Page 28 of I Still Love You

“Keeping her hidden is only going to blow up in your face!” I ignore him as I head for my office, rounding the curve of the threshold where Rebecca was standing.

Don’t I fucking know it.

I’m not an idiot. If I don’t tread lightly with this, she’ll worm her way into my life, and it’ll be just like old times. Fortunately, hate is on my side.

When I swing my office door open, she’s standing at the far side in her periwinkle scrubs, looking out the window that points in the direction of the parking lot she uses regularly. When she doesn’t twist around to say hello, I appreciate it more than she knows. What we have is not cordial, and boy, am I fucking glad we’re on the same page in that regard.

After I quietly shut the door, I join her, sinking my hands into my slacks. I have no idea what’s so interesting outside the window, but it’s better than looking into her eyes, better than falling into the robin blue and not being able to find a way out. “What are you doing here?”

“Is this how you knew I was leaving the other day?” Her voice is calm. Unfaltering. “You watched for me out this window?”

I don’t see the point in beating around the bush, in lying. “Yes.”

“I wondered how you timed it almost perfectly.”

“Why are you here, Layla?”

“The children’s bake sale is coming up.” Whichever department gets picked for the year is required to make a shit-ton of baked goods, then they’re delivered to the children’s wing by hospital staff. It’s a nice way of keeping kids’ spirits high while their families are going through difficult times. It’s another thing that separates Regional from other hospitals within a hundred-mile radius.

My guess is they selected her department this year, which means she and her coworkers must handle the baking and delivery. But…

“How does this involve me?” I don’t mean for it to sound rude because I fully support the bake sale. Sharing space with her only makes me more tense than usual.

She turns toward me, and it’s the first time I realize that her hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw her. It doesn’t flow over her shoulders, nor is it piled on top of her head. It’s cut an inch or two above her shoulder in a bob that compliments the shape of her face. It’s all one length and outlines her face, starting straight, then turning wavy.

Years ago, I would’ve commented on it. Would’ve told her how good it looks, how much I fucking love it since it exposes her neck and collarbone more. Now, I don’t dare speak a word about it.

“Sierra invited half of the emergency staff that isn’t working this weekend to her place for a baking picnic,” she announces while keeping her eyes hooked on mine.

“What the hell is a baking picnic?”

She shrugs. “I assume there’ll be food and entertainment. It’s supposed to be fun. We’ll bake what we need for the children’s wing and enjoy each other’s company. Naturally, you’re invited.”

My molars graze my cheek, causing my temples to clench. Fucking work obligations. If it didn’t involve kids, I would say no in a heartbeat, but I can’t bring myself to decline the invitation when there are children who are suffering far worse than I am. “When is it?”

“Sunday.”

“What time?”

“After eleven.”

“Can I meet you there?”

She narrows her gaze and arches a brow. “Driving separately means you might not show. I don’t trust you.”

Well, isn’t that ironic?

“I don’t trust you, either,” I tell her honestly, though I’m not sure why I say it since I’ve made my true feelings clear time and time again. Trust comes with pain, and I don’t think I could ever get back to that with her. “I wouldn’t risk ending our deal prematurely. I’ll be there.”

Her prickly tone cuts into me. “You better be.” It reminds me of what’s at stake. What I have to lose. There’s no fucking way I’m going to screw it up. I’ll show up like she wants me to, put on a fake face. And when she leaves Quaint for good, I’ll shred that mask in front of her and show her how happy I am to watch her go.

13

Luke

There’s been an underlying sense of chaos in my chest and head since I breached the gate at the side of Sierra’s yard and let it swallow me whole. I tallied the number of bodies I saw, counting up to close to twenty, and realized they were all people I didn’t know.

Well, except for one; Thomas Grear, a kid who had the same classes as me in college. The second he approached me—after I greeted Layla, of course—I let him pull me into his bubble, grab me a beer, and we’ve been chatting ever since. Turns out he’s now a sports broadcaster, living it large in the big apple and flying home every weekend to see his girl, Monica. When she approaches and steals him away, I’m left with nothing else to do but find Layla and keep our ruse alive.

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