Page 11 of Breaking Point
“Oookay.” She yanks the bottle of wine out of my hand. “That’s enough for tonight.”
I pout. “But we haven’t even done karaoke yet.”
“Who said anything about karaoke?”
I think through the haze of tonight and come up short. “Maybe I applied for a karaoke position?”
“I hope not. I love you, Bella, but your voice sounds like a cat being put through a blender.”
“Ew! That’s a disgusting image.”
A small chuckle escapes her as she moves around my apartment. “Closest thing it sounds like, though.”
“I don’t sound that bad,” I mumble under my breath before pausing. “Wait, how do you know what a blended cat sounds like?” Squinting, I side-eye her small form. “Do you secretly torture animals? Because if that’s the case, I can’t be friends with you.”
Her head pops into my line of sight, a frown marring her soft features. “Do I really look like an animal torturer?”
Taking in the freckles smattered across her nose, the small turned-up nose, and the kind soft blue eyes, I burst out laughing.
“Blended cat,” I scoff. “As if you’d blend a cat.”
“Okay, up you get.”
A hand suddenly pops into my line of vision. Without a thought in my brain, I take it and let Layla pull me up onto the couch beside her. She shoves a mug of something warm into my hand and it takes a moment for me to see through the spinning haze of my mind that it’s a steamy mug of hot chocolate.
My head lifts to find her cheeks flushed as crimson as her hair. She hums happily under her breath and takes a sip of her own hot chocolate.
“You turn into Martha Stewart when you’re drunk.”
“Yes, and you point that out every time.”
A coy smile dances across my lips. “You love it.” As quickly as the smile appeared it vanishes as my eyes snag on a framed photo of my mom and me.
Layla frowns after following my line of sight. “You’ll find something, Bella. Don’t start stressing yet.”
“Stress is practically my middle name. I’m as type A as they come.” I throw my hands in the air. “For crying out loud, all you have to do is look at my spice cabinet to know I have issues!”
Layla shakes her head, licking the chocolate off her lips. “I think the matching glass jars and printed labels are cute.”
“I alphabetized it.”
“Okay, so you like to have order in your kitchen.” At my pointed look, she adds, “And everyday life. I don’t think wanting to take care of things is bad, but?—”
“But?”
She waves me off. “We’re getting off track.”
“Yes, we were talking about why I shouldn’t stress, which only makes me think of why I most certainly should.” The topic at hand is sobering me far quicker than I’d like. “My severance won’t get us far, especially if she needs to have surgery or something pops up.” Rubbing my fingers over my forehead, I try to massage away the throbbing headache that’s blooming. I groan. “I’m sorry, you have your own burdens to deal with.”
“Don’t do that. You know I hate it.”
My shoulders slump. “But you do, Layla. You shouldn’t have to deal with your stuff along with?—”
“Stop. We don’t need to go down that path today. How much of your savings do you have left?”
Swallowing thickly, I admit, “Not as much as I should have. Every extra cent has gone toward her treatments.”
Layla bites her lower lip, her telltale sign that she’s deep in thought.
