Page 8 of Beautiful Thing

That should have been the last time I ever opened myself up to that kind of embarrassment. But somehow, I can’t seem to get it in my head that this crush is one-sided. At this point in time, I should be focusing on building a life for my son and me. That’s it. That’s all.

I pull into my yard, slamming on the brakes and creating deep ruts in the snow-covered gravel. I don’t even bother straightening out my crooked parking job as I stop next to the babysitter’s car.

In a blind daze, I sprint up the rickety steps and tear through the front door. The babysitter jumps when I burst inside, looking positively terrified as she cradles my little boy in her arms.

“You okay, Thalia?” I ask, out of breath.

The poor girl doesn’t deserve all this drama. She’s far too young to be dealing with this. And lord knows I don’t pay her enough.

Thalia is Inez’s foster sister. A sweet girl, who’s good to my son.Half the time, I feel like she only accepts my babysitting gigs because she feels sorry for me.

She immediately hands over Sky, and I can barely hear whatever she’s saying because my baby is bawling his little eyes out.

I wrap him in my arms, rocking him as I stand in the living room and try to soothe him. “Everything’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here now. Everything’s okay.” I kiss the top of his head.

Thalia starts rambling, packing up her backpack as she apologizes. “Oh Layla. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to bother you. But I didn’t know what to do. I just…Should I have called the police?”

“No, no, it’s okay. Everybody’s okay. You did the right thing by contacting me and keeping Sky safe. Everybody’s okay,” I tryto convince myself. “Thank you, Thalia.” I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and Sky continues to cling to me.

A door inside my house slams, startling all three of us.

A scrawny, shirtless man stumbles out of the bedroom—mybedroom—reeking of stale beer and flashing a crooked smile. “Hey there, baby mama,” my ex slurs.

And suddenly, I amdefinitelynot feeling okay.

4

ARCHER

At the buttcrack of dawn, I’m driving my hungover ass up the winding mountain road back to my place. I’m groggy. My head feels cloudy. And my mouth tastes like a dead animal.

Last night, after Layla disappeared from the bar, I was tempted to follow her straight out the door and call it a night myself.

But Karli and my brothers had other plans for my birthday party, lining the bar up with shots and upping the peer pressure.I had a few drinks and ended up crashing in one of Darius’s many spare bedrooms.

Now, I’m cursing myself for drinking on a weeknight. As everyone was happy to remind me last night, I’m no spring chicken anymore. I can’t party all night and still function like a human the next morning.

But I also have bills and other financial responsibilities. So here I am, driving home to change out of yesterday’s clothes and get ready for work.

To add to my early morning punishment, I’m currently on the phone with my mom—damn the time difference with Europe—and she’s going on and on about a Polish girl she thinks I would just ‘absolutely love’.

I roll down my window, needing the fresh air. “Mom, it’s too early for this. It may be mid-afternoon over there, but I still haven’t had my morning coffee,” I say as politely as I can manage.

I know I won’t get any son of the year awards—that belongs to Felix—but I still try to be a decent one.

She laughs dryly. “You always have some excuse. Anything to avoid discussing your lack of a dating life.”

I scrub a palm over my pounding forehead. “Mom. I’ve told you. I’m going on dates just fine on my own. I don’t need you to find me strangers who live three thousand miles away.”

She scoffs through the phone. “Well, I’ll just have to see that in order to believe it.”

I groan as she carries on and on. But I’m barely listening to her, as she rambles on about the pretty Polish girl from the bakery she frequents. Or was it the yoga studioacross fromthe bakery? I don’t really know.

To be honest, I’m only thinking about Layla right now. She’s been on my mind since last night. I can’t get over what it was like to dance with her. What it was like to finally have her in my arms. How good she smelled. How beautiful she looked.

And how much I regret watching her run away from the bar like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.

I roll down our street now, drawing closer to Layla’s small cottage, which is only a few houses down from my place. I can’t help but glance in that direction.

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