Layla It takes me three full days to figure out what the hell happened in that supply closet. Seventy-two hours of bewilderment, of putting on a mask and pretending life is normal, of mind-reeling, post-orgasmic distress. Yes, distress. I’m going to fix this, he said. I’m going to make it better. That stubborn strand of hope in my heart apparently has a few threads left clinging on, because a part of me actually believes him. And that’s not okay. When will I learn that any time I think things are going to get easier, I’m just setting myself up for a roundhouse kick to the head? This time around, I don’t even have to guess at what’s going to happen. It was right there on the pregnancy test a few days ago. It’s growing in my womb a little bit every day. The roundhouse kick is my baby, and I’m pretty sure Leif hasn’t figured that in his grand, I’m-going-to-fix-everything plans. When he finds out, how will he react? I should have told him before he put his hands on me. I should have held up my palms and said, “Leif, I’m pregnant. It’s yours and I’m ke eping it. Please don’t give me a mind-bending orgasm and rattle all my best-laid indignation before we figure this out.” Yeah. That would go over about as well as a snowball fight in hell. Just when I’m coming to terms with what happened, I get a reminder of the reality of our situation. Bright and early on the fourth morning after our failed mediation, huge, flat trailer trucks roll up outside my grandparents’ house and start unloading machinery, fencing, scaffolding, traffic cones and signs, and all manner of construction implements. I watch them from my grandmother’s dining room table, coffee cup halfway to my mouth, wondering how the hell this qualifies as “fixing” anything. Stuffing my feet into old sneakers, I wrap a bathrobe around my shoulders and stomp outside. A gruff, bearded man in a plaid quilted jacket is waving his hand to back one of the trucks up. A huge, yellow excavator sits on the truck bed, waiting to be unloaded. “Um, excuse me!” The man turns. “Yeah?” “What’s going on here?” “Unloadin’ a digger.” “I can see that.” It’s the beginning of March and the early-morning wind has bite to it. I wrap my robe around me a little tighter, watching the truck back up. The man ke eps waving his hand then holds out his palm and the trucks stops. The driver jumps out and the two men start moving toward the trailer and sliding down the ramps that will allow the excavator to drive off. “I thought this project was on hold,” I call out, scurrying after the bearded man. “There was a mediation meeting only a few days ago.” The man sighs, then pulls a bunch of folded, scrunched- up papers from his back pockets. “You wanna check our permits, lady? Demolition is starting today. It ain’t going to stop because you didn’t know about it.”
“I—you—what—” I splutter, taking the papers from him and glancing over them, sighing. They look official—not that I know what a freaking construction permit looks like. A minute later, a convoy of pickup trucks drives up onto the front lawn of my grandparents’ former neighbors and workers stream out by the hundreds. Okay, by the tens. But it feels like hundreds. One man takes the lead, calling everyone closer to start barking out orders. The workers scurry to do his bidding, grabbing temporary fencing from trailers, setting up cones and traffic signage around the entire block. Things are happening too fast. Way, way too fast. As a temporary fence goes up on the property line between my grandparents’ house and the neighbors’ place, a lump forms in my throat. This is exactly what Leif said would happen. He said he’d make construction noisy and messy and in-our-faces, and force Grandma and Grandpa to leave. This is his tactic to get us to fold. I’m going to fix this, my ass. Patting my pockets, I realize I didn’t bring my phone out with me. I rush into the house, only to see my grandparents watching the proceedings from the living room window. They glance at me, then back at the workers setting up the fencing outside. Finding my phone plugged into a charger on the kitchen counter, I rip the cord out and find Leif’s number. He answers on the first ring. “Layla,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.” My spine stiffens. “What kind of game is this, Leif? What the hell is going on? There are dozens of workers here and they’re saying they’re demolishing all the neighbors’ houses. I thought you said you were going to fix this. You said... You said...” “I am fixing it.” Leif’s voice is calm. “I’ve been in meetings with town planners and architects and city officials every waking hour since I left you at the lawyers’.” “But they’re knocking the houses down!” “My company owns those houses, Layla,” Leif answers quietly. “They need to be knocked down. They’re falling apart, anyway.” I gulp. “What about our place?” My voice sounds thin and reedy, even to my ears. Several beats pass. My heart hammers so hard I press a hand to my chest to make sure it won’t burst through my ribcage. Then, quietly, he answers, “Your lawyers will get a notice by the end of the day. We’re dropping your grandparents’ property from the plans.” Light fills every inch of my body and that thread of hope grows brighter, stronger. “You’re not going to pressure them to sell?” “No, baby. I was wrong to try.” His voice is soft, but firm. “But... the demolition. You told your father... Noise and dust and...” Another silence before Leif says, “I was on my knees in front of you when I told you I’d fix this, Layla. I meant it.” I should tell him about the baby. Right now. I should just blurt it out over the phone even if it comes out all wrong, because I believe Leif when he says my grandparents’ place is safe. He really is trying to fix things, and all these construction workers aren’t here to bully us into giving up this property, too. But if I tell him about the baby, and he turns around and becomes that ruthless, uncaring businessman he was before... I’m not sure I can handle that. Not right now.
Maybe it’s better to wait until I know what will happen with the land around my grandparents’ place. I’ll wait for the official letter from the lawyers, until I know what type of building will be going up beside us. Once I know that, I’ll know my grandparents are safe. Even if I’m not. “Do you trust me, Layla?” I open my mouth, but nothing comes up. What can I possibly answer? Despite my own reasoning, I trust that Leif is trying to do right by my grandparents. I trust that he’s not going to bully them. But do I trust him with the truth about the baby? Do I trust him with my heart? “I don’t know,” I finally tell him. A sigh comes through the phone. “That’s probably better than I deserve.” “Yeah.” He huffs a laugh. “You wouldn’t be willing to move back to my place in Midtown, would you? I’d feel much better if I knew you were somewhere safe.” “No,” I answer. That’s too much. I can’t feel tied to Leif. Not right now. Not when I haven’t told him the truth about my pregnancy. Another sigh. “I expected that. I haven’t had the guts to go back there, and I’ve forbidden my staff from going in and cleaning the place. It feels too much like it’s yours.” Ouch, my heart. It squeezes into a tight, painful ball, and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe because Leif is a complicated, caring man. Because he’s trying to do right by me—he’s trying to be better. Maybe it hurts because I’m not doing the same for him. I’m hiding this huge, impossible secret... But don’t I have a right to protect myself? It’s only been a few days. I need time to come to terms with it, to figure out what my next st eps are. If my grandparents’ house is safe, that removes a huge weight from my shoulders. Maybe I can try to figure out what to do next. I need a doctor, and money, and a place to stay, and, and, and... “I need to get ready for work,” I choke out. “I’ll talk to you later.” “I hope so,” he says, voice strained. When I hang up, I turn to see my grandparents and Emma staring at me with wide eyes. I wave my phone at them. “He says he’s not going to try to buy your house,” I tell my grandparents. “The official word should come by the end of the day. He’s working on what will be built next door with the city officials and his architects.” I clear my throat. “Your home is safe, Grandma. Grandpa.” My grandmother lets out a long sigh, turning to wrap her arms around Grandpa. Everyone’s eyes are glassy, and I feel so unsteady I might as well be on a ship’s deck. “I need to get ready for work,” I r epeat to the room at large, then I shuffle to the spare room to do exactly that. My first shift back at the sports bar feels like st epping back in time. It’s only been a couple of weeks since I was last here, but everything about it feels... dated. The dark- colored walls with chips in the paint where the chairs have bumped into it, the old bar polished to a high shine, the dusty memorabilia tacked onto every surface. It feels like a part of my past.
And yet, I’m still here. I wrap my apron around my hips and cast an eye around the room, giving a start when I see Joe sitting in a section that isn’t mine. An uncomfortable feeling churns in my gut, but I manage to square my shoulders. If Leif can change his plans for an entire condo development just for me, I can face Joe. Walking up to him as he wipes his hot sauce-covered fingers on a wet wipe, I drop his favorite beer on the table. “On me,” I tell him. “Layla,” he says, wiping his mouth with the same wet wipe. “Hey.” With a de ep breath, I say what needs to be said. “Joe, I’m so sorry about what happened between us. When I agreed to go out with you, things were already complicated between me and Leif, and I should have been upfront about that. I didn’t expect him to show up, but the way I acted when he did... I should have told him to leave. I’m sorry.” To my surprise, Joe lets out a laugh. “It’s all good, Layla.” It sounds like he means it, but I shake my head. “I was a jerk to you.” “Hey, Layla,” Kylie says, slipping onto the chair next to Joe’s. She’s not wearing her waitress’s uniform, and her hair and makeup are done up to the nines. I blink. “Hi, Kylie.” Joe slides his arm around the back of her chair. “After I stormed out of La Trattoria, I ran into Kylie.” “Right there on the doorst ep,” she cuts in, making moon eyes at the man beside her. “She saw I was in a bad mood and offered to go for a drink.” His arm slides onto her shoulder, thumb swe eping over her skin. “And the rest is history.” Kylie’s cheeks flush. “I’ve been meaning to call you,” she tells me. “If you hadn’t had such a disastrous date, we never would have run into each other that night. I would have k ept admiring him from a distance every shift.” She gives him a secret smile, as if they’ve joked about this often. “I reckon we owe you a thank you, Layla,” Joe finishes, eyes on Kylie. He leans in to give her a kiss, and the two of them slip into their own little world for a moment. “Oh, well... You’re welcome? And I’m sorry.” “No hard feelings,” Joe says. “And thanks for the beer.” I nod, then head back to my section, mind reeling. I work until closing and make my way back to my grandparents’ place on sore feet, exhaustion making it impossible to think. Then I collapse into bed and do it all over again the next day.