The single word sets my pulse rocketing through my veins.
This is the second time he’s called this morning. He doesn’t leave a voicemail, and I try to calm my nerves.
“Not Blake then?”
“No, just a friend from work. I’ll call her later.” My cheeks flame at my lie.
That never would’ve worked with anyone else. Everyone knows there are very few women who are employed by the UFL, and I would never be friends with the ones who are, with the exception of Eve.
“This is a great song.” I turn up “No Use for a Name,” not even paying attention to the song, just looking for the distraction. Music fills the space for the rest of the ride home while my phone continues to vibrate in my hand.
Enough is enough. This has to stop.
It’s time to face the past head on.
##
By the time we pull up to the condo, my phone has rung four different times, and now I’m getting the short buzzes that indicate text messages. Is he texting now too?
I don’t dare read them and vow to wait until I’m home behind a locked door before I steel my emotions to Trip’s attempts at contacting me. We park in Blake’s designated spot, and I see the Bronco is gone. Axelle must be out with a friend. I’ll have the condo to myself, except . . .
“Hey, Brae? Could you do me a favor?” I say before I’m out of the truck.
“Sure.” He turns his shoulders toward me, really listening and aiming to please.
“I’m having this intense craving for Rice Krispie treats, but I don’t have the stuff to make them.”
“You want me to hit the store and grab the shit you need to make ’em?”
“If you don’t mind.” And even if you do, yes please.
“You gonna make some for me too?” He gazes down at me through slits in his eyes.
“Fine, you can have one.” I force a smile, but my phone buzzes again and I need to handle this situation before my bravery wears off. I press my hand to my lower belly. “Oh, boy. I gotta pee bad!”
“Whoa . . .” He recoils. “TMI. Tell me what you need and skedaddle before you soil Blake’s leather seats.”
“Rice Krispies, marshmallows, and butter!” I wave and hop down from the Rubicon, dancing for a minute just for show before I race off as fast as my Weeble Wobbles body will carry me.
I hear the engine fire up and pull away, so I grab my phone while walking. Five new text messages?
Picking up my pace, I scurry inside the house, hurry to my bedroom, and shut and lock the door.
First, I scroll through Unavailable’s messages.
Layla, please pick up the phone. I just want to talk to you.
Then the next.
It’ll only take a minute, I swear.
And the next.
I understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but you don’t know the whole story.
And again . . .
If you’d just give me a chance to explain.
And finally.
Please answer.
My phone vibrates, and I answer it before the caller ID even shows up. Not that it matters. I know who it is. “Hello?”
“Oh . . . uh, Layla?”
“What do you want, Trip?”
A beat of silence. “Look, I know when we last spoke. . . ”
He’s remembering his conversation with Eve, but I don’t correct him.
“. . . was a shock to you and I’d hoped you would’ve remembered.”
“I remember nothing. Nothing because I was drugged the night I was gang raped and ended up pregnant with a baby no one would fucking claim, Trip! So no, I don’t fucking remember anything.” Acid churns in my stomach, and my head gets light with the anger of eighteen years.
“Shit, Layla . . . I . . . I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know? That’s fucking laughable! How could you not know? Here’s a clue, Trip, and please for the safety of women everywhere, do try to keep up. When a woman is incoherent, she’s incapable of giving consent!”
“God, I can’t even imagine what you must think of me.”
The plastic case on my phone protests under my unyielding grip. “Oh, dig deep into the depths of hell, Trip. I’m sure you’ll come up with something close.”
“It didn’t happen the way you think it did. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Layla.”
What? What’s he saying? “Didn’t happen the way . . .” I shake my head. “No, I don’t have time for this. I don’t . . .” I can’t consider that things didn’t happen exactly the way Stewart described, but then again, when has Stew ever not lied?
“You told me you loved me.” His whisper is so faint I almost wonder if he didn’t mean for me to hear him.
I told him I loved him? But how? I was gone. Passed out cold.
“Let me tell you my version of the story.” The pleading sound of his voice perks my ears, but my stomach is heavy with dread.
“I’m afraid of any other version, Trip.”
“I understand, but . . . if you’d give me an hour, just one hour, I could come to Vegas and—”
“Why are you doing this? I don’t want to relive this. I . . . I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Please, don’t hang—”