Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) (5 page)

“No,” he answers solemnly. “Nonetheless, will you let me?”

“Nick,” I breathe his name. “I have things I need to do today. Plans. Decisions to make.”

“Tonight?” he says again, stressing the singular word.

“I already have plans tonight,” I lie. “I’m meeting a friend for a birthday drink.” My mind goes to the man I met two nights ago, Eric Jacobson. I could make plans with him. I could text him when Nick is no longer around to try to make some sort of plan. Or I could sit in my room and Nick would be none the wiser.

“Afterwards? Late dinner?” he asks.

“Can’t you just tell me now?” I ask, and even I can hear the strain in my voice.

“No,” he says firmly, an eyebrow arching as he casts his eyes downward momentarily. “Please, Layla. I flew all the way out here to see you.”

“Don’t put this on me, Nick,” I shake my head at him. “I didn’t ask you to come. I haven’t spoken to you since the divorce. Why all this now?”

His arms are moving across the table and before I can think to move my hands he’s taken them in his and is holding them tight. For an instant I think he might hurt me, but quickly realize the sensation only is because he’s desperately trying to get through to me.

“I have been alone for four years. I barely survived Tyler and the divorce and I was a broken man. I nearly tried to kill myself. More than once.” His eyes are burning like blue fire and his voice is barely above a whisper. But his fingers are digging in to mine and I can feel the plaintive plea in his words, see them in the intensity of his face. “But I made it through and,” he trails off. He swallows to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. Finally, he looks back up at me. “I’m asking you for this. Just let me see you tonight. Please, Layla.”

It’s the first time I’ve really been confronted with Nick’s grief, and the image of him somewhere in the world trying to take his own life guts me unimaginably. In my darkest days I wished for death but never had the strength to try to take my own life. Never in my lifetime would I think of Nick making the attempt.

Suddenly my lie about drinks with Eric Jacobson seems silly and pedestrian.

“Okay. Yes,” I acquiesce. “But please give me this afternoon to myself. I don’t feel like running and I don’t want to be chased.”

He nods without saying a word and a moment later removes his hands from mine.

“Pick me up at my room tonight. I’ll be ready.”

“Thanks, Lay,” he whispers, and I can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes in a great amount of oxygen, as though his lungs had been emptied of it.

‘I have been alone for four years.’

I can’t seem to shake Nick’s words from my head. Throughout most of our relationship his fidelity was an issue. It wasn’t that millions of girls around the globe wanted him, but that I couldn’t trust him not to want them back. At least, not always. There was always an opportunity for him to cheat, and plenty of girls rumored to have been with him. Not to mention the morning I walked in and found one of them in his bed with him. People might have cut him a little bit of slack thinking he was merely cheating on his girlfriend, but I was secretly his wife. And even through the difficult separations I never strayed. He couldn’t seem not to.

‘I have been alone for four years.’

It’s a tug at a heartstring.

Our breakfast ended hours ago and since then I’ve made my way in and out of stores at Paseo Nuevo, ducking in and out of Nordstrom for shoes and clothing, Sephora for the skincare and makeup luxuries I prefer not to live without, and just as Nick’s words have penetrated my mind again I find myself standing outside of Victoria’s Secret. On a whim I go in, and cast my eyes over the lofty perfumed displays of beautiful undergarments and lingerie. I haven’t worn anything prettier than a plain cotton bra in years. I used to. When I was younger and in love and confident in my sexiness I wore a satin balconette with every ounce of confidence. Lace panties in every style and color filled my drawers in abundance. But that was a different time, and I was a different person. I was Layla Hudson.

I’m so out of touch.

A beautiful employee with perfectly applied makeup smiles at me and offers her help and I barely know what to say. Finally, I say, “It’s my birthday. I’m starting over and I need everything,” and she opens my eyes to a world I’d long since forgotten. She starts me off with bras. Lacy confections in cream, pink, and dove grey. Satin demis in black and white polka dots, mint green and nude. And quite a few items in various floral and animal prints. She finds a coordinating or matching pair of panties for each one and throws in a few cotton, lace, and silk varieties in various shapes for good measure. Cotton pajamas in a deep blushing shade of pink. Loose fitting sleep pants, satin boxer shorts and cotton cami and short sets with lace bottoms. Even more satin pajamas in shorts, pants, and long shirt varieties. I’ve stopped trying to mentally calculate the damage this will do to my credit card and decide not to care. I’ll let her fill two bags full of whatever I need if it means I don’t have to make the hard decision myself. She shows me swimsuits next, and without protest she’s giving me bikinis with yellow ruffles, sets of bandeaus and hipkinis in mint, floral pink, and vibrant purple, and a few retro-inspired one pieces that more adequately suit my 30-year old modesty. I spy a pair of dark gray cashmere leggings and add them to one of my bags. Next a cream colored cashmere shawl and sweater. She recommends a mint colored pleated maxi dress, holds up a lilac colored lace panel shirtdress to my frame before deciding I need it, and tops everything off with a few workout bras, tank tops and stretchy leggings.

It takes forever for her to ring everything up and she’s smiling and chatting enthusiastically with me as she does. By the time she gets to the total I merely hand her my black AmEx and immediately forget the actual number.

I’m overloaded with packages and seeing my struggle two female employees offer to help me out to my car. They’re as enthusiastic as the first girl and are all smiles at me as I tip them and thank them for their help.

As they walk away I hear one say to the other, “Do you think it’s her?”

“Definitely. She was married to Nick Hudson,” the second one whispers.

“Oh my god that man is hot. The things he does to me,” the first one twitters.

“Girl please. Did you see how gorgeous she is? I wouldn’t mind getting to know her Victoria’s Secret, if you know what I mean,” the second giggles at her own pun.

“You like older women?”

Flattered as I am by their banter I have to gather myself after hearing it. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard whispers around me. Flattered. I decide I should just be flattered and move on.

I eye the back of my Range Rover and it hits me like a brick wall. I’ve just bought myself an entirely new wardrobe. The carpeted trunk and back seats and filled with handled and plastic bags, receipts peaking out from behind stuffed clothing and shoe boxes.

Whatever
, I sigh, and get in behind the wheel.

It’s nearly dark by the time I return to the Canary again and a fleet of gorgeous Abercrombie model lookalike bell hops have to carry everything I now own up to my room. I tip them all and shut the door with a sigh.

I check my phone for the first time in hours and see a message from Nick waiting for me.

Looking forward to tonight. Pick you up at 7.

I glance at the time and make a dash for the shower, feeling the slightest prick of excitement as I do.

I’m not as impassive as I’d like to be. In fact, there’s a rogue butterfly floating around in my stomach somewhere. When Nick requested we meet tonight he was so determined, so ardent.

‘I’m asking you for this. Just let me see you tonight. Please, Layla.’

I can’t help but wonder why he couldn’t just tell me what he wanted and insisted on taking me out for my birthday. Is it just to be polite? For old time’s sake?

6:55pm
reads the display on my phone. There’s a full length mirror adjacent to the bed and when I stand before it I can’t tell if it’s me in the reflection or someone else. I’m wearing expensive dark grey jeans that extend my legs for miles, and grey ankle booties tucked beneath the hems. I’ve layered a cream colored cashmere sweater over Nick’s borrowed fitted white tee, and a nude satin bra with matching panties beneath it all. My hair is sleek, straight and shiny, and my face is touched off with a coating of black mascara, a neutral cream gloss and a flush of pink on the apples of my cheeks that is completely natural.

Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve looked at myself in the mirror, or maybe it’s that I’ve changed without noticing. I’m 30 now. And I look it. Not in a bad way of course, but in a way that makes me feel even better about the Victoria’s Secret employee who thought I was gorgeous. To my total shock and surprise I
do
look hot. And somewhere inside me the more confident version of Layla has resurfaced.

At 7:00 on the dot there is a knock on the door and the rogue butterfly flutters somewhere deep in my stomach. I ignore it, pat down my hair one last time and put my hand on the door handle.

Why am I so nervous?

I take a moment to compose myself and return to the comforts of impassivity, and open the door. I can barely take notice of the fitted v-neck sweater and slacks hugging his defined body; his eyes are on me. I can just faintly see tiny muscles working in his face around his eyes and mouth and I wonder what sort of thoughts he’s thinking to illicit such an involuntary reaction.

“There you are,” he says after a long moment, his eyes taking in my face with appreciation.

“Here I am,” I reply with a nervous chuckle. “It’s seven.”

A brief laugh escapes his mouth and he casts his eyes downward. I’ve missed the punchline somehow, but seeing his face lit up with a smile… For a moment I’m disarmed. It’s the first time since seeing him yesterday that when I look at him I see the Nick I once loved, and not the face of the child I’ve lost.

“I booked us a table at the restaurant upstairs. Come on.” He reaches out his hand for me, and with just an ounce of hesitation I take it, feeling the warmth of his touch.

Booked a table
is not an entirely accurate description. We pass a sign announcing the restaurant and rooftop pool are closed for a special event, and it doesn’t take long to realize what has happened. Booked a table, yes. One table on the rooftop of the Canary Hotel all to ourselves.

“How did you manage this?” I ask, baffled. A smartly dressed host leads us to a table lit up by the hundreds of twinkling lights that canopy the rooftop. Their reflections sparkle on the surface of the pool like stars in an undulating indigo sky. Around us tall palm trees are swaying and city lights are glittering, and I can’t think of anything more beautiful.

“I asked,” he answers with his patented
Nick-Hudson-I’m-A-Sexy-Singer
smile. I haven’t seen it in years and for a moment I forget what he’s said or why he’s said it.
That smile
.

Get a grip, Garrett.

The host pulls out my chair for me and I sit, setting my purse down awkwardly at my feet.

“Maybe a better question is, why did you do all this?”

His eyebrows furrow just above his nose. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we could gone just gone to a restaurant or ordered room service. Why rent out the rooftop of a hotel?”

“Why not?” he shrugs it off, as though it were something anyone at any time could do.

“Would you like some champagne?” a waiter I didn’t see before asks from nowhere. I look at him, the bottle of Cristal, and then at Nick. Is this really happening?

“Please,” I consent, and watch as he pours into a crystal flute. He pours a glass for Nick as well before setting the bottle down and retreating back to wherever he came from.

Across the table Nick lifts his glass up to me and smiles. “Happy 30
^th
birthday, Layla.” I lift my glass and gently tap it against his, hearing the twee clink of the crystal, and take a sip.
Mmmm
. My eyes close at the sumptuous taste and I take a moment to let it settle into every taste bud. I can’t recall the last time I’ve had champagne, let alone Cristal.

When I open my eyes again I find Nick staring at me, his glass suspended in the air, chest rising and falling as he breathes in. The fire is in his eyes again, and for a moment I entertain the notion that his look is that of desire and wanting.

‘I have been alone for four years.’
Suddenly his words are more complex than I originally believed, and they take on a new meaning. Is that what this is about? Not just my birthday, but
us
? Surely he didn’t fly all the way across the country for
me
like
that
.

I break my eyes away from his to sever whatever connection is forming. I look out among the twinkling lights and the green leaves that climb up and across lattices and force my mind back into the impassive state I have become some accustomed to. Yesterday I was attacking him, screaming and feral and utterly inhuman. And then last night I fell apart completely and let him hold me in his arms until I cried myself to sleep. I can’t be so mercurial with him, I reprimand myself.

After a second waiter takes our order I give a small, polite smile and wait. Surely the reason Nick wanted to meet me will have to come up at some point.

“Yes, your question,” he begins, as though he’s read my mind. “What do I want from you? Well, for starters, Layla, I wanted to acknowledge such an important birthday.”

Oh, God
. Suddenly it occurs to me that I’ve missed his birthday, his 30
^th
birthday, entirely. I can barely recall the date but I know it’s somewhere around Thanksgiving. The holidays are hard for me and despite my guilt I know now how I could have forgotten. Not that it would have made much of a difference anyway. We weren’t speaking then.

As if he can read my thoughts again he’s shaking his head, dismissing my guilt with a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it. I haven’t felt like celebrating any birthday since… Well, since Tyler,” he says cautiously, his eyes straining at me beneath his furrowed brows. “The holidays haven’t been easy for me. But I’m sure they haven’t been for you either.”

“No. They haven’t.” I take another sip of champagne, hoping it loosens the tight knot in my heart that has suddenly formed.

Nick places his elbows on the table and wrings his hands in front of his face. He looks pensive, and worried.

“After Las Vegas I knew things were not the same,” he begins, his eyes on mine. A look I don’t recognize passes over his face. I can’t tell if it’s anger or anguish. “Our marriage was as strained as ever and despite our best efforts I could tell that things were
off
. Especially with you. I think deep down I knew you were slowly falling out of love with me, whether you realized it or not, and every day I watched that light fade just a little bit more. Then the accident.” He puts a fist up to his mouth as he chokes on the words, and I force myself to take a sip of champagne to keep from unraveling.

The second waiter quietly brings our dishes and retreats silently, not wanting to disturb us. We each take a first bite, and the silence stretches on for a few moments before Nick begins again.

“In the aftermath of our son’s passing I knew that that light had gone out. And that the day Tyler died, so did your love for me.” Nick is solemn, and beneath the moon and twinkle of lights he suddenly looks much older than his thirty years.

It takes every ounce of my emotional strength not to bring up the memories I had worked so hard to forget. Images I never wanted to see again were burned from my mind and I prayed they would never return. It was the only way I could cope, the only way I could not lose my sanity entirely.

He looks at me again. “In spite of my own devastation I knew you needed me to comfort you, to help you through the unbearable pain of our loss. But you turned away from me, Layla, and I knew that no matter how bad you felt you would not come to me. I can’t even count on one hand the number of times I saw you between Tyler’s passing and the divorce. It all happened so quickly and before I knew it I was mourning the death of just about everything I loved and held most precious and dear to me.”

We each take a sip of champagne and continue eating in another stretch of silence. It seems rather odd to be surrounded by such beauty while talking about something so inherently sad, but it must have the effect of taking the sting out of the pain because my heart is not trying to escape my chest as Nick relives the darkest moments of our lives.

“What I realized recently, which I couldn’t have possibly known then, is that I shouldn’t have let you walk away from our life and our marriage so soon after Tyler. I should have done anything possible to protect you, to comfort you, to be the support system you needed. Hell, and for you to be the comfort and support that I needed. But I didn’t realize all that then and my life was … considerably worse.”

He mentioned earlier his attempts to take his own life, and I can’t help but wonder
how
exactly he attempted.
No
. I push the thoughts from my mind. I can’t open that door and let in the other thoughts and images I’d worked so hard to push far, far away.

Suddenly my heart is open, and in the moment I’m transported back into the muscle memory of my love for Nick. It fills my chest and a flood of memories of our life together come rushing out. Every first we shared, from the first kiss to the first time we made love, and every poignant moment before and after, whether good or bad. We were kids, just stupid kids so desperately in love with each other that we could barely stand to be apart. The miles we traveled together as I joined him on tours around the world, having passionate sex in every tour bus and hotel in every conceivable city along the way. Buying our first house together, dropping money on whatever expensive luxuries we desired. The first time I ever suspected him of sleeping with another woman. The sleepless nights when I wasn’t with him on tour and he’d forget to call and I’d imagine him fucking someone else. All the pain and manipulation we inflicted upon each other because we were two fucked up kids who craved one another. We couldn’t have made our love or our marriage work in the way I always thought it was supposed to function even if we tried. It just wasn’t who we were. We weren’t my parents.

And in our darkest hours of need I ran away. I allowed myself to be consumed by desperate anguish without any help or emotional support. Even if that light had diminished in me entirely like he believed it had, I should have stayed so that we could help each other through our suffering.

“Anyway.” He coughs into his fist and shakes his head to dismiss an unspoken thought. His blue eyes are strained and I can see faint remnants of red around the irises. “What I wanted from you was just for you to hear what I had to say. And I thought it was worth saying in person.”

Before he can finish I find myself reaching a hand across the table. I take his right hand in mine and entwine what fingers I can manage within his. His hand is considerably larger than mine, and he adjusts them both so that our fingers are enclosed together, his hand over mine.

Suddenly I can no longer keep the images of Tyler from my mind and I’m burdened with the pain all over again. It was the first in a week of rainy days sometime during the holidays, and Nick had taken Tyler to a father-and-son play class downtown. The streets were slick with oil and the other driver wasn’t paying attention. The force of being t-boned at 70 miles per hour in the passenger side and the slippery condition of the road sent Nick’s car flying across the intersection and into another car, the secondary impact smashing the driver’s side with considerable force. The distracted driver died on impact and no amount of medical talent or miracle in the world could have saved Tyler from death, despite his proper safety and placement in the backseat. There was just no chance for him. Not that afternoon.

Nick suffered a rather severe concussion, had several bruised ribs and hairline fractures in his arms, and if the driver hadn’t died already Nick would have killed him for certain. And all this time I have unfairly placed the blame entirely on Nick’s shoulders. Four years I have assigned him as the executioner of our beautiful child’s life.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, and the tears start to fall. They’re not the hot tears of fiery anger, but ones of cavernous sorrow. “I’m so sorry!” I’m sobbing, an ugly cry from the bottom of my stomach to the tears streaming out of my eyes.

I don’t see him move but I feel his hands pulling me up to my feet and wrapping around me. My face is in the crook of his neck and I can feel my own tears soaking his skin with warm salty moisture.

“It would have been my fault if you’d killed yourself!” The words are coming out of my mouth even as I’m coming to understand them, and they do nothing to quell the sudden sea of turbulent emotion rising from the dark place. I blamed him. I put all the guilt and pain of Tyler’s death on Nick because he was in the car with Tyler. But nothing could have prevented the fate of our son. Nick did everything he was supposed to, and even if he’d seen the other driver barreling through the red light at the intersection there would have been little he could do to intervene fate.