He rolled toward the bench, his back to me. “Go on to bed, Layla. It’s been a long—”
“Stop!” I cried. The anger and fear and hurt exploded out of me. “Just stop. I’ve been bossed around, thrown into cars, driven to some kind of mountaintop fortress to…you. You, Dylan. You ended it and I still wound up here. To you!” I kept spitting out that word, like it somehow meant something. Like on the stupid weird map of my life he had been some kind of spectacular surprise destination. “I’m exhausted, I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m…” I cut myself off. I was not going to admit that I was turned on. Though, undoubtedly he had to know. He always seemed to know. He knew over a phone and now I was standing here, panting, my body shaking…God. Damn it. He had all the cards and I was standing here barefoot in my pajamas. If there was ever a moment I longed for a bra, this was it. My nipples hurt, they were so hard. I knew he could see them.
“Inevitable,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not in the mood for games!” I yelled.
I couldn’t see him, but I could tell he was smiling at me. I knew what his voice sounded like when he was smiling. “Games are what you like. Dirty little games. That’s all we’ve got, Layla.”
I fought back the surge of memories of all of our “games,” because I was not going to be distracted. And he was trying to marginalize it, and what we did—what happened between us—couldn’t fit within any margins I’d ever known.
“I know about the accident. The fire. I went to the library and looked you up.”
“It’s not about the fire.” He lifted his hand to the back of his neck like he was rubbing sore muscles there. And I got the sense that he was lying. “The fire is nothing. There are a lot of things I haven’t told you. Things you’d just be better off not knowing.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, Dylan,” I yelled. “Let’s start with something! Let’s start with you telling me one true thing.”
He looked down at his hands, shadows playing over his beautiful body. “You are…beautiful. You look exactly like I thought you would.”
I gasped, the words so unexpected they slid right through my ribs. Right into the meat and blood and bone of me.
“I never imagined you,” I said.
“Probably smart,” he laughed.
“You just…were you. Just Dylan.” Just everything.
He lifted his head, watching me, and I stood there with nothing. In the face of all that he had, the slimness of my existence, its utter weightlessness, was shocking. But I was out to even the scales. Just a little. Just enough that I could look at myself in the mirror tomorrow. Just enough so I’d know that I’d fought for something. My own worth in this game we’d played. I wasn’t a pawn. I was a person.
“And I’m pretty much done with other people telling me what’s best. So, either stand up, or I’m leaving.”
“Layla—”
I turned for the door.
“There are bears out there!”
“I’m not scared of bears,” I snapped over my shoulder, stepping into the living room. Maybe I’d find some shoes in the closet. If I could find the closet.
“Stop,” he yelled from the garage. “Stop, girl. You’re gonna…fine. Fine, Layla! Come back.”
I stepped back into the garage, the door closed tight behind me, my arms over my chest. My feet were so cold they were numb at this point.
Slowly, he stood up from the shadows. He sort of unfurled from the chair. He wasn’t tall. But he was big. He wore a plain white tee shirt over wide shoulders and a big chest that tapered down to a lean waist. His faded blue jeans were low on his hips, held up by a thick leather belt.
I sucked in a breath, light-headed. His head was still in the shadows and he reached over across the bench, his biceps a beautiful gilded curve, and then he tilted the lamp up so it hit his face.
And he turned, facing me full-on.