I move the empty bowl to her bedside table and hand her the juice.
“She’s a great kid.” Her eyes sparkle more than they did earlier. She swipes at her cheek. “I just want her to be okay.”
“I know. And she will be.” The vulnerability in her eyes is almost unbearable. I run my thumb along her cheek. “But first, you need to get better.” Snagging the pills off the table, I hold them up. “Open.”
She licks her lips and they part slightly. Her tongue rests against her lower lip, and I fight the urge to lean in and suck it into my mouth. Blinking away my inappropriate thoughts, I drop the pills onto her tongue and watch her throat work as she gulps them down. The simple movement reminds me of what it felt like to run my lips against her neck. So soft and sweet.
“I hope you don’t get it,” she says, yanking me from my memory.
“Huh?” Damn, I sound like a dumbass.
“My cold. We um… you know, kissed yesterday. Remember?”
Do I remember? Fuck yeah, I remember.
I rub my hand over my face with a groan. That kiss.
“Don’t worry, Blake. I’m a big girl. You don’t have to worry about me getting, you know, clingy, or having expectations.” She slumps down onto her pillow and pulls her comforter up to her chin. “It was a mistake.”
What the hell?That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t think I’d mind her having expectations. Nope, wouldn’t mind at all. But a mistake? She regrets it.
My chest cramps, pain blooming behind my ribs. “Doc Z has me on every herbal concoction there is. I think I’ll be cool.”
That’s all I have to say? How about, fuck no, it wasn’t a mistake. And expect it to happen again. Soon.
I don’t know what this feeling is. It’s so new, foreign. Is it… rejection?
Fuck this. Why the hell do I care if she regrets our kiss? This was never supposed to be anything more than attraction and a little harmless flirting. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I need to get the fuck out of here. I busy myself with gathering up her dishes.
She sinks deeper into the bed. “Blake?”
“Hmm?” Snap out of it, *.
“I owe you. A lot.”
“Sure, Mouse. I’ll let you know when it’s time to pay up.”
She flashes a tiny smile. “Thanks.” Her eyes drift shut, and she snuggles under her comforter.
I click off the light and rush out of the room like I’m being chased. Axelle’s in the living room watching TV. I clean up quickly, throwing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and the leftover soup in the fridge. I decide against a last peek in on Layla and grab my keys. “I’m out, kiddo. You gonna be okay?”
She nods a few times and waves goodbye. Not hung-over, my ass.
“Lock up behind me.”
She nods again. Shit, what is it with teenagers and eye contact?
“Axelle.”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“Lock up.”
“I will.” She doesn’t move.
“Now. Up.”
She groans and pushes off the couch.
Fuckin’ teenagers. How does Layla do it? “Good girl.”
After leaving the apartment, I stand outside the door until I hear all the locks click. Shaking my head, I walk to my car, wondering for the dozenth time in as many days what in the motherfucking hell is wrong with me.
Fourteen
Layla
“Mom?” Elle’s voice pulls me from sleep.
I sit up and swallow, relieved that the burning ache in my throat has died down. “Hey, what time is it?”
“Seven-fifteen.” She’s dressed for school with her backpack on. “I was just leaving and wanted to say bye.”
“Do you have a minute?” I pat the spot next to me and smooth the knotted bed sheets.
She sits, and from the way she’s hanging her head, my guess is she knows what’s coming.
“Elle, I’m sorry.”
Her wide eyes flash to mine.
“Things have been difficult for you. I know that. I just wish I knew how to fix it.”
She drops her gaze to her lap.
“You know, when I was your age, I got drunk at parties.”
“You did?”
I hate telling her what a fuck-up I was, but pretending to be someone I wasn’t is what got us here in the first place. “Yeah. I wanted to stand out, be different, make my own rules.” I shrug. “Thing is, drinking never gave me any of those things. It only led me to make horrible choices that hurt my parents, and myself.”
She nods behind the thick veil of her hair, but doesn’t offer anything else.
“You remember Raven from the garage?”
Her head tilts back, and she looks at me. “Yeah.”
“She has a place, I guess, where we can go. Talk to some people that might be able to help.”
“That’s my punishment?” A grimace tightens her pretty face. “You’re sending me to therapy?”
“No, not you. Us. Together. And it’s not punishment.” I know from experience that when parents pull in the reins, it only makes the child fight harder to get free. “I think it might help.” I want her to be on board, so I throw out a last ditch effort to win her over on the idea. “Blake said it might help.”