Page 90 of The Tryst

“And?”

Once I stop, I turn to her, my brows narrowed. “One, I told David I’d do this with you. And two, I don’t want you walking around the city at night, carrying a box of wine,” I say.

“I think I can handle it.”

“No doubt you can. But I’m still going with you, carrying the wine, and walking you home.”

“I can get myself home. I do it, like, gosh, every night,” she says, sarcastic.

And that pisses me off more. “But tonight, you’re not alone.”

“Guess what? Tomorrow I will be,” she spits out.

I grit my teeth, holding in my irritation as I drive down the road. But a few minutes later, turning on my block, I’m still a pot, bubbling over.

Trouble is, that’s not the kind of man I want to be. I can’t let this anger win. When I reach my building, I cut the engine in front of it and turn to Layla. “Just let me,” I say tightly.

Her eyes are icy. “You can’t protect me. You can’t save me from the city. You just can’t.”

“But I still want to,” I say, a new head of steam building inside me. “Why won’t you just let me? Why are you acting like this? Why are you so fucking…”

“What, Nick? Why am I so fucking what?” she challenges.

My god, this woman is older than her years. Tougher than her age. She’s not afraid of anything.

“Cold,” I spit out. “You’re so cold and so…cordial. And so Upper East Side.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that the issue? That I’m Upper East Side tonight?”

“Yes,” I answer, matchstick. Except, it’s not. I shove a hand through my hair, trying to rewind the night, to sort out my feelings, to fix this mess. “No,” I correct. “The issue is,” I say, then take a breath to collect myself, and when I do, the frustration steps back, and the hurt I’m feeling strides forward. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“You shut me out,” she counters.

“I had to,” I answer.

“I know!” she explodes, then immediately covers her face with her hands, shaking her head, muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice stutters, filling with tears.

In no time, I reach for her, wrap my arms around her. “Baby, I’m sorry too,” I whisper. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“I don’t want to fight with you either,” she chokes out.

I gather her closer, stroke her hair. She ropes her arms around my neck, tucks her face against my chest. “I was a bitch,” she whimpers.

“No, you weren’t. I was angry,” I admit.

“I was too,” she says. “It’s just so hard with you. Being with you. Andnotbeing with you.”

My heart squeezes painfully like someone’s grabbed it, twisted it in a fist. “Same for me.”

“I was just trying to make it through tonight,” she says.

“Me too,” I admit, pulling her impossibly closer.

She snuggles up against me as if she’s seeking the comfort I have to give, the shared apology in our touch.

“I just want…” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.

I feel the same. “I know. I want that too.”

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