Page 70 of For the Love of Layla

“Not make sense to me? The queen of kink, sure it makes sense. That’s a pretty common one, but I worry maybe it’s something else. I’ve been reading a lot into Stockholm Syndrome and-”

“Ava, please stop.” I ask, my throat still sore and raspy, although I’m not sure if it’s from my multiple breakdowns or the smoke inhalation. It wasn’t until yesterday that the larger bits of what actually happened that night broke through the story I had made up in its place. According to the Psychiatrist my brain couldn’t handle the truth of what happened, so it made up a better ending to save me from the grief. It didn't save me from shit.

That explanation still doesn’t feel right, but I won’t tell them that.

I just want to go home, I want the battered walls and the furniture he ruined. I want that small hole in the hardwood where he shoved his knife that first night before cutting my clothes away.

I want him. I want him so badly I can't breathe.

One Week After Liam

“Layla Brandon is waiting for you.” Ava says, gently tugging me up from the hard couch in the visitation room. I don’t want to be here. They both know that. All I care about is getting our dog and going back home. Who is this for?

Me? No. Liam? No. Certainly not Brandon or the slew of corporate ass hats here to share their condolences.

I take a deep breath as I follow Ava into the viewing room of the funeral home, my eyes immediately finding Brandon as he shoots me a sympathetic look. I wish I could return it. I almost think I do, but I’m not sure if it translated right. Not sure if I make any face at all, actually. It’s been a week without him. No calls, no texts, just that stupid song I can’t stop listening to. My emotions constantly bouncing around between anger, utter misery and nothing at all.

I’ve settled on nothing at all for the moment. It’s by far my favorite.

Brandon reaches out, rubbing my upper back in a nice but misguided attempt to comfort me. I don’t have the heart to tell him it does the opposite. His guilt is written all over his face. The toll of what happened that night weighs just as heavily on him as it does me. He feels responsible for me now, and I don’t like that. I don’t want it. Part of me can’t help but to resent him, resent the fact that he pulled me out of the manor that night. Which I know isn’t fair, I’m sure I’ll get over it. I don’t cry, nor do I glance at the closed coffin behind us. They tell me he was too badly burned, that I couldn’t see him. I begged. Fucking hell, I got on my knees and begged them to let me see him. Touch him one last time. I didn’t care how bad it was or if it would haunt me. I needed that, and they denied me repeatedly. All it did was make this feel even less real. I feel no tie or association to the burned corpse in that expensive casket. They could’ve left it in the house for all I care. It doesn’t feel like him. This doesn’t feel like a funeral for him. For my Liam. The preacher drones on and I can almost feel his warmth against my upturned palm, the way his fingers intertwined with mine. If I close my eyes at night and focus hard… I can almost taste him again. The burned flesh grinding against the fabric of this dress is barely enough to keep me present. I can hear the shouting from security outside, warning the protesters to stay back.

Cop killer!

Rapist!

Burn in hell!

Boys in blue!

I stare at my deep perse colored ankle, the color further darkened by the sheer black tights I’m wearing. I just… stare. Wishing his soft, adoring touch was lingering over the damaged flesh. I don’t cry during the drive to the cemetery, not when I’m offered a bucket full of soil. I don’t cry when I toss one handful on top of the mahogany box, or when it’s lowered into the ground. Telling myself he’s not in there. That he couldn’t possibly be in there.

Not my Liam.

My monster. Tormentor. My love.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck, my body so accustomed to his gaze every breeze feels likehim.

I’m counting down the seconds until I’m back home where I can slip off a mask of my own. The thought of wearing one seems less offensive to me now, it’s a necessity. When I’m home, I don’t have to pretend anymore. I don’t have to act like I’m not looking for him in every crowd or around every corner, in every shadow. I don’t have to wait until Ava falls asleep before calling his phone dozens of times, huddled in the corner of the dark bedroom rocking back and forth. Cursing any higher power unfortunate enough to oversee our sick little story. There’s no way to confirm it was him that died in that fire… it couldn’t have been. He would’ve never left me, not after everything he did to keep us together.

“I am so sorry for your loss. Liam was a kind man.” I feel my eyebrows pull together, peeking up at another blank face of another corporate asshat. I’m in charge of these people now, they know it. Their sleazy resentful stares feel like putrid grease on my skin. They all blend after a while, each one offering the same empty condolences. Liam was many things. Kind wasn’t an attribute he ever particularly worried himself with when it came to others. I raise my eyebrows when Brandon scoffs beside me, shifting his body closer to mine, “Liam hated you and you know it.” I clench my fists, watching the man’s beady eyes narrow with anger.

“What did you say your name was?” I ask politely, staring at him the way I watched my Liam stare so many times. Cold, critical and so fucking intense. I even tilt my head to the side, just a little.

“Mr. Monet, I was a friend of the late Curran family. Beg my pardon your family.”

I give him a bitter smile, hoping my eyes are as empty as my chest, “Mr. Monet, you’re fired.”

Brandon stifles a chuckle beside me as Mr. Whatever gawks, his scrawny face turning beat red with anger. He doesn’t have time to speak as Brandon nods to the large men posted up around us. They don’t take more than four steps before he stalks from the room, followed closely by them. In any other situation this would’ve made me happy, maybe even made me laugh. That was certainly an abuse of my newfound power as CEO of Curran Enterprises. CEO in spirit, at least. I have and want nothing to do with the company he built for the soul purpose of separating himself from his family's fortune, it meant little to him after he accomplished that and it means even less to me. Brandon is more qualified, but refused to take my share of the company statingit’s called Curran Enterprises and it should belong to a Curran.

That’s me, the last Curran.

Liam left me everything he had, every fucking thing. I’ve learned so much about the man I love…loved, sorting through his things when I can tolerate it. I’ve managed one shoebox of pictures, between the fits of endless screaming and tears. Even found a picture of his au pair. The woman that was for all intents and purposes his mother. Of course baby Liam was fucking adorable, only wish I could’ve seen his hair it’s natural color when he was young. Seen what our children might’ve looked like, had we gotten that far. I’ve taken a dozen pregnancy tests since he left, desperate to see those two little pink lines. For a piece of him. I haven’t seen them yet, and my blood work confirmed I wouldn’t. I have to imagine that was what he had in mind when he took my IUD out. Despite myself, I flush at the thought, grateful that’s one memory I was asleep for. Tears fill my eyes quickly and I blink them away even faster. I take a deep breath, barely listening to the words of sympathy and hollow condolences as people filter past, back to their families and friends. Their homes that still feel like… homes. Brandon’s hand finds mine and one glance up at his big watery eyes makes it impossible for me to shake his hand away.

Liam’s not gone. He can’t be… what’s left after that? He took everything I was. He changed me down to every molecule, rewrote me for himself and then he left me.

When everyone is gone and the graveyard is quiet again, no somber music or hushed chatter, just the memories of the dead narrate my steps down the paved walkway. Ava had to leave, something about her boss finally tiring of her canceling showings, but Brandon refused. Unwilling to leave me alone despite my pleading and reassurances that I won’t off myself draped longingly over a freshly filled hole in the ground and a cold grave marker. I forced myself to meet his eyes, I told him I wouldn’t do it here, anyway. He looked like he was going to be sick and apparently didn’t find it all that reassuring. His eyes slipped from mine to the shadows and I squeezed his arm tightly despite my skin crawling as I did so.

The breeze dances around me, a fine layer of snow dusting the ground as I make my way to one more fresh hole in the ground. One far differentin appearance and far, far away from his. I bend, squatting down beside the humble marker. Brandon hovering above me, nods in approval, a weak smirk on his face.

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