Page 8 of Castaway Whirlwind
I’ve never experienced so many differing emotions at once. Unreasonably relieved that she’s not pregnant with Steven’s kid, concerned about what could be making her throw up so violently, distressed by the heartbreak in her voice.
I help Layla stand, though she doesn’t fully straighten her back, and she moves around me. Something I hadn’t noticed before but do now is the blood on the back of her uniform when she bends to pick up her tote bag.
“Layla, my god.” I already have my keys in hand when I loop her tote bag over my shoulder and pick her up with one arm under her knees and the other around her back. I’m out the door fast, crossing the parking lot toward my truck while the night shift employees pulling into the lot slow their vehicles to watch me. It’s not until I open the passenger side door that I finally make sense of what Layla is saying.
“Stop, stop! What are you doing?”
I set her on the seat, slam the door closed, then hop in on the driver’s side. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Just when I’ve pulled out of my parking spot, she yells, “Idon’t need to go to the hospital!”
“Yes, you do, darlin’. You’re bleeding like crazy.”
Layla thumps her head on the headrest, then clutches the back of it, wincing when she pulls her hair clip out, her beautiful, loose brown curls falling around her face. “Oh god, this is so embarrassing. It’s just my period.”
I hit the brakes. “Oh.” Well, now I’m the one embarrassed. I clear my throat, tugging at my collar. “Throwing up on your period…is that normal?”
Layla leans forward, dropping her forehead in her hands. “For me, it is when it gets really bad.” She shifts her head to peek at me. “I’m sorry, I know it’s gross. Can you just…drive me to my car.” She points across the lot toward the visitor’s parking area.
I nod. “What’s gross?” I about lose my mind when I notice the only car left is a hunk of junk, the bumper duct taped to the back of the car.
Layla pinches her brows. “Talking about my period.”
“Why is that gross?” I park next to the car, scowling at it. Steven drives a fancy sports car, yet she’s driving this tin can. Unbelievable.
“It just is?”
“Says who?”
Layla bites the inside of her cheek.
I grit my teeth. “Let me guess—Steven thinks it’s gross.”Immature fucker. “Why are you with him when he acts like that?”
She picks at her cuticles, saying in a low voice, “You don’t give up on your partner just because you’ve hit a rough patch.”
“All the lies, feeling like you have to hide from him, his immaturity…I’d say that’s more than a rough patch.”
“Stop it,” she bites out.
Though I’m approaching dangerous territory that’s none of my business and I should quit while I’m ahead, I have to know. “Seriously, darlin’. Why stay with a man like that? He’s not good enough for you.”
“You don’t know him or me.” Now she’s all fire, more honest than I think she intended to be when she says, “Steven has certain parts of me that you’re only supposed to give to one man, ok? Even if we weren’t married first, like we should have been, I chose him, and I’m going to keep choosing him. My dad raised me to do the right thing.” Her cheeks flare bright pink, either angry or upset with herself for all but explicitly confessing to giving Steven her virginity and thinking shehasto stay with him.
Layla jumps out of the truck without waiting for me to respond, maybe sensing the lecture about outdated views brewing in the back of my mind. Groaning when she looks at the seat, the black leather wet with her blood, she takes a pair of shorts out of her bag and wipes the blood up before I can tell her not to worry about it.
Holding the door, ready to shut it, Layla says, “Thank you for caring. It…it means a lot. I’ll see you around.” And then she gets into her car, backs up faster than I’d like, and drives out of the lot, the tin can squealing.
Though I know I’m overstepping once again, I follow her home at a distance, worried the bumper will fall off, if not something else. When she turns into the driveway of a tiny blue house, I pull to the side of the road. A rock lodges itself in my gut when the front screen door opens, and there is Steven ready to greet her, cupping her cheek and swiping his thumb across her bottom lip. Neither of them notices me before theygo inside the house together.
Feeling like nothing but a dirty old creep, I drive home and beat the shit out of the punching bag in my garage gym. I tell myself I’m going to squash this weird, inappropriate crush I’ve developed all of a sudden. Layla has a man she loves that she doesn’t plan on ever leaving. A man she’s engaged to marry and have children with—even if I don’t think he’s good enough for her. She doesn’t need a stranger old enough to be her father lusting after her.
I’ll stop going to the diner…but if I can’t do that, then I’ll keep my head down. Won’t make eye contact. I won’t think of the way she looked, so pretty and innocent, yet so tempting, sitting between my legs while I tried my damnedest not to look at the valley of her breasts since she didn’t have time to sew the buttons back on her uniform. Won’t think of how small or warm her hands were on my thigh, or what it felt like when she pressed her forehead to my knee, or how soft her hair was, slipping between my fingertips.
I’ll stop thinking about brushing my thumb along her bare neck again, of the comfortable weight of her in my arms, the maple and vanilla scent of her in my truck. I’ll stop imagining there was a flash of desire in her eyes when she pulled my collar away from my chest or when I lifted my shirt to get the cash because, clearly, I’m delusional.
Give it a week, I think, sweat pouring off of me when I’ve exhausted myself,and the temporary whirlwind I’m caught up in will pass. I’ll forget all about the little darlin’.
Chapter 3
