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

Of course
. It was his game, the one thing he knew would get my undivided attention and force me to break the four year silence.
Fine
.

I let the bags and my purse fall gracelessly to the ground. “Is this what you want?” My hands grab and unceremoniously tug the jacket off my shoulders until it’s a pile of fabric on the ground. “You’ve called, you’ve texted,” I undo my hair until it’s falling in unruly waves down my shoulders and breasts. “You broke into my bedroom and put your hands on me against my will,” I spit at him, kicking off my shoes and untucking the blouse from the front of my jeans. “And now you’re in my hotel room kissing me. How much further do you want to violate me, Nick?”

I’m crazed. I can feel myself spinning further and further out of control. But I’m possessed and cannot stop. My fingers are ripping at my shirt and it falls behind me, landing somewhere on the ground and I can see his face vacillating between two equal yet distinct reactions. He’s both horrified and strangely, I think, turned on.

“Will my body be enough for you?” I yell murderously at him, throwing his own unresolved feelings back at him. My hand is whipping up to his face and before he can react to stop me I’ve grabbed his chin and am holding it tight within my hand. “How much more do you want to take from me, Nick?”

“Baby, you need to calm down,” he hoarsely whispers, as if he can barely refrain himself from yelling back at me.

“
I
am
not
your baby! My baby is dead!” I scream, finally letting the dark place take full possession of my heart, my mind, and body.

“So is mine!” he yells back in my face, and he grabs the hand I’ve had on his chin and yanks it away forcefully. The movement catches me off guard and I lose my footing, falling backwards into the room. His reflexes are quick and I land somewhat gracefully on the ground, my bottom barely hitting the carpet with much force. He’s caught me. His right arm is snaked around my waist and he’s fallen with me, catching himself on his knees with minimal effort.

I move to get away from him but he straddles me, legs on either side of my hips so that I am pinned, and the hand around my waist gone to immobilize both my arms above my head. His torso is stretched out on top of me and I can feel his breath on my skin.

“Get the fuck off of me,” I growl at him, trying and failing to buck him off of me with my hips. He’s too heavy for me to even move an inch.

“No. You’re going to hurt yourself, Layla. And I’m not going to just sit back and watch you do it. Not this time.”

“The only person who has ever hurt me is you,” I spit at him, trying once more to wriggle out from underneath his hold.

“Stop moving,” he demands, his voice loud and booming just inches from my face. His hands press tighter on my arms until I cannot move them, and I’m breathing so hard my chest is grazing against his at the top of every breath. There’s a slight friction from his tee shirt against the skin of my breasts, barely constrained in a bra, heaving up and down as my lungs gasp desperately for fresh oxygen. I barely remember taking my shirt off, and I wish to god I hadn’t. I can almost feel the mass of his chest beneath the fitted white tee.

“I can’t breathe with you on top of me,” I whisper, my voice not totally absent of vehemence.

He relents and moves my arms down to my side so that my elbows are at my waist, hands splayed palms-up against his at my shoulders. I can feel the weighted friction of his hips adjusting on top of me.

“You’re going to wear out your heart if you keep doing this, Layla,” he says to me finally, his voice much calmer but still ringing with alarm. “And 30 is too young to die.”

It’s as if I’ve been slapped again, only it’s my heart stinging with pain. I can feel the hot tears threatening to spill out from my eyes again. The image of Tyler on his first birthday covered in frosting is all I can see in my mind, and the tears start to cloud my eyes.

“My son was too young to die,” I cry.

“
Our
son,” he corrects me through gritted teeth. “Yours and mine equally.”

“It was me who brought him into this world and you who took him out of it,” I spit through gritted teeth. “How’s that for equal?”

“Goddamnit, Layla. Fuck you!” he growls at me, the forcefulness of his voice and the tightening of his hands on mine frightening me. “I loved Tyler more than anything in the world and between his death and your leaving me I nearly died myself. You abandoned me!” Despite my blurry vision I can see the torment and anguish on his face. Tears of his own are starting to pool in the corners of his eyes. “We went through the worst nightmare of any parent and you left me! And after all this time you’re
still
blaming me for his death? What do you think that does to me? Why don’t you just cut out my fucking heart?”

My tears are falling freely now and my chest is convulsing into uncontrollable sobs. Hot salty tears are falling back into my eyes and pooling at the corners of my nose. My mouth is open, jaw slack, and the sobs are pouring from me.

“I can’t!” I start to say, barely able to speak through the cracked dryness of my throat. “I can’t look at you without seeing Tyler!” I finally cry out, giving in to the sobs. I can just barely make out his face through the blurriness but I can see he’s as uncontrolled as I am. Those blue eyes.

“As if I don’t see him in you?” he asks through his own tears. “He had your face, your smile and your laugh. Every memory of him is a memory of you, Layla.”

He picks up my hands and holds them in his, dragging my tired, soulless body up to meet his in an embrace. His arms snake around my waist and hold me close and I can feel the heat of him beneath my skin, his chest against mine. I’m too tired to fight him, and something inside me is dying again at the sound of him crying. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in forever. That sensation when the person you love is crying and in pain, is lost in a helpless emotion they can’t escape from.

I just can’t fight him anymore. And for a change it feels good to feel someone’s arms around me, the support and strength of them holding me up so I don’t have to. And so I give in. My arms find their way around his neck and I give in to the loss of my own strength and instead allow him to support me for a change. To be my strength.

For the first time in what feels like a long time, I sleep thoroughly, peacefully. The sound of a car alarm in the distance brings my ears and attention out of slumber, and I realize my body is too warm and I’m starting to sweat. There’s a heaviness wrapped around me in the shape of Nick Hudson. My face is partially concealed in his naked chest and I wonder how I’ve been able to breathe. There’s an arm and a leg entrapping me like a vine, and I realize that our fingers are entwined at my side. It’s more intimate than we’ve been in years, even after waking up in Vegas to discover we’d married again after too much alcohol.

In the days and months following the decision to not annul the marriage I promised myself I would give an effort to marriage: round two. But try as I might my heart just wasn’t fully committed to it, and our intimate moments were strained with the knowledge that my love for him had faded considerably. Tyler was the tether that kept us together, even when the love was no longer strong.

Oh, Tyler
. Nick’s words from last night come back and hit me again. ‘
I loved Tyler more than anything in the world and between his death and your leaving me I nearly died myself. And after all this time you’re still blaming me for his death? What do you think that does to me? Why don’t you just cut out my fucking heart?’
My own grief was so palpable, so consuming, that I never truly stopped to think about his. Even now I can’t… For four years I’ve blamed him for taking our son, and whatever love I had for him even in the second marriage has diminished to the point where I don’t know if it even exists.

The warmth is uncomfortable. I untangle myself from his body, relived to see he’s not entirely undressed, and get up from the bed, free of his constraint. The patio doors and windows are still open and there’s a nice breeze blowing through them again. I observe my own state of undress - bra and underwear - and wonder how we got into the bed. Nick must have picked me up and carried me to it. I know nothing else happened beyond his holding me. I feel reasonably assured of it. For the first time since seeing him I don’t feel violated, and it’s a brief comfort.

I gather up the discarded belongings from the floor, the bags of drugstore purchases and my purse, and bring them into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind me. I don’t bother to organize the toiletries in the spacious bathroom, instead grabbing just what I need for a shower. Despite my own warmth I take a hot shower, washing the previous day off of me until I feel something like myself again.

Clean and wrapped in a towel, I retrieve my phone and hit the home button, unlocking it with my thumb. No missed calls, no text messages. Just the regular email and app update notifications. I’m surprised to not see anything from my parents. I wonder if Nick got a hold of them. Maybe last night after I’d fallen asleep? Did they stop worrying about me when he chased after me? They should know better. They really should.

I’ve always trusted my parents and in the past few years since moving in with them they’ve treated me like an adult, supported me when my emotional state was at best fragile, and gave me the autonomy I needed to come back into myself. I don’t remember them ever mentioning Nick’s name. Especially not at first, when everything was still raw and the pain was practically tangible. And maybe later on they avoided his name because I did. Still, I feel betrayed by them. They know how I feel, how the pain has dissolved my heart time and time again, and they let him in anyway. I don’t care if they thought it was in my best interest; they should have known better.

After applying moisturizer and a touch of makeup I slide on the clean cotton underwear and fasten my bra. I slide the worn jeans on one leg at a time. By the time my hands reach for the blouse I know something is wrong. I hold it up in front of me and see the extent of the damage. Fabric ripped at the seam, buttons hanging out with just a bit of thread fastening them to the blouse. It’s unwearable. And I didn’t have time to grab anything else.
Shit
.

Outside in the bedroom I spy Nick still asleep on the bed. He always did sleep like the dead. By the front door is his discarded duffel bag and I take a moment to consider going through it.
Damnit
. I need a shirt. How ironic that I don’t have enough clothing to go out shopping for the clothing I need.

Fuck it.

Clad in just the jeans and my bra, wet hair bound in a messy chignon at the crown of my head, I make my way across the room and unzip the bag. I spy white cotton and pull out a fitted white tee identical to the one he was wearing yesterday. It’s clean and I haul it over my head and slide the soft expensive fabric down my torso.

I smell like him. The scent hugs me, both familiar and personal, and for a moment I forget that I can’t stand to look at him, that just the thought of him makes my heart contract into cold darkness.

I try not to dwell on it. Nick could wake any moment and the small bit of adrenaline in me is urging me to run again. He’ll have to leave eventually. Right? I hear him stirring in the bed and when I look up I’m relieved to see he’s still sound asleep. Still, I feel the need to hurry. Hastily I slip my feet back into my shoes, grab my personal belongings and room key and slip out the door.

Once I’m in my own car and driving away towards the nearest Starbucks I feel myself start to relax. This urgency to run fueled by adrenaline is a new experience for me, and I haphazardly wonder if Nick was right when he said I’d wear my heart out. Is such a thing even possible?
’30 is too young to die.’

Oh, right. It’s Friday. And I am officially 30 years old.

The line inside Starbucks is long but I don’t mind the wait. For the first time since yesterday I don’t feel the need to check around for familiar faces around me, but once in a while I look up to scan the crowd, just to be sure.

A vibration in my pocket interrupts my thoughts, and when I fish it out I see Nick’s name on the screen.

Have you run away again, or are you coming back?

The part of me yesterday that briefly considered responding to him is back. The four year wall has already been broken. I didn’t say much to him last night, but I let him hold me, and it was actually what I needed. Could I just go back to ignoring him again? He’ll have to go back to his life eventually, whatever that entails these days, and I’ll have to find something in my life to go back to.
Certainly not my mom and dad’s home.
The phone vibrates again.

Layla please let me help you.

“Ma’am?” I look up and a barista in a black apron is looking at me expectantly. I’m holding up the line.

I smile apologetically at her excuse myself, turning around and heading straight for the door, ignoring the strange stares from the people in line behind me. I slide back behind the wheel of my car and start the engine, my fingers stalling on the keys.

Okay
. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone. I tap the screen autonomously and a moment later it’s ringing.

“Layla,” Nick breathes into the phone. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth to speak and it takes a moment for any sound to come up. Finally, it does.

“Okay. I’ll meet you outside the hotel in ten minutes.”

I see him standing outside the Canary entrance as I pull into the driveway, and for a moment I feel the pull of adrenaline telling me to run. I pull up in front of him instead and unlock his door. He’s freshly dressed in a fitted black tee and jeans, Ray Bans over his eyes. He gets in and buckles himself into the seat, and I’m unable to look at him. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Breakfast?” I ask finally as I look from left to right across traffic waiting to make a safe turn onto the street.

“Sure. You pick,” he replies, and I get the sense from his voice that he’s more hopeful of our ability to communicate.

We cruise along Carrillo Street and cut in at Cliff Drive, heading back towards the coast and Hendry’s Beach. Turning left into the parking lot I see it’s not too busy, and park in front of The Boathouse, one of my favorite restaurants. We’re seated inside at a table and we sit, order drinks and food, and finally I can no longer ignore him.

To his credit he hasn’t said a word, and a part of me thanks him for giving me the space to be the first one to speak. His eyes haven’t left me since I picked him up.

“So,” is all I can manage. Finally I look up at him.
Really
look at him. He’s aged since the divorce. The last bits of baby fat that once made his face angelic and ageless have gone and he looks first and foremost a proper adult, a man. His hair has darkened but is still blonde, and it rises up above his head in an I’ve-just-been-fucked kind of way that makes him look… He’s always been good looking, sexy, and now it’s even more apparent. The ice in my heart melts a bit, and I objectively look over him and realize he’s become even more handsome since I left him. His cheek bones are more prominent, as is his jaw, cutting across his face in a way most people would kill for. He’s still a golden shade of tan, less so than in his younger days, and it still sets off those amazing blue eyes I’ve known for ten years.

The black fabric of his fitted tee clings to the sinuous lines of his neck, shoulders and arms, and to his torso where I can see he’s lost weight. He’s fit and muscular, and for a moment it occurs to me I should be mad at him for looking better than ever despite our shared tragedy.

“Nice shirt,” he says, and I think I see the start of a smug smile on his face. I look down at myself and remember it’s his shirt I’m wearing.

“I need to buy clothes today,” I respond, looking up at him again impassively.

“Don’t you have clothes at home?”

“I’m not going back there,” I shake my head.

“So you’re
what
? Never going back?” he asks, a hint of incredulity in his voice.

“No. I think I need to start over again. Or maybe for the first time. I’m not sure,” I say, unsure of the words even as they come from my mouth.

“It’s not like you can’t afford it,” he says, and with a touch of bitterness. I look up at him again through furrowed brows.

“What do you mean? How do you know that?”

He gives me a knowing look. “Your alimony?” The way he says the word
alimony
makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Sorry,” he says, as if sensing he’s said it strangely. “You know what I mean.”

“Nick the spousal support was your idea. I just signed a piece of paper.”

Something shifts in his eyes and I can practically see them icing over with some unspoken thought. “You just
signed
a piece of paper and there went my life.”

Ugh
. “Do you want your money back or something?”

“No, of course I don’t!” he interjects. In a flash the ice is gone, replaced instead with fire. “It’s not about the money, Lay. I’d give you all of it if I knew it would keep you safe. You know that.”

I know nothing, I think to myself. The memory of endless meetings with us and our lawyers is somewhere in the cobwebs of our past history. Negotiations and settlements. I didn’t have a taste for any of it and didn’t care if he left me penniless. But he wouldn’t hear of it and practically threw his money at me.

The waiter arrives with our food and neither of us say anything more as we eat. Once in a while I sense Nick’s eyes on me, but I never look back up at him. It’s too strange. I’ve known this man for a third of my life; he was my first and only everything. First and only love. First and only husband. First and only lover.

Now we sit like strangers and I’m barely able to look at him with any remote possibility of self possession. The last four years have practically been a lifetime and I hardly know what to say to him anymore.

The memories of the previous night, however, are between us like the proverbial elephant in the room. Truth be told he was there for me when I truly needed him, even if that need was precipitated upon his presence in the first place.

I set my fork down and look up to find him staring at me once more, and it’s evident he’s running through his own line of questions, mentally deciding which one he’ll ask first.

“Why are you here?” I ask him finally once our plates are cleared from the table. I half expect him to say something flippant or sarcastic, but his face is pensive and for once I think he might take me seriously.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “When I saw you at the airport,” he begins, “it was as if the universe was answering a question. I was in New York when it dawned on me it was your birthday today, and before I knew it I was texting your number. I wasn’t even sure you hadn’t changed it. When you didn’t respond after the third text it didn’t even occur to me that I could possibly have been texting a disconnected number, or that it belonged to someone else. I knew it was still yours. Next thing I knew I was buying a ticket to California. And there you were.”

I take a deep breath at his confession, trying to remain impassive and not scout through the layers of complexity. This all started with a text.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, and at least to my credit I sound as even tempered and objective as humanly possible given the circumstances.

The fire is back in his eyes and he’s just
staring
at me. The moments tick by and I’m starting to lose the even temperament. The combination of things - the scent of him on my borrowed shift, the way his eyes are penetrating mine, the way he is breathing through parted lips, and the memory of his arms supporting me last night - is becoming unbearable.

“Will you let me take you out for your birthday tonight?” he asks finally.

“
That’s
why you’re here?” I ask him incredulously.