Page 30 of I Still Love You

“What?”

“What I mean is, we can both assume what the other will say before we approach a topic. Less talking, less dealing with our feelings. It’s a win-win.”

“How the fuck is that a win-win?” I question, keeping my voice quiet as I, too, grab a plate.

She casts her eyes on me before popping a piece of watermelon into her mouth. “Because then I don’t have to actually hear you voice your insults or hatred. Pretending makes it cut less. That is why you didn’t intervene at the farmer’s market, isn’t it? Because you hate recognizing what we had.”

When her mouth pinches into an even line and her expression flattens, I realize she doesn’t hate me at all. No. Layla Robinson resents me. To some extent, she still cares. It’s the only reasonable explanation. All the confidence she harbored when her friends were near vanishes, and I feel…horrendous, suddenly at war with how I’ve treated her. Guilt presses in on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, and my molar nips into my flesh. I place my plate on the edge of the table and lower my chin. If I had my way, I wouldn’t see the impact of my shit behavior looking back at me when I catch her eyes, but I do.

Layla ripped my fucking heart from my chest with what she did, but under my anger and hurt, I would never want her to know what that feels like. My throat constricts, my voice thickening. “I’m sorry.”

With little conviction, she replies, “Real nice, Luke. I don’t need a fake apology. Save it.”

It’s at this moment I’m grateful as fuck that everyone is behind us on the lawn or inside. No one can see her reaction or hear the defeat that has us both by the neck. “I’m serious,” I tell her. I look toward the yard and see that goddamn dog spinning in circles next to that brown-eyed girl. “Can we talk somewhere privately? Out front?”

I need her to feel my apology, and I can’t do that while she’s carting a plate of food around. While all these people are in our space. With that dog barking in the background.

“Why? So you can say one thing now, then end it with you telling me how much you want me gone? No, thanks. Once was enough for me. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“That’s not—”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I scrub a hand along my jaw. “I’m trying to apologize.”

She reaches for a brownie with icing and takes a bite. Turning to face me, and hallelujah, it’s about goddamn time, she says, “You can say whatever you want, but it’s hard to trust anything that comes out of your mouth anymore. Isn’t that what you said to me?”

I grit my teeth, ready to whip my own ass for hearing my words being turned back on me. She’s feisty as hell today. “Yes.”

“The feeling is mutual, so you go do your thing. I’ll go do mine. We’ll reconvene when it’s time to leave, and you can walk me out and put on a good show. No one will suspect a thing since I have to help with the bake sale.”

“Why are you being so goddamn difficult?”

If we weren’t in her friend’s backyard, she’d be seething. I have no doubt that she’d lift her chin for battle. I almost hate that she doesn’t. Sparring would be way fucking better than this, better than her breaking, better than her giving up.

She angles her head. “If you can be difficult to deal with, then why can’t I?”

I look out to the yard again, just to make sure no one has caught wind of this back and forth we’re doing. I’m pleased to find that everyone is in their own world. They could care less about us. I place my hands on my hips. “So, you’re done then? You’re backing out of our deal?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m fully committed.” When she takes a step closer, her eyes slice into mine. “But if you want me gone, then you’re going to have to work for it.”

I’m amazed at how quickly she builds her confidence back up, how quickly she climbs to the highest rung. A minute ago, she was indifferent and shut off. Now, there’s no missing that she’s ready to give me a run for my money. Knowing that makes me shift on my feet and causes feelings to come up that I had pushed down to apologize.

Like hell, if she thinks she’s going to win this war. “Selfish as always.”

“No. Just calculated. If roles were reversed, you’d be the same way. Hell, you are the same way. If I remember correctly, you’re the one that brought the deal to the table.”

I snicker and lower my voice. “Roles never would be reversed because I would never do to someone what you did to me.”

She puts down her plate and turns a finger toward herself. “I’m the selfish one? Me? My father died. I needed time to grieve and heal. A little fucking support would have been nice.”

It’s an effort to keep my voice low. The last thing I want is for our conversation to become entertainment for her coworkers, but it’s getting harder and harder. “Support? Had you leaned on me instead of running the fuck away, I would have been your support. I would have taken care of you, but you didn’t trust that.” My nostrils flare, the pent-up aggression that has lingered for years rising to the surface. “I still try to wrap my head around why the hell you stayed with me for as long as you did. You claimed you loved me—”

“I did love you.”

“You claimed you loved me then did me fucking dirty, Layla.” My eyes slide down her body, and I know before the words come out that they’re going to cut deep. I hate myself for it. I’m supposed to be doing better. “I should have treated you like any other woman back then. We should have hooked up, and I should’ve walked the fuck away. I never should’ve proposed.”

I’m too stuck in my own emotion to get a handle on the expression in her eyes. And I don’t fucking want to. I’m tired of this shit. Tired of her always having a grip on my head, on the damn muscle in my chest that rocks against my ribs with every breath.

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