Page 66 of End Game
The command part of that irritates me, but there’s a quake in the tone that pulls at a heartstring. One. One heartstring because the rest of them still want to deck him in his handsome face.
“Layla,pleaseopen the door.” There’s a long pause. “I know you can hear me and I’m not going anywhere until we talk. So just do us both a favor and open up.”
Flinging the door open, I catch sight of his face. His right eye has a purplish-blue circle around it, the underside swollen to the point I’m not sure how well he can even see out of it. The right side of his lip is busted, and it, too, is swollen. He looks at me, his eyes without the cocky glimmer I’m used to seeing in them.
“I didn’t open this as a favor to either of us,” I tell him. “I opened it to tell you that you need to leave.”
“Layla . . .”
“I’m just full of things you don’t want to hear, aren’t I?” I spew bitterly.
“Will you stop it?”
“Get. Off. My. Porch.”
“We need to talk.”
Snorting, I go to close the door in his face but his hand stops it mid-push. He doesn’t cross the threshold with his feet, but he certainly traipses right over that line with the look he’s shooting me.
“I gave you a chance to talk,” I say. “And talk you did. I have every word you tossed my way burned into my memory.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
His shoulders fall forward as one arm reaches for the side of his jaw and works it back and forth. He focuses on something on the ground and it reminds me of a little boy that just got in trouble at school.
Like the universe decided to let me get a glimpse into the future, a series of feelings, more than pictures, floods my senses. A little boy’s laugh rattles through my ears, the smell of baby soap so real I actually flinch. My heart twists as I can almost see a spray of blond hair and the sweetest little blue eyes—eyes that remind me a lot of the ones looking back at me.
At some point, Branch has lifted his gaze to mine and something passes between us. It’s a feeling of confusion, of fear, maybe, mixed with some kind of resolution to have our way, whatever that is.
I chalk it up to the hurricane of emotions swirling inside and the mothering vibe I’ve been trying to harness and step to theside. Without giving up any of the hostility I have for him, I let him in.
As he passes, he bows his head, and I let out a little huff for good measure. The door pops as it closes and Branch turns to face me.
“What happened to you?” I ask, motioning towards the swelling.
“I ran into something.”
“Okay,” I say, not giving him the satisfaction of pressing for details. “What do you want? You have five minutes.”
“I think we both know this is going to take more than five minutes.”
“Then you better get talking and fit in as much as you can.”
His cracked lip sticks out a little. “I would start if I knew where to begin.”
“This is my point,” I say, exhaling sharply. “You don’t even have a clue what to say, and I don’t have the time or energy to listen to you figure it out. God knows I’ve had to figure it out on my own.”
When he doesn’t respond, I give up. I walk away and into the kitchen and hope that when I turn around, he’ll be gone. Yet, when I do, he’s standing in the doorway.
“Um, how do you feel?” he asks carefully.
“Fine.”
He nods, like he’s unsure as to whether he has the authority to even ask such questions. “So, you’re doing okay?”
“Do you even care?”
