Page 8 of Hold Us Close
I rarely curse so I’m not surprised when Landen’s eyes go wide.
I take two steps, planning to brush past him to get to the kitchen and grab a garbage bag, but his arm strikes out to stop me. Strong hands grip my shoulders and spin me so I’m facing away from him. When he speaks, low into my ear from behind me, his angry, even tone sends chills up my spine. “Look. Look around you. What do you see?”
Shaking my head, I jerk and twist in an attempt to free myself. His fingers dig in deeper—not enough to hurt but rougher than he’s ever handled me. “I see a mess, okay? One that needs to be cleaned up.”
“Look closer. Look at the walls, Layla. Look at the cabinet doors. Think. Why doesn’t the refrigerator door open unless you lift while you pull? Why do we have so much fucking art on the wall? Are we opening a museum?” His voice is thick with pain, and it cuts into me even more than seeing our home destroyed.
The answers to his questions rush to the forefront of my mind, drowning me. Two of our cabinet doors are broken because he slammed them too hard when he was angry about something that had happened at practice. The refrigerator door has been jacked up since the night I told him I was taking night classes. He was getting something to drink and nearly ripped the thing off its hinges.
I can’t even count the number of holes in the walls or recall exactly where each came from. He always apologized and I would just buy another picture to cover them.
He’s right. No child should have to grow up in a home like this.
“It’s my fault, too,” I say, turning in his arms to face him. “You’re right. I made excuses. I covered it up. Pretended it was normal.” There’s nothing I can do to stop the warm, wet tears that fall. “But we can get you some help. Maybe the team—”
But he’s already shaking his head. “It’s who I am. No amount of therapy or whatever can change that.”
“Landen—”
“I’m my father’s son.” He reaches a hand out to wipe away my tears and I see moisture gathering in his eyes. “And I won’t do that to a kid. I won’t.”
My heart breaks for him. I feel every tiny splinter as it happens. “I know you won’t. Landen, it’ll be different. You’re not—”
“I’m not doing this, Layla.”
“Not doing what?” I whisper, cringing at the thought of hearing his answer.
“Not risking being an abusive asshole that makes another human being feel worthless. I won’t cause that kind of pain.”
“You won’t. I wouldn’t let you. I’ll—”
“I used to wish I was dead.”
The depth of his sadness, the hollow echo of his voice sets off a bone-deep ache in my core. A sob escapes, making me sound like a wounded animal.
Landen huffs out a sarcastic breath and swipes his hand quickly across his eyes. “Actually, I used to wish he was dead. And then I realized that was never going to happen. So I just wished that I was.”
My knees go weak, and Landen sinks to the floor right along with me. We just sit there, holding one another. Smack in the middle of our mess. One that neither of us knows how to clean up this time.
Aweek has passed since I practically tore down our apartment with my bare hands. We cleaned up the best we could, but it’s a pretty safe bet we won’t be getting our security deposit back. I walk through the door and see Layla standing in the middle of the living room.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Barcelona?”
I take a deep breath and answer, skipping the formalities of greeting her just as she did. “I’m suspended.”
Indefinitely, but I don’t tell her that part.
“What happened?” she asks, but I see the accusation in her eyes. She really meansWhat did you do?
I lay my car keys on the table by the door and set my bag on the one remaining barstool in the kitchen. How it survived my rampage is beyond me. Clearing my throat, I turn to face her. “Got into a disagreement with Vasquez.” More like my fist got into a disagreement with his face. Without me even meaning to, my right hand covers my left.
“And?” she prompts.
“And Coach said I needed to relax. I told him we were having some…issues. He said to take some time and get it handled.”
Her forehead wrinkles and she glares at me. “Get it handled? Landen, I told you I’m not—”
“Coach’s words, Layla. Not mine.”
