They had made those non-promises to each other. Swearing not to need each other. Swearing that emotion, affection would be absent from the room once they came together. And it had been that way, for weeks now. It had been passionate and wild and needy and blissfully free of expectation. Donovan was the release Layla took for herself without the hope of anything complicated beyond the taste of his skin. It’s what she wanted, what she told herself she needed.
In that room, just beyond the street where she sat debating whether to drive away or leave her car, there was no requirement of love or responsibility. There was only Donovan’s beautiful skin, his long, lean muscles and the warmth of his damp breath on her body. He took away what was expected of her. Them together, scratching, controlling, surrendering, weakened by touch and flesh and tempting release, was a playground, the relaxing haven that took away her worry and the pressures that surrounded her.
So why did she stay in her cold car staring at the yellow light spilling out from his window?
Mollie. Her best friend. Those words, those warnings stuck in Layla’s mind like an insect immovable on tacky paper.
“You… you and Donovan?”
Layla’s ears still rang from the shrill, loud pitch of her best friend’s voice. Mollie had dragged the blonde outside onto Joe’s patio, away from their friends, from the curious glances they’d garner if anyone caught sight of them. The whole time, Layla’d felt the heavy weight of guilt—shame she’d been repressing for weeks now. Shame that set heavy on her chest as Mollie asked her question after question.
“How did this happen?” and “Why did this happen?” and “Are you being careful?” and Layla’s personal favorite “How could you not tell me? I’m your best damn friend!”
That one had bit down deep, made the guilt of letting Donovan have her again and again seem like nothing compared to the hurt, the shock that showed in Mollie’s eyes. All of her friends had joked for over a year that she and Donovan’s pranks, their long, hateful scowls at each other, were step one in the long dance of foreplay that would lead them together naked. Maybe Mollie didn’t really care that Layla was sleeping with Donovan. Maybe, she’d guessed, that the greatest source of her best friend’s anger came from the fact that she had never told Mollie that this… whatever it was with Donovan… had begun at all.
“You don’t tell me everything, Mollie. I didn’t know anything about what you were running from, what Vaughn tried to protect you from until after your accident.”
Then Mollie kicked Joe’s tattered, threadbare lawn chair until it rattled against his cold fire pit. “That is not the damn point, Layla!”
“Mollie…”
“Do you love him?”
The question had Mollie’s eyes sharply focused on her best friend, had Layla’s hand shaking and she didn’t know why or how four words could unravel her composure until she was left with an abundance of useless emotions. And so, Layla did the only thing she could. She laughed. Hard, loud, rolling belly laughter. Laughter so piercing that Mollie looked around the patio, to the back entrance of the sunroom as though she expected someone to come outside. Layla laughed because if she didn’t, she knew fat, leaking tears would fall from her eyes. Donovan did not deserve her tears. No man did.
“No. God, no! I just… Mollie…” and then Layla fell into the patio chair, slumped against the back with her long arms hanging over the side. “God.” She’d tried to buffer her humor, to make that shocked, wary expression leave Mollie’s face, but the laughter continued until her best friend came to her side, stilling her with small fingers over her wrist. “I’m… I’m just like Buffy.” The metaphor was stupid, juvenile, but Layla thought, highly accurate. A few seconds to rub her face with her cold palms and her humor had vanished. “I swear I am. Donovan is my Spike.”
Mollie’s smile was brief, barely moved her lips. “Buffy slept with Spike after crawling her way out of a six month old grave.” She’d pushed Layla’s head up, forced her to look at her. “Digging out of graves lately and not telling me?”
“No. God. I don’t know what I’m doing, Molls. Honestly. I have no idea.”
“Sweetie…” then her best friend had hugged Layla, brought her face against her shoulder and held her tight. “Do you like him at least or is this just some, I dunno, weird sexual power play?”
“No. God, I don’t know.” Layla stood, eager to pull herself together in case anyone heard them outside. “Mollie, it just sort of happened. That night Walter and I fought, I ended up at McKinney’s and Donovan, he was there and we drank and then I went home with him and…” she waved her hand, not thinking Mollie needed to hear all the stupid things she’d done with Donovan. “It’s been going on for weeks and weeks. We aren’t together. Neither one of us want that. It’s just sex. It’s just really good sex.”