by Jordan Ford
Layla’s been sick for over two days. She spent most of Saturday night throwing up. Mom stayed with her, cleaning up her messes and being the perfect nurse. I found it really hard to sleep. Her loud heaving would wake me, and I’d lie in bed listening to her retch and then whimper. On Sunday, the stomach cramps kicked in and she lay in bed shaking and moaning.
Mom tried to make me stay away, but I couldn’t. I found myself finding all these excuses to go upstairs and walk past her door. I needed a book. I forgot my phone. I wanted to use the upstairs bathroom instead of the down. Every time I walked by, I’d steal a glance inside, my stomach twisting with pity. She looked a wreck.
And it did something to me.
On Monday morning, I slip into her room to check on her. She’s muttering in her sleep, her face bunched tight. Pressing my fingers against her forehead, I wonder how long it will take for her fever to break. Mom has been giving her meds that make her temperature drop but then it inevitably spikes again. It’ll break eventually, but it’s being a stubborn little bastard. At one point, I suggested we take her to the hospital, but her fever’s never gotten high enough for Mom to feel anything more than mild concern.
“It’s just a bad case of the flu, no doubt amplified by whatever stress is plaguing her at home,” Mom told me. But her eyebrows rose as she said it and she gave my father a knowing look.
“What is going on at your house?” I whisper to Layla. She’s still in delirium land so she can’t really hear me.
She whimpers, her eyebrows bunching together. And there go my insides again, squeezing tight with this feeling I don’t recognize.
Picking the damp cloth off the floor, I take it into the bathroom and rinse it under cold water. I ring it out, then walk it back to her and gently press it against her forehead.
She lets out a relieved sigh and continues to mutter. I turn to let her sleep, but I can’t quite make myself leave the room. Her soft whimpers are tugging at me, so instead of leaving, I pull the rocking chair from the corner and nestle into it to watch her sleep.
Whatever torment she’s battling is showing on her face. It’s killing me just a little, and maybe for the first time I’m seeing what Mack sees—a torn, wounded girl who never got over the death of her father. It makes me want to pull her onto my knee and wrap my arms around her. Which is crazy, because…she’s Layla—the stuck-up, bitchy cheerleader who seems to enjoy throwing her life away.
My brow wrinkles as I start to see fracture lines in my conviction.
Layla lets out this muffled kind of sob.
“Daddy,” she whispers. “Daddy, please. I need your help.” She sucks in a breath and starts crying. “Come back. Please, don’t leave me. I need you.” Her lips form an ugly frown. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” Her wailing rises in volume. Goose bumps ripple over my skin when she starts to thrash and scream. “I’m sorry! I didn’t want to, okay! I’m sorry!”
I lurch out of the chair and kneel by the bed, capturing her flailing limbs and holding them against the covers.
“Layla, it’s okay. Wake up.” I lightly shake her. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll help you.”
Her writhing peters out, her limbs erratically jerking within my hold before going still. I think she’s sleeping so I brush my hand down her face. “It’s okay, Layla. It’s okay.”
“Don’t call me that,” she murmurs, her eyes sliding open and giving my heart a jolt.
I lean away from her, unnerved by what that brown gaze is making me feel. With a thick swallow that’s freaking audible, I lick my lower lip and whisper, “What do you want me to call you?”
“Anything but my name.” Her lips tremble as she pulls the washcloth off her head and drops it to the floor. “I hate my name.”
“Why?”
She sniffs and closes her eyes. “Because Sheldon Buchanan ruined it for me.”
Kneeling back on my heels, I give her a quizzical frown. “Are you talking about that senior from last year? The basketball guy. Point guard, right?”
“Yeah, the one who thinks the sun shines out his ass.”
My lips break into a smile as I bob my head. “I know the one.”
Layla’s chin quivers and she looks over my shoulder as if watching something in the distance. Her voice is flat and broken when she starts speaking. “I overhead him talking one day. He was laughing with his basketball buddies, telling them how he got laid by Layla. He said it was the perfect name for me, because that’s what I do best. He told his team they shouldn’t leave Nelson High without trying to get laid by Layla.”
Anger sparks inside me—strong and righteous. If I’d been hearing it from anyone else, I’m ashamed to admit I probably would have rolled my eyes and turned away. But now…I grit my teeth and reach for Layla’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. It’s lucky Sheldon graduated last year and is currently studying at some college outside of Nelson, because if he were still here, I’d be tracking him down and giving him an ass whooping to remember.
Once again, I’m surprised by the strength of my emotion, but seeing this side of Layla is changing my view big time.
“I didn’t want to sleep with him, you know,” she croaks. “I just did it because he was being nice to me. I thought he liked me, that maybe he’d stick around and take care of me.” Her voice wobbles. “Instead, he made me feel like a cheap whore.” Her eyes flood with tears as she sucks in a shaky breath. “And I don’t know why, but that role is just so easy to play, you know? After that, guys kept coming on to me and for some reason, I just keep craving that escape. It’s like this moment in time where someone is focused solely on me and they’re making me feel good. I forget the pain for a little while.”
Her voice is soft and wistful for a second, but then drops to a nearly inaudible whisper. “But then once it’s over, I’m left with nothing but a bad name.” Her brown eyes hit me then, connecting with mine and breaking my heart wide open. “I hate my name, Finn. I hate my life.”
She lets out a hiccupy kind of breath and closes her eyes, unleashing big fat tears that trail down her face. I swipe them away with the back of my fingers. My throat’s so tight I can’t speak. I don’t even know what to say anyway. I’m seeing Layla for the first time, and there’s something about her raw shame that’s so honest and beautiful.
Smoothing the hair off her forehead, I lean forward and press my lips against her heated skin. “I’ll find you a new name, okay?” My voice is husky with emotion. “I promise, it’ll be perfect for you.”
Her eyes land on my face as I lean away from her. They’re glowing with a sweet gratitude that makes me smile. She searches my eyes, no doubt looking for signs of judgment, but I can’t give her any. I’ve glimpsed the truth, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to judge her again.
Hell, it makes me feel like shit for ever judging her in the first place.
I cup her cheek and give her a tender smile. Closing her eyes with a soft sigh, she slowly starts to relax beneath my touch. I trail my fingers over her hair—up and through, up and through, just the way my mom used to when I was sick. Eventually, her breaths fall into the even pace of sleep and I ease away from the bed.
My feet sound loud as I thump down to the kitchen. Mom’s in there preparing a picnic lunch for Dad. It’s a sunny day, so she’s going to surprise him at the site and make sure he takes a full hour for his lunch break.
My expression must be pretty grim as I stalk into the room because she gives me a double glance. “Hmm?”
I shake my head and swivel past her, heading for the fridge. Yanking it open, I stare at the contents then slam the door closed again.
“So, how’s she doing?”
“Fever still hasn’t broken.” I smack my hands against the countertop and lean against it, wondering how tight muscles have to get before they snap.
Mom’s hand lands on top of mine, looking small and insignificant.
“It’ll break soon enough. She just needs to rest. At least she’s stopped throwin
g up.”
I sigh, still not happy. I want her to be better now. As much as I like Layla’s honesty, I’m not sure how much more I can handle. It’s kind of brutal watching her fall apart. For someone who acts like she has it all, she’s obviously been holding herself together with threads.
“She was muttering in her sleep when I checked on her this morning. The fever’s probably making her a little loopy.”
“And honest,” I mumble.
Mom looks up at me, her eyes filling with an insightful look I’m not ready for. There’s no point lying though; she’s already seen it. I laid my shit bare the second I slammed the refrigerator door.
“I used to judge her all the time,” I rasp. “Get pissed off with her for putting Mack through so much. She was this loose, irresponsible party girl who didn’t care about anyone, not even herself.”
“You don’t think she’s that girl anymore?” Mom’s nice enough to move away from me and keep working on the lunch prep.
I spin to face her and rest my butt against the edge of the counter. Tucking my hands beneath my armpits, I stare out the kitchen window and shake my head. “The more she opens up, the more I figure out…and now I just want to wrap my arms around her and keep her safe from all the jerks out there.” I snap out the last few words, then link my fingers and run them over my head.
I need to do something or I’m going to explode. Layla’s story is still pumping through my veins, riling me up. Her tears and the way her voice sounded…
“What time are you leaving?”
Mom checks her watch. “‘Bout half an hour.”
“I’m going for a run. I’ll only do my short route so I’ll be back before you leave.”
Mom snickers and shakes her head. “Boy, the way you lookin’ you’ll be back with time to spare.”
My expression is no doubt pained as I glance down at her. But she just gives me this loving kind of grin before tipping her head for the door. “Go on, then…before you implode.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I don’t even bother getting changed. Pulling on my shoes at the door, I hit the footpath and let the sun beat down on me as I run as fast as my body can manage and somehow try to burn off the sound of Layla’s confession.
#17:
Soothing Circles
Layla
I wake with a soft gasp. My body feels drenched and slightly cold. I run my hand over my forehead then push my fingers into my greasy hair. Gross. I’m saturated.
Flicking back the covers, I push myself up and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed. My toes brush the carpet as my body shakes. A shiver trails down my spine. My clothes are damp and clinging to me.
“So gross,” I mutter and pull the soggy shirt over my head. It plops onto the floor with a damp thud. I’m sitting on the bed in nothing but my underwear and goose bumps rippling over my skin.
I need the bathroom. Standing on quivering legs, I shuffle to the rocking chair and yank off the clean shirt hanging over the back. It smells like Finn, and I press it to my nose and inhale for some weird reason. It takes me a second to catch myself. With a blushing frown, I pull the shirt on and can’t help smiling at the way it falls nearly to my knees. I love how big he is.
The room is lit with the low glow of the nightlight Mrs. Jones left on for me. I’m not scared of the dark or anything, but I have to admit, I’ve found it a small comfort, and it definitely made it easier for her to find me when I was puking my guts out. Thank God that’s over.
I have no idea what time it is, but the quietness of the house tells me it must be early morning. I shuffle toward the door. My toes curl into the carpet, obviously expecting to kick something when I reach the dark hallway. It takes me a while, but I finally make it to the bathroom and flop onto the toilet with a relieved sigh.
I clutch the edge of the vanity and hold myself steady until I’m done. Washing my hands, I then fumble for a towel. I drop it to the floor after drying my hands. My head is starting to spin again, and even though it feels like my fever has broken, I wonder if it’s about to flare back up.
Gripping the doorframe with tired fingers, I edge out of the room just as a dizzy spell takes me. The dark, muted shapes in the hallway warp and twist as the world tips on its axis.
I lose my grip on the door and drop, but something breaks my fall.
“I’ve got you.”
Although his deep voice is quiet, it still gives me a fright. I jerk in his arms, then instantly relax as Finn pulls me against his chest and sweeps his arm beneath my knees. The heavy weight of disorientation lifts off me and I suddenly feel lighter than air as he carries me back to the spare room.
I rest my head on his shoulder. His skin is smooth and warm against my cheek. He’s not wearing a shirt, and for some weird reason I have to fight the urge to brush my lips across his collarbone. Thankfully, I’m saved from that humiliation by the sound of Mrs. Jones.
“She alright?”
“I don’t know, I just heard a noise and came to check. Caught her as she was keeling over.”
A hand presses against my forehead. “Looks like that fever may have broken.” Mrs. Jones’s whisper is bright and hopeful. “Let’s get her back to bed.”
I open my eyes as Finn carries me through the bedroom door.
“Wait, let me change the sheets,” Mrs. Jones says.
Finn pauses, then moves toward the rocking chair. Easing into it, he holds me tight and nestles me against his chest before starting a slow rock. The motion is smooth and relaxing. I won’t be surprised if I fall asleep right here.
The main light snaps on and I wince against the sudden brightness.
“Don’t go falling asleep with her on your lap,” his mother mumbles. “You’ll get a kink in your neck.”
“I’m all good, Mama.”
“Hmm.”
I smile; I can’t help it. I’m kind of loving that sound she makes. There’s something so motherly about it. Makes me want to stay here.
The thought slices through my original plan, feeling cold in my belly. I wish I could entertain it, but there’s no way. As soon as I’m on my feet again, I have to get out of here. It’s the only way to stay safe.
I keep my eyes closed while Mrs. Jones fusses over the bed, flicking and tucking, then swiping her hands over the duvet. I can identify each sound, but they’re getting more distant with each rock of the chair. Finn’s legs beneath me are solid tree trunks. His large hand is resting against my thigh, holding me steady. I can hear a faint hum in his throat, like he’s remembering some lullaby from his past.
I press my forehead into his neck, enjoying the vibration.
“Alright, put her back to bed now.”
Opening my eyes, I spot Mrs. Jones with an armful of sweaty, disgusting laundry.
My nose wrinkles and I give her an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry.”
She looks from my face to the bundle in her arms and shrugs. “Finn wet the bed until he was eight. This is nothing.”
“Mom!” Finn’s shocked voice forces a breathy giggle out of me.
She clears her throat, looking a touch rueful as she bustles out of the room. “It’s not like you wet it anymore,” she mumbles before disappearing down the hallway.
I’m guessing that’s the closest to an apology Finn’s likely to get.
He’s frozen against me right now and I’m not sure what to say. I sit up and glance at his statue-like expression. He won’t look at me, but his forehead’s wrinkled in that let the floor swallow me whole kind of way. I go for the only thing that will make him feel better—an embarrassing truth of my own.
“I used to eat my own boogers. Did it until I was caught on some home video, excavating my nose in the background of my cousin’s wedding. I was the flower girl, wearing this cute teal and silver tutu dress, looking pretty as an angel…and chowing on my own snot.”
Finn’s eyes travel slowly across to mine and then he does this soft little snicker, fighting a smile as he shakes his head.
“Everyone’s got secrets,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that’s all good until they get exposed.”
My stomach surges as my inbuilt squall starts up again. I hate that word: exposed. It sounds like a death sentence.
Finn doesn’t seem to notice my internal panic as he stands with me in his arms and lowers me back to the bed. I feel the loss instantly when he slides his arms out from under me and pulls the covers back over my body. Rolling onto my side, I stare up at him while he walks to the wall and flicks off the light.
I don’t want him to go, so I blurt out in a voice that can’t hide my fear, “I keep having these dreams.”
His shadowy frame turns back towards me, and he inches through the dim light until he’s towering over me again. I don’t feel afraid. If anything, the closer he gets, the more my fear ebbs. Reaching out, I grab his wrist and wrap my fingers around it.
“I can stay with you until you fall asleep,” he murmurs.
If bears could talk, I imagine they’d sound like Finn. His voice is rich—a bass note that travels right through to my core and floods me with this comforting warmth I can’t explain.
An involuntary shiver whistles over me, my body doing a humiliating little jerk. Finn bobs down, perching on the side of my bed and wriggling his wrist free of my grasp. His large fingers splay over my back and he starts rubbing gentle circles between my shoulder blades.
“What’s scaring you?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just feel so vulnerable, like I’ve been thrown naked into the middle of a packed stadium.” My voice grows with strength, Finn’s soothing circles unearthing more truths. “I miss my dad so much. I miss the way my mom was when he was around. She was so good, you know? So devoted. And then he died and she just turned into this shell. For like a year or two, life was just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. She made our lunches and dropped us at school. She did everything a mother should, but she wasn’t there.” I sniff, remembering the emptiness of it all. The way I’d try to tell her about my day at the dinner table. I’d ask her what she thought and Mack would have to answer.
