landing below.
Two quick chirps alerting her to a text and Layla grabbed her phone from her bed, smiling for the first time in two days when she saw Mollie’s face pop up on the screen, her hair in a faux Mohawk and her eyes red-rimmed and rolled back. Last Halloween. Mollie had been sauced beyond her limits and Layla caught the moment before she passed out with one click of her phone. She giggled every time Mollie called her.
Mollie: I need to talk to you ASAP.
Layla hoped this wasn’t about Donovan again. In the weeks that Mollie had discovered their stupid little tryst, she’d hounded Layla incessantly ab
out why she was sleeping with him. It hadn’t been as bad lately, especially when Layla told Mollie that she’d stop going to his apartment every night. That had seemed to satisfy her best friend, so did the weekly trips Layla made with Mollie to Maryville that ended with Vaughn screaming and torturing them both all in the name of “fitness.”
But Mollie had been MIA that week, claiming to be sick, swearing that she’d jump back on the CrossFit bandwagon after she’d gotten rid of whatever funk had crawled into her stomach and kept her out of commission. Still, Mollie wanting to speak to her in person, despite feeling like walking death, meant that something significant had happened or, you know, the gossip was too juicy to be told over the phone.
Layla: Everything okay?
There was a delay, only a few seconds between each message and when Layla read the second text, her worry increased.
Mollie: Meet me at McKinney’s in fifteen. At the booth. You’ll need alcohol for this news.
The booth was reserved for close confidence and silent conversations. It had always been that way. That booth held all of their secrets and if it could speak… well, Layla had a box of matches reserved if that unlikely event ever occurred. Knowing what the request of a booth appearance meant, Layla hurried from the floor, picking up her black leather jacket and gray cable knit sweater before she grabbed her boots and bag and swung open her door. But her father’s tall frame stopped her. His skin was pale, pasty, and Layla’s stomach immediately twisted hard when that scowl on his face deepened and he jerked his head up to glare at her.
She didn’t see his hands, barely registered how often he swallowed, as though whatever it was he held was some distasteful, cruel joke.
“What the hell… the fucking shit is… Layla, for the love of God…”
He didn’t seem able to make the words connect or pull enough focus away from that thing in his hand to organize his thoughts into coherent phrases.
“Daddy?”
And then, Layla finally moved her gaze from his reddening face, the anger, the disappointment. He stretched his arm, thrusting that small plastic stick in his hand right at her and when he finally spoke a complete sentence, the words were loud, enraged. “What the sodding hell is this?”
“So, I say to him, ‘calm your bullocks, you daft wanker. You can’t be going over to that bitty girl’s home to read her a fecking bedtime story.’ Those poor people are having her home for one bloody week. Like they’d want his grumpy arse around their dinner table. It’s like he’s no common sense a’tall. And it’s bloody clear he’s never heard anyone tell him to piss off.”
“It’s the rich bastard attitude, man. I’ve been around assholes like that my whole life.” Donovan shrugged, remembering how most of his grade school friends had carried on, moaning when the nuns asked them to pick up after themselves or threatening to have them—nuns for Christ’s sake—fired if they didn’t perform well on exams. Their parents never brought them to school, never showed for matches or practices. The only time any of them made an appearance was during formal school events like Christmas plays or mini-graduations. It didn’t surprise Donovan that Declan’s brother had a rotten attitude when someone told him no.
“Yeah, well, I’ve never seen anyone so pig headed in all my bloody life and I’ll remind you that Joe was my stepda and Autumn is my woman. Those two, I thought were the worst of the stubborn lot, but bugger me if my own brother shames them.”
Quinn, the man in question, was at the bar, surprisingly nursing a pint and not trying to hit on the new McKinney’s bartender. She was a pretty blonde with a round face and soft curves. Just Donovan’s type, but her eyes were brown, not blue and her tits were fake. Even her hair was too dark, seemed over-dyed. She had a sweet smile and a raspy, sexy laugh, but even that didn’t attract him. Watching the girl, Donovan smiled, then instantly felt like an asshole for it when she winked at him. Get over yourself, Donley.
“She’s fit, mate. Why don’t you go chat her up?” Donovan could hear the laugh underneath Declan’s words and he shook his head, knowing that his best friend knew why he wouldn’t approach that bartender. Donovan hadn’t said a word to Declan about Layla, but his best friend had figured on his own that things had changed between them. There hadn’t been a prank in ages and when they were around each other, they either played dumb to the others’ presence or couldn’t keep their eyes off one another. Donovan knew their friends suspected something and he’d let Declan continue to assume, continue to laugh at him. But if he knew the truth, knew what Donovan had done, what a shitty asshole he’d been to Layla the last time he saw her, Declan’s laughter would turn nasty and he’d try beating Donovan’s head in.
“Not my type, man.” He ignored Declan’s sigh, the way the Irishman shook his head like he thought Donovan was a coward.
“If you say so.”
Donovan ignored him, deciding that he needed to have a piss and as he walked away from the table and headed back to the bathrooms, he stopped short when he noticed Mollie in the booth near the rear exit.
“Hey.” He looked to the empty seat across from Mollie and then realization hit. This booth, Donovan knew, was the inner sanctum. The girls only sat here when shit got real. Immediately, Layla jumped to Donovan’s thoughts and he hated the quick worry he felt tightening around his chest. Not waiting to be invited, he slipped across the booth from Mollie. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“What?” Mollie’s confused expression relaxed when Donovan waved his hand over the wooden table. “Oh. No, everything, well, it’s not… it’s nothing for you to freak out over.”
“So Layla’s okay?”
“Why?” Mollie lowered over the table top, motioning for Donovan to lean toward her. “You’re not shagging Layla anymore from what I hear or has my best friend on the face of the planet been lying to me?”
Donovan shook his head and sat up straight, looking out of the window to distract himself from the irritating amusement in Mollie’s tone. “No. She’s not lying. It’s been forever.”
He didn’t appreciate the small snort of a laugh she released and casually flipped her the bird when that laughter grew. “You’re pathetic. You don’t have your usual bed bunny and you’re all upset?” He deflected the crumpled napkin she threw at his face and sighed, her shoulders falling back against the cushion. “Lord, Donovan go find some other girl to fall on top of and leave Layla alone.”
He didn’t know why he said it. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but Mollie’s attitude stung and for some reason he felt the need to defend whatever it was he had with Layla. “I don’t want anyone else.”
The phone in Mollie’s hand clicked against the table top when she dropped it and her unrestrained shock left her in a small wheeze. “Are you… wait.” She took his hand, pulling his attention away from the window. “Donovan?”
He closed his eyes, tired of pretending. Tired of trying to act like Layla’s disappearing act didn’t bother him. He missed her. Admitting it felt good, it felt somehow right. “Laugh it up all you want, Mollie, but yeah. It’s true. I’m a huge asshole that freaked her out. I broke the rules.”
“How?”
Elbows on the table, Donovan cupped his face in his hands, releasing a muffled whine against his palms. “Emotion is a motherfucker.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, blondie.” She tapped his arm, making him move his head to stare at him through his parted fingers. “You like her?”
“Does it really matter now? She’ll be off to New York after graduation. She’s got plans and they don’t fucking include me. Besides, she told me she’d never like me, Mollie.”
“But she slept with you. For months.”
“And?” He sat up then, noticing Mollie’s surprise, how the girl seemed utterly astonished that Layla would sleep with Donovan and not feel anything. He’d tried it. Tried and failed to ignore what Layla had done to him and vaguely he wondered if Mollie’s surprise was some sort of indication that Layla had possibly
lied to him, even to herself about not wanting more from him. “You telling me you never got with anyone you had zero plans of ever seeing again?”
“That is totally different.”
“Is it?”
“Donovan, you aren’t some stranger in a club. Whether we like it or not,” Mollie rolled her eyes as though the thought annoyed her, “you’re in the tribe. You’re like Declan’s brother. Layla wouldn’t sleep with you knowing the shit it would cause if she didn’t like you at least a little. Jesus, you aren’t that hot. Besides, all the shit you two have been doing to each other for years was just…”
“Spare me the ‘long bout of foreplay’ bullshit.” He rubbed his face, not really interested in hearing the same insult yet again. “Please. I hear it enough from McKnow-It-All over there.”
“Okay. Fine. So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? She won’t come to me.” Her stare was heavy, like she expected some sort of grand gesture from Donovan and part of him knew that’s what Layla deserved. But he wouldn’t make an ass out of himself for a girl who still thought he was unworthy. He hated how soft his voice got and had to look down at his fingers, fiddle with that crumpled napkin just to avoid the hard, hopeful stare Mollie gave him. “Not anymore. She said she was done. I got too close. I was too nice. That last time was…” He waved his hand, not really eager to fill Mollie in on the details. “Anyway, it’s done.”
“You want it to be done?”
Could he do without that smile? The way she laughed when he teased her, the slow, warm sensation that always settled in his chest any time he saw her across the room? No. He couldn’t. She was so damn stubborn, so proud, and right then Donovan decided he didn’t care that Layla likely thought she was better than him. He didn’t care what anyone thought about them together. He really didn’t care about those snobby noses in the air. He stopped pretending that it didn’t matter, all the things he’d done to her, how much distance he claimed he wanted between them. He wanted to prove to her that he could make her happy. He wanted more than anything to be someone she deserved.
