Page 95 of The Tryst

I don’t know if I can speak through the rainfall. But I try. Dear god, I try, repeating his last words. “He said…I love you. Take care of Mom.”

“Oh, Layla,” Nick says, clasping my hand tighter, holding me so I won’t fall apart.

“And I promised I would,” I go on. “But I didn’t tell my mom he said that. It would have been too much for her to bear. Later, I told her that Dad said he loves us, and that’s not a lie. He died a few minutes after we arrived at the hospital.”

I’m near the end. I’m close, so close. The last part of the story should provide some closure. But it’s still awful in its own way.

Nick huffs out a breath. “What happened to Joe? Where is he?”

“After he left our building, he ran to the six line. He jumped in front of a subway train. He’s dead.”

“He’s in hell, where he belongs,” Nick says, full of righteous fury, then extraordinary gentleness when he adds, “And you’re here. Thank god you’re here. Thank god your father saved you.”

For the second time that night, Nick wraps me in a hug. I don’t let him go.

I don’t think I can. I’m so wrung out. So tired.

Sometime later, he carries me to bed, lays me down, and slides under the covers with me, holding me close as I drift off to sleep in his arms.

31

THANK YOU

Layla

In the half-light of the dawn peeking through my window, I rustle, shifting in the bed, wearing only a tank top and panties. I brushed my teeth in the middle of the night. Nick did too. Then we fell back in bed, only with fewer clothes on.

Nick stirs then blinks his eyes open. “Hi,” he whispers, voice rusty.

“Hi,” I murmur.

He’s behind me, spooning me, wearing his boxer briefs. He kisses my hair lightly then grazes his hand up my left arm, traveling higher, closer to the flower. “Can I touch you here?”

I didn’t want him to touch my tattoo in Miami. Or to find the scar it covers. Now, I do.

“Yes,” I say, granting permission I’ve never given anyone.

“Thank you,” he says, then drops the gentlest kiss to my flesh, dusting—I think—the petal of the blue daisy tattoo. I shiver at the zing of pleasure.

He pulls back, tracing his finger along the jagged cut, then down the stem to the musical notes at the base. “Why a daisy to cover up the scar? And musical notes?”

“Gerbera daisies are Harlow’s favorite flower. And the notes are for Ethan since he’s a musician.”

Nick hums softly, kissing the back of my neck with a new kind of reverence. “The ink is for them. Because they helped you through it,” he says.

I smile from the comfort of his answer and the peace of his understanding. “Without my friends, I’d be lost.”

He strokes my sleep-mussed hair, brushing it behind my ear, tucking it there. “I’m so glad you have them,” he says, and his voice is trembling now, like he’s on the verge of saying something else.

Something bigger.

I’m not sure I could handle anything bigger right now. Last night was intense. “I’ve never told that story to anyone but a therapist and those two friends. Even Jules and Camden don’t know the details, and they go with me to Krav Maga.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says, kissing the tattoo again. Then again. Then once more, with an urgency now—an urgency that’s both sexual and also emotional. He kisses my shoulder with a fresh passion, murmuring as he goes, like he’s uttering an adoring thank you to my friends, to my father.

To me.

For being alive.

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