“What . . . what does that mean?”
Shaking her head, she pushed her way out of his embrace, and he let her go. She felt unable to articulate what was going through her head at a million miles an hour. He was going to tell her this now? When she’d spent the day agonizing over her decision to move on with her life without him, despite Kitty trying to argue her out of it. How could she drag him into this now that he’d said he loved her? It would be emotional blackmail whether he actually did, or if he was saying it because he thought it was the right thing to do under the circumstances, and she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it.
Instead of letting him know what she truly felt—what she had to fight to swallow down so the words wouldn’t spill from her lips—she cast her gaze to the floor, focusing on the grain of the wood as she murmured, “I think you need to leave, Duff.”
Don’t go.
“What do you mean I need to leave?”
She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek.
Don’t say it. Don’t.
“Please. I can’t,” she pleaded.
“You can’t what? You can’t say it back? You can’t love a big dolt like me? I get it. That’s fine. Forget I ever said anything, and I’ll do well to forget about it, too. But we still have something to deal with here.”
She could hear the hurt lacing his voice, but she couldn’t stop the caustic words from coming out of her mouth. “‘Something to deal with’? That tells me all I needed to know. It tells me handling this on my own is the right decision.”
“You’d already made that decision before I even knew about this?”
“Yes, I pretty much had.”
“Why?”
“For obvious reasons, Duff. Come on. Are you really the kind of guy who wants to raise a child? And no, I never considered any other option. I can’t, so don’t even attempt to suggest it.”
“What? What? I never would. Never, Layla.”
There was a small rage burning in his eyes, and she knew in some distant way that she’d hurt him, although she had no idea why it was such a tender spot. But she couldn’t get any closer—not to him, or to the situation—or she’d lose it completely.
“When did you find out?” he asked.
“Today.”
“At least you hadn’t been hiding it from me,” he said quietly.
“No. But it’s only been about twelve hours, and I’ve barely had time to digest it, so can you go now?”
“Layla, I—”
“Please? Please just go, Duff. I can’t do this. I’m tired and nauseous and I want to go to bed. I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight, or with you.”
His jaw went a little slack, and he looked as if he were trying to speak, but nothing came out at first. Then he demanded, “Seriously? That’s it? I know you must be tired, but you’re really set on locking me out of this? I get no say? Is that how you want things? And Christ, Layla, I just told you I love you. Does that mean nothing to you at all? Nothing?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said wearily, looking away. She couldn’t stand the bleakness in his eyes. The hurt. She couldn’t begin to understand what it was about. All she knew was that she had to be alone. Had to.
She got to her feet. “You have to go. Just . . . please. You have to go now, Duff.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, but he stood and moved toward the door. He opened it, but turned at the last minute to say, “We’re not done with this discussion. And we’re not done, even if you have yourself talked into thinking we are.”
He slammed the door behind himself so hard it made the house shake. She heard his bike start up, then heard him driving away, leaving her by herself in the empty house. It had never felt so empty to her. She’d never felt so empty. Moving back to the couch, she curled up on it, pulling the throw blanket over her shoulders. And cried harder than she ever had in her life.
? ? ?
SHE STAYED MOSTLY on the couch for the next two days. She couldn’t bear to be in her bed—the bed she’d shared with him, and that still held his scent on the sheets and pillowcases, which she only knew because she had to walk through there to get to the bathroom.
Kitty had been calling her three or four times a day, wanting to come over, but Layla refused to let her. She’d barely gotten up, ordering soup from the Chinese place down the street, and eating little else. She barely looked at television, and when she did, she could only watch action films. Anything hinting at a romantic subplot she immediately turned off. She didn’t have enough focus to read a book, and music—any music—only made her cry. It was easier to blame it on the hormones than on her emotions. Because if she looked at the reality of it, she’d have to recognize that her heart was broken.
Duff had called, too, but she hadn’t picked up. She couldn’t bear to listen to any arguments. And maybe even more, she couldn’t stand to hear the pain in his voice.
The sun was setting when she realized she hadn’t bathed since Monday morning, and decided to take a shower. She shuffled into the bathroom, turned the hot water on and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
“Oh my God.” Leaning on the edge of the bathroom sink, she peered at her reflection. “Wow, you look like hell. Let’s hope the whole pregnancy isn’t this rough.”
Oh, God. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t take it.
“Just get in the shower,” she muttered to herself. “One foot in front of the other, right?”
She stripped off her clothes and got under the hot water, letting it pound on her back. And as the heat worked its way into her sore muscles, she began to cry. Not the soft seeping of tears she’d been doing for the last few days, but long, deep sobs that wrenched her body.