Page 46 of For the Love of Layla

He works his hands through my tangled hair, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you’ll never know how sorry. Your grandmother is sorry and your dad is sorry, but it doesn’t change a thing.” I pull back as my breathing slows, wiping the tears from my bloodshot eyes, “How did you forgive her?”

He stares off into the living room where a portrait hangs right above her favorite chair, a chair that remains empty now and has ever since I can remember. It’s an unspoken rule that it shouldn’t be sat in, as silly as that may seem. “All of our years together, she made me feel like the most loved man in the world. Had that kind of love that blinded you to everything else. She never wore a mask. What you saw in Zoe, you got. If you’re ever fortunate enough to find someone that loves you so ferociously, it turns your world inside out with napalm skies. Never let them go.” He cups my face gently in his hands, giving me his warmest smile, “Life is fleeting, Layla. I’m an old man. I’m sure the things I prattle on about must sound silly to you. They would’ve to me at that age.” I chuckle, happy we’re back to this lighthearted version of him.

“Keep your head above the water. What they had it’s in you. You can have the happy ending they never got. You gotta be kind to yourself. Give me your keys.”

What?

“Why?” I ask, dumbfounded by the change in topic.

“You’re drunk and I assume you drove home, yes?” His old eyes stare down at me, making me feel an inch tall. I don’t argue as I fish them from the back of my pickle juice stained back pocket, sitting them in his hand.

He smiles at me, “If anything ever happened to you, Layla, I couldn’t go on. I’m not saying you can’t have fun, kid, just need to be smarter than that. Now, how about you get the mop and I’ll make us some bacon pancakes?” I nod, unable to stop the smile from spreading over my face at the mention of my two favorite foods.

“I love you, grandpa.”

“Love you more.”

“Miss. Burke, have you taken anything today?”

I blink my dry eyes rapidly. God, I need to stop zoning out. It doesn’t help I’m still groggy and nauseous as all fuck. “I already told you I got drunk last night. That’s why I didn’t come home. That and I have a stalker that I’m pretty sure wants to kill me.” I snap, just as tired of seeing Officer Daniel’s ugly face as he is of seeing mine. “Is there genuinely nobody else more qualified to respond to my calls?”

“I may look young, ma’am, but I assure you I am qualified. There’s simply been nothing for us to go on. The only person who seems to have ever seen this man is you.”

You don’t look that young, prick.

I throw up my hands, standing up abruptly from my porch step, “Isn’t that the point of a stalker?”

He ignores my question, scribbling something down in that stupid notebook he always has stuck in his face. I only barely resist the urge to jerk it from his hands and read all the chicken scratches for myself.

He thinks you’re fucking crazy.

“You had your security system repaired after our last visit. Any idea why that didn’t alert about the break in?”

“I told you he’s been watching me. They found cameras tucked away all throughout my house the first time they came. He probably saw me enter the alarm code a hundred times.”

He raised a dark eyebrow at me, narrowing eyes I once mistook for kind, “And you never changed it?”

“What fucking difference would it have made? Have you even tried tracing the number?”

“The number used to contact you is well hidden. Routed through hundreds if not thousands of different places. I understand you took a computer science class in college, yes?”

“Yeah, and I failed out of it. What the fuck could that possibly have to do with the fact that my life is being torn apart by a fucking psychopath?” I scream as my body trembles. My muscles sore from how often they’ve been doing that lately.

“Compose yourself, Miss. Burke.” He warns.

Compose myself…COMPOSE MYSELF.

“Leave. Get off my property.” I state blankly as my heart drums in my chest. Angry tears filling my eyes.

“Layla…”

I ignore him turning to head back into the remnants of my destroyed house, stopping just in the doorway to turn back to him, “I hope when he tires of me, you’re the one that finds my corpse.” The shocked expression on his face doesn’t fill me with half the satisfaction I thought it would as I close the door that half hangs from the hinges.

That’s how this ends, right?

I die, we both die or I…what? Succumb to the Stockholm Syndrome and ride off into the sunset on my stalker’s ridiculously large dick? Peaches pads up behind me as I walk over broken glass and fragmented wood kneeling beside the old reading chair that sits in the corner of my living room. Where it’s always been, its beautiful rich vintage floral pattern is unrecognizable with its cushions cut open and strewn about the room.

I’m sorry, grandpa.

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