Page 36 of I Still Love You

Claire collects everyone’s cards. “Layla, rein in your man. Wouldn’t want you having to pick him up off the floor when he loses. Again.”

Layla purses her lips before her challenging side reveals itself. “Maybe you’re just saying that because you know he’ll beat you, and you want to eliminate that chance before it happens.” She blinks once and steadies her gaze on me. “I would love to see him take you down. If there’s anyone who knows it can be done, it’s me.”

As subtle as a chameleon against its background, my eyes brighten at her comment. I’m uncertain if it’s an insult or a compliment. If her family wasn’t around, I would lay it out and ask her outright.

Claire organizes the deck and turns to me. “What do you say, lover boy? You in?”

Cherie finally chimes in. “Now, Claire, I’m sure Luke is a busy man. Stop poking him in his side. It’s late enough.”

I smirk at their mother’s choice of words. “What do you think?” As much as Claire thinks she’s poking, she’s really not. Truth is, I would love to win just so she’d shut the hell up for once, but my ulterior motive is more important than silencing the loudest Robinson of them all.

Being in this house does something to Layla—softens her—and I want to drink that up.

“I say we pick a day for a rematch.”

Layla rolls her eyes and pushes her chair from the table. I watch as she rounds it and heads in her mom’s direction to lean down and peck a kiss on her cheek. She bends her knees enough to squat and wrap her arms around Cherie’s shoulders. When Layla says something in her ear, I try my damnedest to hear her quiet words.

“Thank you for coming, honey. You, too, Luke. Your presence means so much to me, to all of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Claire jokes. Cherie scolds her a second later.

“Ignore Claire,” Layla says, standing at full height. “She’s annoyed that you’re actually challenging her. She’s shaking in her boots.” The corner of Layla’s mouth tips up when she spins around, runs a hand through Claire’s hair, and swoops down to hug her.

“Shaking in my boots, my ass,” Claire interjects, patting Layla’s arm during their embrace.

“Claire!” Cherie scolds. “What is with you and your mouth tonight? You’re not seeing that man again, are you? He’s always such a negative influence on you.”

“Relax, Mom,” Claire says, pushing her comment aside. “I’m not seeing anyone. This is just me being my true self.”

“Good,” her mom says, perking up and standing. “That means you can help me put the dishes away. I’m sure the dishwasher is done by now.”

“I’ll help, too, Mom,” Brit volunteers, but not before crossing the dining room and wrapping Layla in a hug of her own. “I’m so happy you’re home. Love you.”

“Alright, let’s go, you two.”

When the three of them trail into the kitchen, the dining room turns radio silent—aside from their overflowing chatter, that is. I tune them out and focus on Layla, who moved to the mantle’s fireplace when they left the room. It’s in the corner and directly across from where I’m sitting. On top, there’s a frame, but I’m too far away to make it out.

I get up and make my way over. I sink my hands into my shorts because I’m gravely aware of how badly my fingers are itching to reach out to her.

I blame this house.

The memories that fill it.

The memories of us that filter in without consent.

With her back to me, I take in her petite frame and the slight curve of her hips. The back of her neck that now shows because of how short she cut her hair. I take a step closer and angle my body toward hers.

“One year suddenly becomes many,” she whispers, tilting her head a fraction of an inch. “You think time slows because you no longer have a part of you, but it trudges along. It doesn’t slow for anything. Not even death.”

Jesus Christ.

Nail, meet head.

Layla might have only disappeared to another state, but her words hit me like a cannonball with the sole purpose of maiming me. Time is a greedy bitch. It always moves on, even if you can’t. It taunts you with every minute that ticks by, almost poking fun over moving so fast.

I wish she never did what she did. We belonged to each other. She was my joy, my comfort, my entire fucking world. The grief that ensued when she left was nothing short of unbearable.

Her comments about my lack of support from the past come to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I wasn’t selfish enough. Maybe I should’ve put my love aside, if only for a brief time, to allow her the space she needed to find her heart again. Maybe I should have sacrificed myself differently so she didn’t have to do it for me.

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