Page 113 of Beautiful Thing

She drops her eyes, shaking her head. “God—sometimes, you make me forget who I am…” she whispers.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.” And I’m not willing to let this conversation go until I know.

Her tentative gaze flicks up to mine. “I’m a single mother.”

“Yes, and?”

“And you treat me like…”

“Like the prize you are!”

“Archer…” she sighs. “To the world, I’m a burden, a failure, a statistic, the perfect fucking example of what a screw-up looks like.”

Anger spreads inside me like a wildfire. “Then the world’s got it all wrong. You’re not a fucking failure, Layla.”

“Aren’t I? Archer, I can’t even put a roof over my child’s head.”

“You have ‘circumstances’. So what?” I shrug before motioning down at my injured leg. “We all have ‘circumstances’. It’s part of what makes us human. None of that makes you a burden.”

“I’ve just become so used to feeling like an inconvenience over the years,” she admits.

“You. Are. Not. A. Failure,” I insist. “You’re a triumph. You’re a model of what resilience looks like. You’re strong. Gritty. Determined.”

“Stop saying those things to me. It’s not true. I’m none of those things.”

“Are you forgetting that you had the rug pulled from under you? The person who was supposed to be your support system pulled the rug out from under you, just for the sick pleasure of seeing you fail. Yet even with every single odd stacked against you, you wake up every day—tired and overwhelmed and afraid—and you stack one brick on top of the other with your bare hands, building a life for you and your child. You’re not a failure. You’re a fighter, Layla. Even with the game rigged against you, you come out swinging every day. That’s why I admire you so fucking much. And that’s why I willalwaysdo whatever I can to help you win.”

Stringing this many words together is torture. Laying my feelings out on a platter is worse than pulling teeth. But I do it for Layla.

Always Layla. Only Layla.

“Gosh. It feels like you’re speaking a foreign language.” She laughs softly. “My brain doesn’t know how to process it. “The people I’ve relied on most have always treated my wants and needs like an inconvenience. Eventually, I realized that they were all willing to leave me to drown.” She sighs shakily. “So I learned to swim on my own. I learned to do it all on my own.”

“I want to be your life raft, Layla. Any time. If you just let me.”

She shivers.

“I know it might be hard to let go of control, but whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

She glances around the room before dropping her head and discreetly wiping her eyes. “You can’t make me cry now, Archer. We’re at a party. Everyone we know is here.” She curls her shoulders inward, trying to shrink in on herself. I won’t allow it.

I lift her chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine as our bodies press together. “If you need to cry, you’re allowed to cry, and I will fight any person in here who has a problem with it.”

She laughs softly, her eyes shining, rays of hope flickering beneath the veil of sorrow.

This house party might not be the ideal location for a come-to-Jesus moment, but if a shoulder to cry on is what Layla needs, then I’ll be that for her. Right here, right now. I don’t care who’s watching.

“My parents have always seemed annoyed by my very existence,” she goes on. “Razor always acted like I was a waste of space. And maybe it’s all in my head, but I feel like people judge me becauseIwas the one who ended our relationship. As if staying with that horrible man and suffering for the rest of my life would have somehow made me a ‘better’ woman. I can’t remember the last time I made it through the day with out feeling this cloud of unworthiness hanging over my head. It follows me everywhere I go.”

I’m growing angry. So angry at the world for making her doubt her place in it.

Leaning down, I sweep my mouth over hers. “You’re allowed to take up space, Layla. You’re allowed to live and dance and smile. You’re allowed to have needs and desires and fears and dreams. Just like every other person on the face of this planet does.” I cradle her face with both hands, making sure she hears me when I say this. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

And you are.

You’re loved by me.

Even if I’m too chicken to say it.

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