Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) (2 page)

I set the phone down on the table and smile up at him as nicely as I can before grabbing for my glass of wine and taking a very deep sip.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger holds up a hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“No, not at all,” I smile at him again. He smiles kindly back at me and I can see it touch his eyes. He’s handsome, I notice. Tanned with an angular face and deep brown eyes. A small patch of stubble has started to grow at his chin and I think I see a bit of gray in it. We’re sitting side-by-side at separate tables, and I’ve noticed the hostess has discreetly taken the extra set of silverware from his table as well.

“With a few more people we could probably start our own singles section,” he jokes as he takes a look around at the tables bustling with groups and couples. Something about him puts me at ease. Or maybe it’s the wine.

“I think the hostess pities us,” I halfheartedly joke back. His eyes light up as he looks at me with mild humor. “She took away the extra silverware from your table. Mine too.” His eyes follow to where I point opposite us and he chuckles.

“Thank goodness I didn’t mention it’s my birthday. She might have really taken pity on me then,” he jokes.

“Oh, is it your birthday today?” I ask, raising my glass to take another sip.

“Friday, actually. But please, do not ask how old I’m going to be. I’m still in denial about it. And don’t let any gray hair you see fool you!” he warns me playfully.

“My birthday is also on Friday,” I confess.

“No kidding?” He looks genuinely surprised and delighted. Strange, but I find it charming.

“Look,” he starts as he turns to face me. “I know this may sound a bit deranged but,” he pauses for a moment, smiling to himself. “Would you care to join me for dinner? Being birthday buddies and all?”

I can’t help the shy smile that spreads across my face. “I don’t know,” I say, biting my bottom lip apologetically. “I don’t typically share meals with men whose names I don’t know.”

He smiles and for a moment I’m stalled by him. He looks handsome, charming, disarming. “Of course. I understand completely. It’s nice to meet you, Miss…” he starts, emphasizing the
Miss
as he holds out his hand.

“Garrett. Layla Garrett,” I reply, taking his hand and shaking it. His skin is warm and soft to the touch.

“Layla. Like my favorite song by Eric Clapton,” he smiles easily. “Sorry, I bet you get that a lot,” he laughs.

“Not as often as you might think actually, Mr…” I prompt.

“Eric. Jacobson, not Clapton.”

“Nice to meet you Eric Jacobson not Clapton.”

Our hands release just as my waitress appears at his table. “Can I start you with anything?”

“Well, let’s see.” He turns to face me again. “Layla, would you care to join me for a joint birthday dinner?”

The waitress looks at me with some surprise and I feel put on the spot, but not entirely uncomfortable. He’s nice. He’s good looking. I’m alone.

“Why not?” I acquiesce.

In no time at all he’s joined me at my table, his lone silverware joining him across from me. He asks what I’m drinking and then orders a bottle of it, along with a spinach artichoke dip and a California veggie pizza.

Eric Jacobson, I learn, is a new media producer with his own firm based in Santa Barbara, an avid swimmer and something of an artist in his spare time. He smiles almost as often as he breathes and his light, humorous self-deprecation is both modest and charming.

After two glasses of wine I’m feeling more relaxed and open, and he’s making it easy to laugh and enjoy myself.

“So really, how is it such a beautiful woman is dining by herself? And so close to her birthday, no less?”

I smile into a sip from the third glass of wine and only take a little of the drink. “Just circumstance, I guess. A lot of my friends live in the Los Angeles area and my folks who live here have been out of town so,” I trail off. My hand switches from the stem of my wine glass to the nearly untouched glass of iced water and I take a large sip, knowing that more wine would make it difficult to drive home safely.

“But to be fair,” I start again with water glass in hand, “you’re alone, too.”

“Ah, yes. Usually I prefer to stay at home and cook but I didn’t leave work until late this evening. So here I am.”

“A man who likes to cook! How novel.”

“We’re not as rare a breed as you might think, Miss Garrett.”

“Layla. Please call me Layla.”

“Layla,” he affirms, a small smile upon his mouth.

When the waitress appears again with two bills he passes her a credit card and insists she bill them as one.

“You really don’t have to do that,” I offer, reaching for my purse.

“Please,” he stops me with a hand gently in the air. “I insist. You made my night much less lonely.”

The waitress raises her eyebrows and winks at me as she walks away with his card and I can’t help but feel a bit flushed.

“Thank you, Eric. That’s very generous of you for this impromptu blind date.”

He smiles appreciatively at me and takes the last sip of wine from his glass. He looks as if he’s considering something and then places the glass deliberately on the table again.

“At the risk of being too forward-” he reaches into his inner coat pocket and produces his phone and what appears to be a business card. “Admittedly I’m not very modern or knowledgeable about such protocols, but if it’s okay with you Layla, I’d like to see you again. I don’t know if I give you my number or you give me yours, so,” he looks down at the phone and card in his hand and smiles sheepishly. His face flushes slightly and he almost looks genuinely embarrassed. “You pick.”

“Me?” I ask, and I can’t help feeling flattered by his shyness.

“Yes, you. Take the card which, by the way, has my cell number on it, or maybe you’ll give me your number?”

I eye him for a moment and decide he is both earnest and somewhat adorable in his request. And definitely nervous. A bit of skin crinkles just outside his eyes as he waits patiently for me to answer and I can’t help but smile. Finally, with my right hand I reach over the table to his and pick up both items from his grasp. With my finger grasping the card beneath the phone, I wake the device up with my thumb - an adorable brown Australian Shepherd with mismatched green eyes smiles up at me from the home screen - and enter my number into his contacts. When I look back up at him his mouth is curved into a satisfied smile and he’s eyeing me with appreciation. I hand the phone back to him and slip his card into my purse.

“I think that’s modern enough,” I reply finally before taking another generous sip of water.

When the waitress returns with his card he tips very generously and walks me to my car at the top level of the parking garage. When we reach it he holds out his hand and smiles generously at me, ever the gentleman.

“Thank you for dinner, Layla Garrett.”

“Thank
you
, Eric Jacobson not Clapton.”

By the time I make it home I realize how late it is and quickly change for bed. It’s only as I’m crawling under the sheets that I realize my cheeks are hurting from smiling too much. It’s a nice feeling.

Just as I’ve exited the 405 a new text pops up on the dashboard screen my phone is connected to. I pull up to a red light and glance at it.

We’ve just landed. Meet you outside Terminal 3. Don’t worry about coming in - we’ll find you! -Mom

The light turns green as I dismiss the text and I continue winding through the streets towards LAX. I am hyper alert from the venti white mocha from Starbucks I grabbed before jumping on the 101, a necessity after having to wake up extra early to make the trek down to the airport. I went to bed entirely too late. But a part of me thinks it was worth it. Dinner with Eric Jacobson (not Clapton) was nice. Even nicer after a few hours of deep sleep thanks to the wine. It was the first date - however unofficial - since I turned 20, and it wasn’t bad at all. It was nice to smile for a change.

Terminal 3 is a slow eruption of people and their luggage and I manage to snag a spot along the curb behind a black Range Rover nearly identical to mine just as another car pulls out. Just as I’ve set the parking break I notice a commotion beyond the automatic doors inside the terminal. Men with cameras.
A lot
of men with cameras.

I let a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding and divert my attention. Paparazzi at the airport is nothing new or unexpected. In fact, there was a time I was downright used to their presence. Maybe it’s a good thing mom suggested I stay in the car.

I see mom and dad sneaking out through the automatic doors with a cart full of luggage and pop the trunk open from the key fob button. I move to open my door to get out to help when I notice dad holding his hand out.

“S’okay, kiddo. I’ll get it,” he yells out to me. He makes his way to the trunk whilst mom opens the passenger door and climbs in. She’s wearing a Burberry coat with sunglasses and her cheeks are flushed pink.

“Mom, you look like a spy.”

“Oh!” she laughs jovially as she sets her purse down at her feet. “You like my coat? I tried talking your father into one and he flat-out refused. Picked something out for you though!”

I grin at the image of my dad wearing the coat. I crane my head back and see he’s placing the luggage in almost haphazardly. Is he rushing? We’re not in that big of a hurry.

“Why doesn’t he want my help?” I ask mom.

“Oh you know, man stuff. He’s eager to be closer to home.” But as she says it she’s looking around, as though if for someone in particular. I look up at the automatic doors and see the photographers clamoring together, following an unseen subject into the early morning LA air.

I hear the trunk close and see dad rushing the cart to the curb, carelessly abandoning it between two groups of travelers, and run back towards the car. He gets in with a flourish and is snapping in his seat belt in record time.

“Okay I’m in. Drive.”

I turn around to glance at him and he looks up at me like he’s
not
behaving strangely. “Hi Dad. Nice flight?”

“Adequate,” he answers as if briefly contemplating the best answer. “Shall we go?”

“Why are you guys in such a rush?” I look from him to my mom. She’s got her hand on her sunglasses and her attention is stuck on something. I follow her line of sight to the commotion of paparazzi. They are in a frenzy, practically surrounding the poor man and snapping pictures of him with near-blinding flashes of light.

“Go, Lala!” Dad urges me from the back. I start the engine and shift into gear unseeing, my brain still trying to figure out what my eyes are stuck trying to figure out.

A camera flashes in my direction, momentarily lighting up the terminal beneath the dark concrete canopy above us. A second erupts half a moment later, followed by a third, a fourth, and pretty soon the photographers have moved closer to the car, flashing and snapping away at me.

“What the?” I expel under my breath.

I can hear some of them shouting my name. And that’s when I see him. Their original intended subject. Nick. Dressed casually in jeans and a white tee shirt. He’s lifted a pair of sunglasses from his face and is staring at me, not even bothering to disguise his shock.
It’s him
.

I’m anxious as I merge back onto the 405. It’s a miracle I didn’t run over a single photographer, and I don’t know how I managed it. Every few seconds I check the rear view mirror, paranoid that someone is following me; the photographers, or maybe even Nick.

Nick!
I have to take a deep breath to calm my shaking hands. Of all the things I’d expect to see at the airport his face is the last. But there he was, his ghost no longer a name on my caller ID but a tangible entity in the crowd. And every moment of it was documented by LA’s finest.

“Honey, are you okay?” my mom gently asks from the passenger seat. No one has spoken a word since leaving the airport and I suspect they’re as stunned and speechless as I am. I feel her hand on my shoulder and glance at her just for a moment.

I have to swallow hard to even get my throat to move. But finally I can feel the words forming.

“Is that why you were in such a rush?” I ask.

Mom glances back at Dad and I see them exchange looks from the corner of my eye.

“He was on our connecting flight, Layla. Neither of us realized it until your father got up to use the restroom at the front of the plane and the flight attendant ushered him to the back. Apparently the front restroom is for first class passengers only, and
he
was there.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper to myself. “Did he see you?”

“No, Lala. Poor kid was out like a light. Fell asleep holding his phone, actually. I thought it looked rather funny until I realized it was Nick, of all people.”

Poor kid
? Since when?

“When your father came back he told me. I thought about texting you but you know how sensitive they are about using your phone during the flight. When we landed and they permitted us to use our phones again I thought if I could just get you to not come inside everything would be okay. Oh, honey,” she says regretfully.

“No, it’s fine,” I assure her. “You were just looking out for me.”

“Did you see the look on the poor kid’s face?” Dad asks from the backseat.

“Dad! What’s with the
poor kid
business?” I shout from the front, louder than I’ve intended to. He seems momentarily stunned and I realize I’ve stepped over the line. “I’m sorry,” I breathe out.

“Lala, I didn’t mean anything specific by it. Just that I’m sure he was as stunned to see you as you were to see him.”

My mind goes back to his text messages. ‘
Layla please answer. Please. I’d like to talk. I miss you.’
I picture him in a first class seat, phone in hand, fast asleep.

No
. I shake the image from my mind and attempt to bring all my focus back to the task at hand: driving. Traffic is picking up, though the northbound side is infinitely better than the clogged southbound lanes. We’ve dropped the conversation and the ride continues on in comfortable silence. In no time we’ve transitioned to the 101 and are well on our way back to Santa Barbara.

“Lala, what’s this that keeps popping up on the screen? I can’t see it without my glasses.”

I glance to the screen my mother is scrunching her eyes at and see a text message. I quickly smash my palm on the
off
button and the screen goes dark.

“It’s nothing, Mom.”

We stop in Camarillo for breakfast and continue the drive back up to Santa Barbara. The sun has fully risen and the world is awake and going about its day. By the time we pull into the garage and I’ve turned off the engine, I realize I’ve been holding the steering wheel in a death grip. My knuckles have turned white and my joints feel arthritic.

It’s okay now
. I take a deep breath and remove the key from the starter. We’re home now.

As soon as my parents are settled in their bedroom with all their luggage I escape to my own room, the one I grew up and spent the most important years of my life in. It’s different now, fit for an adult as opposed to decorated in a teenager’s discerning taste, and it isn’t until I both hear and feel the handle lock into place that I collapse onto the bed, shaking with nerves. I roll onto my side and pull my knees up to my chest, hugging my body as close and tightly as I can comfortably manage. I will held tears to spill finally from my eyes but they never do, and I’m succumbed into fits of dry heaving instead.

Four years
. Four long, agonizing years without a word, without seeing his face. And he just so happens to text me before boarding a flight my parents were coincidentally on? It can’t be random. But then how?

I remember the texts. Heart still beating forcefully I dive for my purse and dump it upside down, searching for my phone. In a rush I wake it, unlock the home screen and hit the button for messages. His name is bolded and at the top of the small pile. With a deep breath I select the thread and it opens before me. There are some from last night. I must have missed them while I was out to dinner.

Heading back to Cali soon. Planes always make me think of you. I wonder where in the world you are. Still in CA?

Layla. Layla… Please. Answer me.

And even from this morning.

On a plane to Cali. Thinking of you. Of us.

Layla I know it’s been years. Or forever. I’m not sure which. But I need to talk to you. Or see you. Please.

Was it really you?! I looked up and I thought I saw… You with your parents in Santa Barbara?

You look like him.

My son’s face is as clear in my mind as if he were standing in front of me - a cruel impossibility. It’s Nick’s last text that finally unburdens the tears from my eyes. They’re pouring hot out of my face and I’m doubling over to the floor, phone still clutched in my hands. It’s as if the pain has never left me, but just waited somewhere in a dark corner, dormant. I hear the sound of my sobbing echoing loudly through the room, in and out of my ears. I can’t help but fall to pieces, fingers clutching at the floor to hold on to something, anything. It’s as though I’ve heard the news with fresh ears again and my heart is aching, threatening to die just to be with my child once more.

I barely hear my name being shouted from beyond the door to the bedroom and I don’t bother to look up when a body comes crashing through the wood with considerable force, knocking the door from its hinges and sending it smashing into the carpet in pieces.

“Layla,” his voice is desperately calling to me. His arms are on me and he’s trying to grab me, to pull me into him. I think I must be hallucinating again.

“Layla, baby please,” he’s trying to console me but the darkness is enveloping me. It’s only when he turns my face to look at him that I realize he’s not a hallucination.

It’s Nick, and his hands are on me, blue eyes looking at me in terror.
His
blue eyes; my son’s.

“You killed my son!” I scream at him, and my aching hands are on his body with such force. I feel fabric ripping beneath my fingers and I’m wildly attacking him, screaming in feral, unrestrained rage.

A second set of hands is on me and I feel something pinching my arm. My dad is there, and he’s looking down at me as though he fear I might die. I feel like I might die. Any moment now my heart could expel through my chest and expire like a rotted fruit.

“There, there, Lala. It’ll only be a minute now,” my father is saying to me. “We haven’t had to use these in a while.” His voice is warbled and fading as the darkness consumes me, and just before it does I wonder if I am finally succumbing to the death I wished for so many times.

My eyes open fractionally. There isn’t much light in the room. I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. Oh, my brain feels foggy. I feel something shift next to me and I try to see what it is but my eyes won’t focus.

“Layla, honey,” my mom cries softly. She sounds pained and distant.

“Mommy?” I cry to her.

“Yes, Lala. I’m here. Shhhh. It’ll take you a few moments to come back to us. You remember?”

Come back? From what? Oh, I’ve felt this feeling before. Years before. Shortly after… Oh. The realization hits me and I feel it in my chest like a heavy weight.

“You sedated me?” I ask through the haze, not quite sure where around me to direct the question to her.

“Your father had to. Lala you were hysterical. I thought you… Well, that doesn’t matter,” she cuts herself off.

There’s another dull ache, this time in my hands. My fingers feel like they’re encased in rock. I bring them up close to my eyes and see that they’re raw. Red and raw.

“Blood?” I ask, bewildered at the sight of it on my hands. What happened?

“It’s okay. No one blames you, sweetheart.”

“What happened?” I move to sit up but do so slowly, inching myself up until I’m sitting upright at last. I’m in my bedroom. The sky outside has grayed again and I think I hear the faint
tap-tap-tap
of rain on the roof.

“You attacked Nick,” she says, finally answering my question.

“Nick?” I ask, bewildered. He was at the airport. Stuck staring at me like a deer in headlights. “At the airport?”

“No, Lala. Here. In your room.” Her voice is clearer now and I sense a bit of sternness. Is she upset with me?

“How? Nick is … wherever he is.”

“He’s here. You were in your room when he showed up at the front door and we could all hear you crying. He practically pushed your father over to run up here. Made quite a mess of your door, too.”

I can see her clearly, as though my eyes have finally focused, and she’s looking at me with sorrowful brown eyes. I hardly believe her but I look to the door anyway and see it. The frame is splintered and badly damaged, the door itself leaning up against the wall in pieces.

“Nick was here?” I ask in disbelief.

“He still
is
,” she stresses. “Once your father sedated you he refused to leave. Not that I can blame him, quite frankly.”