He didn’t realize that Coach Mullens had his number. He’d never texted Donovan before and the fact that he’d been MIA from their practice and his attitude toward Donovan had lessened to a reserved calm, should have warned Donovan. It should have at least clued him in on why his coach had been missing that afternoon and who had helped Layla pack up her life with Donovan and walk out the door.
Mullens: She’s here. In case you wanted to stop being an asshole and have a conversation.
She’d been listening to the same song for nearly an hour. On repeat, cruelly letting the music drift into her ears, trying to tell herself that her hormones, the news that Sayo had been called to the hospital to tell Rhea goodbye, was the only reason Layla was crying at all. It was not Donovan that had her eyes swollen and her nose clogged so that she could only breathe through her open mouth.
Layla was starting to hate Nancy Sinatra, but she still pulled her headphones closer into her ears, she still snuggled into her pillow, hiccupping because the tears had jarred her breathing, upset the baby so much that it kicked and moved and constantly reminded Layla why she had to get away from Donovan in the first place.
He didn’t want what Layla wanted and he’d probably never would.
The song started again, low, sultry and Layla closed her eyes, mouthing the words under her breath and those infernal tears came heavier, harder.
Seasons came and changed the time
When I grew up I called him mine
He would always laugh and say
Remember when we used to play
Bang bang, I shot you down
Bang bang, you hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down
“My baby shot me down,” she said to her empty room. But hadn’t she done the shooting? Hadn’t Layla been the one to walk away? She tried telling herself it was for the best. It was necessary. I don’t make promises. Donovan had meant that when he said it. He’d meant it every day after that and even though she’d always known that, even though the past few months that they’d lived together had been the happiest of Layla’s life, it hadn’t changed what they’d agree to.
No promises. No emotions.
Their time together, the baby, the nights cloistered together on his bed making plans they’d never intended to follow through with, it still didn’t erase how this all started, how what they had was nothing more than a physical connection.
He didn’t love her. He couldn’t.
Nancy’s voice started again, the words closing Layla’s eyes. It was a song about games, about love that started in childhood, about fighting and losing and never intending to win. It was Layla and Donovan—their arguments, their pranks, their coming back and leaving each other laid out in melody and rhyme that broke Layla down.
She only opened her eyes when her phone chirped, more messages from Mollie, from Autumn, a group thread that had all three women worried about Sayo, about news that hadn’t come yet.
Autumn: I feel like we should be there.
Mollie: Sweetie, there’s nothing any of us can do. Besides, you know how closed off she can get.
Layla: I’d want you all there if it were me. But then, I want you all here now.
Autmn: Oh, honey… we can come over.
Mollie: I can be there in twenty.
Her friends’ hugs, their words of encouragement, saying things about how despicable Donovan was, how stupid and blind, would make Layla feel better, but they wouldn’t be true. They’d be a Band-Aid over a gapping burn.
Layla: No. We should focus on Sayo.
And that’s what Layla did for the next half hour. She said prayers, novenas, pleas to God, to the Saints, that Rhea would somehow pull through and if no miracles were handy, that Sayo and her family would find strength in each other.
Layla was in the middle of another novena, this one to St. Anthony, requesting a wondrous miracle when she heard her father’s voice. She was just finishing, “Glorious Wonderworker, Saint Anthony, father of the poor and comforter of the afflicted, I ask for your help,” when that voice got loud, not shouting, but firm. He was speaking to someone Layla couldn’t hear but knew was male. And then those voices got louder, came closer and Layla sat up in bed, wiping her face dry when three soft knocks came on the wood door.
Somehow she knew it was him. Something in her gut told her that much and so Layla tried to lower her heartbeat to less than exertive levels. She tried to shake the tremble from her fingers and then, she cracked open the door.
Donovan held both arms out against the doorframe and looked a little unhinged, a little desperate, as though his hands tightening around the molding was going to keep him from touching her, reaching out to shake some sense into her.