by Eden Bradley
“When did you find out?” he asked.
“Today.”
“At least you hadn’t been hiding it from me,” he said quietly.
“No. But it’s only been about twelve hours, and I’ve barely had time to digest it, so can you go now?”
“Layla, I—”
“Please? Please just go, Duff. I can’t do this. I’m tired and nauseous and I want to go to bed. I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight, or with you.”
His jaw went a little slack, and he looked as if he were trying to speak, but nothing came out at first. Then he demanded, “Seriously? That’s it? I know you must be tired, but you’re really set on locking me out of this? I get no say? Is that how you want things? And Christ, Layla, I just told you I love you. Does that mean nothing to you at all? Nothing?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said wearily, looking away. She couldn’t stand the bleakness in his eyes. The hurt. She couldn’t begin to understand what it was about. All she knew was that she had to be alone. Had to.
She got to her feet. “You have to go. Just . . . please. You have to go now, Duff.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, but he stood and moved toward the door. He opened it, but turned at the last minute to say, “We’re not done with this discussion. And we’re not done, even if you have yourself talked into thinking we are.”
He slammed the door behind himself so hard it made the house shake. She heard his bike start up, then heard him driving away, leaving her by herself in the empty house. It had never felt so empty to her. She’d never felt so empty. Moving back to the couch, she curled up on it, pulling the throw blanket over her shoulders. And cried harder than she ever had in her life.
• • •
SHE STAYED MOSTLY on the couch for the next two days. She couldn’t bear to be in her bed—the bed she’d shared with him, and that still held his scent on the sheets and pillowcases, which she only knew because she had to walk through there to get to the bathroom.
Kitty had been calling her three or four times a day, wanting to come over, but Layla refused to let her. She’d barely gotten up, ordering soup from the Chinese place down the street, and eating little else. She barely looked at television, and when she did, she could only watch action films. Anything hinting at a romantic subplot she immediately turned off. She didn’t have enough focus to read a book, and music—any music—only made her cry. It was easier to blame it on the hormones than on her emotions. Because if she looked at the reality of it, she’d have to recognize that her heart was broken.
Duff had called, too, but she hadn’t picked up. She couldn’t bear to listen to any arguments. And maybe even more, she couldn’t stand to hear the pain in his voice.
The sun was setting when she realized she hadn’t bathed since Monday morning, and decided to take a shower. She shuffled into the bathroom, turned the hot water on and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
“Oh my God.” Leaning on the edge of the bathroom sink, she peered at her reflection. “Wow, you look like hell. Let’s hope the whole pregnancy isn’t this rough.”
Oh, God. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t take it.
“Just get in the shower,” she muttered to herself. “One foot in front of the other, right?”
She stripped off her clothes and got under the hot water, letting it pound on her back. And as the heat worked its way into her sore muscles, she began to cry. Not the soft seeping of tears she’d been doing for the last few days, but long, deep sobs that wrenched her body.
“What am I going to do?” she asked aloud, not knowing whom she was asking. Herself, maybe? She didn’t have any answers.
Frustrated, she wiped at her face, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Not after standing under the water until it went cold. Not after she’d dried herself off and gotten into her warm winter robe. Not when she shuffled her way back to the living room to find her cell phone—which thankfully still had a little charge left in it, even though she didn’t know when she’d last remembered to plug it in.
She turned it over and over in her hand, then got under the blanket on the sofa once more, hanging on to her phone so tightly the edge bit into her hand. But she knew what she had to do. She took a breath and dialed.
CHAPTER
Eleven
SHE HEARD KITTY use the key she’d given her when she moved into the house; then the front door opened and her friend walked in, her blond brows drawn together in concern.
“Oh, honey. It’s worse than I thought.” Kitty moved to the sofa and sat down, pulling Layla into her warm embrace. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad off you were? Why wouldn’t you let me come before now?”
She buried her face in Kitty’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stand the sympathy. I don’t know if I can stand it now—I can’t seem to deal with anything. Oh, God, Kitty, what a mess I’ve made. My father was right about me. I’m irresponsible.”
“First of all, your father is an asshole. Okay? You may not be comfortable saying it, but I certainly am. And second, you are not irresponsible. Shit happens. You got lost in a moment of passion, and the odds were that nothing would have come of it. But, honey, you’re having a baby. How can a baby be a bad thing?”
“But, Kitty, it’s me. And shit . . . I told Duff to go away. I told him about the baby, and then he said he loved me and—”
“He did what?”
“He said he loved me. Right after I told him about the baby, so I knew he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t possibly.” She pulled back to look at Kitty, wiping her runny nose on the sleeve of her robe. “Could he?”
“Why wouldn’t he? I love you.”
“I didn’t just tell you that you’re going to be a father.”
“That’s true, but it would have been kinda weird if you had.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up, Kitty.”
“Okay. Let’s talk logic instead. He came over here after a long day at work and you let him know you’re pregnant.”
She sniffed. “Yes.”
“Then he said he loved you.”
“Yes.”
“But despite the fact the man can’t keep his hands off you, wants to see you nearly every night despite working his admittedly big, tight tail off to open a new business—which is a lifelong dream, if I remember it all correctly—has taken you out, wined and dined you, spoons you in his sleep, has confided some pretty deep stuff to you and generally acts as if he’s smitten—a word you yourself used to describe it—you still can’t convince yourself that he actually might just be in love with you?”
“Um . . . I need a moment to absorb all that.”
“Go ahead. I’m here.”
“I’ll admit it makes sense. Sort of. Except for the part that still feels I don’t deserve it somehow.” She paused, wanting to think about why she felt that way, but all she knew was that she had, for as long as she could remember. But her last conversation with Kitty had been the first time the idea had been conscious, and definitely the first time she’d said anything like that out loud. Which didn’t make it any less true. And how sad and awful was that? “I know it’s because of my dad—all those years of him being disappointed in me for no reason, really. I was a pretty good kid. And if I let that feeling make my decisions for me, then my asshole father has won, hasn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“If he wins, then this baby in my belly loses.”
Kitty’s blue eyes welled up. “Yeah.”
Layla laid a hand over her still-flat tummy. “I don’t know if I can let that happen. But, Kitty, what if I’m too late? I was kind of a raging bitch to Duff.”
“Do you love the man?”
Layla smiled through her tears. “Yes. I love him. I do.”
“I thought so. Then you have to try. For all of you.”
“Where do I start?”
“By getting your da
mn hair in order, and I’m just the woman to do it. Come on.”
• • •
SHE’D DRIVEN BY the shop first, but the lights were off. Granted, it was after nine at night, and the place should have been nearing completion, so the guys shouldn’t have had to stay so late at this point. Pulling back onto the road, she headed toward his place on Kerlerec Street as a light rain began to fall. By the time she reached the pretty Victorian, the rain had started to really come down, and unfortunately there wasn’t a parking spot open on his block. After driving around for ten minutes with her pulse racing so fast it was making her dizzy, she settled on a spot two blocks away, got out and ran down the street. By the time she reached his door she was pretty well soaked, but she didn’t care—she barely felt it. All that mattered was what she needed to say to Duff, what she had to get through to him.
Ringing the buzzer, she waited breathlessly, praying he was home. Praying he would answer the door if he looked out the window and saw it was her. She waited. And rang again. Still no answer. Defeated, she turned to head back to her car, uncertain what to do next.
“Layla? Are you crazy?”
She turned, and there he was, standing in the open doorway to his building. He was so damn handsome her breath caught.
“Yes. I probably am.”
“Good Lord, woman. Get out of the rain.”
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, into the dark stairwell, then kept his hand at her elbow as they went up the narrow staircase, then into the flat.
“Hang on,” he said, leaving her by the door while he disappeared, coming back a few moments later with a towel. He started to reach for her, as if to dry her off; then he seemed to think better of it and handed the towel to her instead.
She rubbed at her shoulders, then patted her hair, but she was far too wet for the towel to do much good. And far too anxious to talk to him to wait any longer.
“Duff.” Her nerves stalled her, making her throat constrict. She tried again. “I’ve come to tell you something. It’s important.”
“Yeah, I think you’ve told me the important stuff already. But go ahead.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that made her heart ache.
She cleared her throat. “First, I need to . . . I need to apologize.”
His dark brows shot up, but he didn’t say anything, so she continued.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I launched this on you the way I did. I’m sorry I made the decision about what I was going to do without you being a part of the conversation. I’m sorry I didn’t even give you a chance to show me the kind of man you are—the kind of man I already knew you were. Which makes it even more supremely stupid that I didn’t believe it when you said you loved me.”
“Huh.” He stopped, and when he uncrossed his arms, she breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not past tense, you know.”
“It’s not? Oh, God, Duff,” she said, then burst into tears.
As he took her into his strong arms, she muttered, “It’s the damn pregnancy. I can’t seem to do anything but cry. And it’s you. And my utter stupidity. I tried to blame it on the hormones, but the truth is . . . the truth is, I’m so damn scared.”
“Sure, you are. Of course.”
“No, it’s more than being pregnant. It’s because I’m so in love with you, I can’t see straight.”
“Wait.” He pulled back from her, holding her at arm’s length, peering down into her eyes. “Say that again?”
“No, please don’t look at me like this. I look awful.”
“You look more fucking beautiful than any woman who ever lived. Say it again, Layla.”
She started to shake her head, but even as she did, the words poured from her mouth, totally beyond her control. “I love you. Ridiculously. I loved you before I found out I was pregnant. I knew it when you said it to me. I’m just so damned stubborn.”
“No kidding.”
She tried to roll her eyes, but they were too swollen, so she looked up at him instead, at his beautiful face—the face of the man she loved. “Duff? Do you still love me? Really?”
“Yeah, I do. Two days and an argument don’t change that, you know.”
“I guess . . . I guess I didn’t know. It’s not something I know how to trust. And you were so mad at me.”
“Yeah, I was. But there’s a reason for that. A reason I haven’t spoken to anyone about. But I think I should tell you now. Come sit down, lovely.”
He led her to the couch, sat her down and covered her with a blanket, clucking, “You didn’t even wear a coat.”
“It’s New Orleans.”
“It’s still November.”
“I forgot about that part.”
He gave her arm a squeeze, a small smile on his face. “All right. So. This is fairly awful, this thing I’m about to tell you. I’ve been carrying it around for a while. But some things you can’t burden other people with.”
“I don’t know,” Layla said. “I think if you have people in your life who care about you—and you do—you should be able to tell them anything.”
“Yeah. I probably should have confided in Jamie, but I’m a guy, and we tend to think we have to behave like chest-beating cavemen most of the time.”
“There seems to be a lot of truth in that. But tell me.”
“I’ve mentioned my ex, Bess, yeah? The last relationship I had? Well, we broke up for a lot of reasons. But the kicker was this: she went to England, telling me she was going to visit her sister. And the day after she returned, I had to rush her to the hospital. She was bleeding. Hemorrhaging. Because she’d had . . . she’d terminated a pregnancy and wasn’t going to tell me about it.”
“Oh my God. Why not?”
He dropped his head, his hands curling around each other; then he looked back up at her. “Because apparently she didn’t trust me enough. And to be honest, it made me question what sort of man I was—her assuming I’d be so averse to having a kid that she had to go and do that. And I wouldn’t have been thrilled, especially not where our relationship was at the time, but it wore on me. It did. I’ve always felt as if I fucked up fairly badly to bring that about. And her guilt over it, it ate her alive. I feel responsible for that, as well. She couldn’t stand to look at me after that, and I can’t blame her.”
“But you blame yourself? She didn’t give you any choice in the matter. And I know, I know—I was about to do the same thing. Well, with not giving you any choice, but I was only ever going to keep the baby. You have to know that. But, Duff, how was it your fault that she didn’t?”
“Because perhaps she was right about me. Same as my parents always said. I’m a handful. Irresponsible. Incorrigible.”
Layla tried to smile at him. “Well, I’ll give them the incorrigible part.”
“You’d be right enough.”
He was still wringing his hands, and suddenly she felt her own strength returning—she was strong because in this moment he needed her to be. Maybe that’s what love was. She reached out and pried one of his hands free, hanging on to it.
“Now I need to tell you something. I’ve lived my entire life with that same message ringing in my ears. My father was always disappointed in me, and I thought it was because I was a disappointment. But I’ve just come to realize it was because I couldn’t have ever pleased him. I’ve theorized about why, and maybe I’ll never know the answer. But that’s not the important part. The important part is that I know my own value, and that I stop allowing what happened between my parents to dictate how I handle my life.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Okay, I’m still a little vague on this part, but I’ll try to make sense. My mom cheated on him. She was always the loving one, but when I was nine and I found out—and since my father was constantly raking her over the coals about it, it was no secret in our house�
�I felt like I had to . . . not love her anymore. I mean, I did. Of course I did. But I’ve felt like I had to sort of cut myself off from her love. From loving her. From letting her love me.” A sob caught in her throat and she had to swallow it down. “It sounds so awful saying it out loud. It is awful, and I swear I’m calling her tomorrow to tell her I love her. Because that was so wrong of me. Even if the idea started when I was a kid, I never grew beyond it. What I did, in essence, was detach myself from the one source of love I had in my life. My father was always a hard man. My grandparents on my mom’s side have been gone since before I was born, and my other grandparents—my dad’s parents—were never demonstrative. My grandfather was a pretty cold man as well, which is where my father gets it, I guess. The sad thing is, I could have been so loved by my mother, if I’d only let her. This whole damn time. Why have I been punishing myself over this? Never mind the way I’ve punished her. But God, I owe her one hell of an apology.”
“You were nine years old when you heard about the cheating. You were a child.”
“Yes. But I never reevaluated things when I became an adult. Not until now. And now it’s only because you’ve made me look at myself, question everything I thought I knew about myself. At first I was completely freaked out by that, but it’s been a good thing. It’s been necessary. Because I’ve spent my whole life not knowing how to accept love. I learned not to. It’s taken me all these years to figure it out, and, Duff, I still can’t claim to have it figured out. I only know I want to try—I need to try. But I think I’ve had to forgive my mom before I could forgive myself.”
“Forgive yourself for what, my lovely?”
“I don’t know, exactly. For the blame and judgment my father heaped on me that had nothing to do with me, maybe? I know it doesn’t make much sense. That’s maybe the saddest part about it. I never did anything wrong but be my mother’s daughter.”
“It’s a terrible, terrible thing that that was what he held against you.”
“Yes, it is. He made me feel happiness was beyond my grasp, that it wasn’t something one could reasonably expect in the world. And I sort of manifested my own destiny by choosing a long string of the wrong men. Until you.”
