TWENTY-TWO
Layla
Layla knew not to expect too much from Donovan. She knew that months before. She knew that when his touch, his body made promises he’d never allow his heart to keep. And so it should have not surprised her when the weeks following the sonogram led Donovan to reverting back to the cold, selfish asshole Layla had always known him to be.
It began with him avoiding her touch, or rather, avoiding touching her. He kissed her, he held her but he wasn’t interested in sex, not after that doctor’s visit. Layla had missed him, that soft, sweet side of him that had Donovan rubbing her feet or bringing her juice and hot cocoa while she sketched in bed or tried to relax her aching joints in a hot bath.
And her body missed him so much. She was nearing six months of the pregnancy. Aside from the small twinges of pain in her hips and back after a long day of classes, Layla felt wonderful. Energy flowed through her and when she wasn’t jogging with Mollie around campus, ignoring the fact that her round tummy pushed out underneath her yoga pants and running shirt that no longer fit her, she was at Donovan’s apartment or in the library sketching furiously new designs that she hoped to perfect, sewing her fingers off, bringing those designs to life to send in with her application to Parsons at the end of the year. It would take that long, she guessed, to recuperate from the delivery, to get her head and body back into focused, fighting shape.
Despite her renewed sense of energy and flurry of activity, she could not shake the restlessness that came to her every night as Donovan slept beside her. Two weeks after her sonogram, Layla was frustrated, anxious, worried by how quickly she found Donovan slipping away from her. And, she was very, very turned on. He’d showered after she went to bed, his hair still damp when she felt the mattress dip and the scent of his masculine shampoo shifting onto his pillow, across the sheets. Layla had tried initiating something with him for a solid week, getting more distance, him putting her off with claims of tiredness and exhaustion.
But that night, with her nipples hard and rubbing against the thin sheet and her insides feeling tight, her center throbbing to attention by just the outline of Donovan’s bare shoulders against the bathroom light and his heavy, delicious scent wafting from his hair, Layla decided she couldn’t take another second of not touching him.
She hadn’t heard his breathing even out. She hadn’t noted the tell-tale sound of his low snores and knew that he laid in that bed as awake, hopefully as restless as she was. Layla moved, snuggling against him as she turned over and rested her hand over his hip to lay flat against his hard stomach. She thought he’d respond, that he’d be eager to touch her. It had been weeks, after all, but Donovan only stiffened under her touch, gave her fingers a slight squeeze before he moved her hand away.
“Donovan?”
He hesitated, breathing slow, focused breaths before he answer. Each exhale moved his shoulders and he balled his hand into a fist under his chin. “Yeah?”
“Are you mad at me?”
The mattress shook a little as he turned over and touched her arm, sliding his fingers over her skin. “No, baby. I’m not mad at all.”
“Then why haven’t you… you haven’t’ touched me in weeks.”
And she saw it, in his eyes, in the way he lowered his fingers down her arm, gaze slipping over her heavy breasts. “I don’t know, I’ve just been a little…”
“Uninterested?”
“Unwilling.”
With one curt nod, Layla rolled back to her side of the bed feeling stupid, horrified by his rejection and she tried to stay the useless tears that burned behind her eyelids. She hated, absolutely loathed, how easily she cried lately. Those damn ASPCA commercials with scrawny animals flashing doe eyes at the camera while Sarah McLachlan sang about angels and the sight of children playing in the park with their parents—would instantly turn Layla into a slobbering, sobbing mess and she hated how weak it made her feel. How ridiculous. Being rejected by your… well—she hated the phrase baby daddy, but really what else could she call Donovan—could be added to the list of “Shit That Makes Layla Snivel Like a Bee Stung Three-Year-Old.”
“Layla,” Donovan started when she couldn’t keep her annoying sniffing to herself. And when she shook her head, tucked her pillow against her chest as he touched her, Donovan only became more determined, mildly apologetic. “It’s not you…”
She elbowed him in the gut, forcing a quick grunt of air to whoosh out from his lungs. “Don’t you freakin dare give me that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit, Donley.”
The bastard laughed. It was the first time she’d heard that sound from him in weeks and the way it elevated, grew louder, had Layla looking over her shoulders as Donovan held his stomach and fell onto his back.
“You’re an asshole,” she said, rolling back around when it looked as though he wouldn’t stop laughing.
“Yeah, brat, I know.” A few more soft chuckles and Donovan cleared his throat, again inching closer to her to touch her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it really isn’t anything you’ve done.” When Layla kept still and silent, Donovan moved closer. “Honest. I just haven’t been, in the mood, I guess.”
She leaned over, looking up at him and she knew that her face was scrutinizing, it felt that way at least. “You’re in your sexual prime. There is no way you haven’t been in the mood.” Layla couldn’t take his frown or the way he bit his lip and he didn’t stop her when she rolled back on her side. “At least not for me, anyway.”
“Okay, now you’re just being stupid.”
“What did you say to me?”
Donovan took advantage at Layla’s turn, pulling her back against the mattress when she tried lifting her head to scowl at him. He was on top of, or at least partially to the side, as he avoided her belly, but he did hold her hands over her head and nestled between her thighs. “You’re beautiful. Why would I want anyone else?”
She snorted, not caring that his grip tightened on her wrists as though he didn’t like hearing her doubt him. “Please. I’m just the girl you knocked up, Donley. You’re perfectly free to go off and find someone who isn’t…” His mouth over hers, that warm, strong tongue charging past her lips silenced Layla instantly and the vicious snap she wanted her words to have transformed, worked its way into a low, throaty moan that vibrated in her throat when she felt Donovan thick and heavy against her clit.
He pulled back, lifting up on one hand to keep her still while he freed himself from his boxers. “Get this straight, brat this…” then he slipped inside, hard, arms shaking, and a loud, relieved groan working its way past his lips, “is all I want.” A few long thrusts and Donovan’s groan grew louder, his body relaxed as he held himself up on his elbows. “Stop… stop accusing me of shit I haven’t even thought about doing.”
She wanted to argue with him. God, how she missed that, but him inside her throbbing and searing deep against her inner muscles took any irritation, any frustration from her. “Such, oh God, such an asshole,” she tried, but even that weak insult came out breathy.
And then Donovan turned those breathy moans Layla made into loud, desperate cries as he worked inside her, brushed her sensitive nipples. She came hard, long and shaking after just a few strokes, loving how much he filled her, how raw and open he was with her right then. Donovan squeezed his eyes close, his forehead wrinkled and teeth gritted as she came over him and she knew he was close, knew that just touching his face, tugging on his blonde hair would send him over the edge, but then the baby squirmed, rustled against her stomach and Donovan instantly went still and stared down at her stomach, eyes wide, mouth opened in a shocked drop. All that heat, all the edge of his movements that were deliciously sharp and deep and drugging faltered as the baby kept moving, shifting her stomach up and around like an alien.
Then Donovan softened inside her.
“I…” he jumped off her, hurrying to tuck himself back inside his shorts. “I… no.”
“Donovan, wait. It’s okay. You aren’t going to hurt it.”
He’d picked up his t-shirt, had it stretched and ready to slip over his head when she spoke, then stopped short, throwing the green fabric to the floor. “It’s a her, Layla. Her. Not an it, not a thing. She’s a girl. Our fucking daughter!”
“Donovan, please.” She tried to sound sweet, soft and Layla got to her knees, crawling across the bed so she could touch him, but Donovan shook his head and she couldn’t tell if he was mad that she still kept her emotions, her heart, from the thing growing inside her, or if his frustration, likely disgust came from the idea that he’d been fucking a pregnant woman. He was so closed off to her then, stepping back, a constant shake moving his head.
“I can’t, Layla. I just can’t do that with you. Not anymore.”
It only got worse, the tension becoming thicker over the next few weeks as spring neared. By the seventh month, they were hardly speaking to each other, answering obligatory questions, informing each other where they’d be, how long they’d be out. It weighed on her, the distance that grew with the stretch of her belly. She wanted him. She only wanted Donovan and she got nothing back from him. They slept in the same bed, ate meals together, spent time with their friends, but it was as if they were roommates, distant roommates. Anything once shared between them died a little bit every day, the closer they came to the moment when they’d turn their child over to a family they didn’t know. It got so tense that Layla considered leaving. She’d grown tired of the quiet, of being looked after but not really taken care of, not loved.
They’d spent months with each other, fighting, fucking, then loving each other’s bodies making tentative plans for their lives after the baby had been born. But they’d never talked about a relationship. They’d never discussed love. Those lingering thoughts about finding a place of her own became more insistent, more tempting and Layla found herself, every night with Donavan’s back facing her in their bed, praying for a sign that she should leave.
It came to her one day outside of Marshall Hall when her father stopped her.
“Baby girl, look at you.” Her father wasn’t an emotional man, beyond motivating his players. Ever. But that day with the smell of blooming flowers perfuming the air and the activity of the campus around them becoming mute as they stared at each other, Layla’s father stood in front of her with tears wetting his eyes. “My little girl,” he’d said, taking her against his chest, ignoring how stiffly she stood in his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
It was the first time Layla had a real conversation with her father. He’d taken her to McKinney’s and they sat in the inner sanctum booth, voices low, quiet, as they split a banana sundae that the baby seemed really eager for her to scarf down.
“You look so beautiful,” he’d told her, seeming unable to stop smiling at her like she was this brilliant, glowing fairy his eyes wanted to eat up.
“I look like a small elephant.”
“No. You don’t. And if anyone says you do, tell me and I’ll kick their ass.”
She caught him up on the pregnancy, ignored his heavy frown when she gave him details about the adoption and hoped he was as happy as he pretended to be about getting the request she’d received for her sketches and swatches from Parsons. But then he’d asked about Donovan and slipped a bit of information the blonde had neglected to tell Layla about.
“What do you mean, New Zealand?”
Instantly her father seemed to understand that he’d screwed up. “I’m sure it’s nothing that’s set in stone for either Donley or Fraser.” He shrugged, but it was a half-hearted effort.
“Daddy…”
“They’d both have to play for one of the smaller squads first, maybe The Blues if they’re lucky or the Chiefs, but the plan would be to eventually try for the All Blacks.” He hurried to slip his spoon into his mouth, watching Layla closely as she stared out the window, thinking that her chest shouldn’t feel this tight, that her eyes shouldn’t ached this badly. “Would you go with him? Autumn and Fraser would be there, I’m sure. You wouldn’t be lonely.”
“No,” she’d said, watching a line of ducklings following their mother as she led them across the sidewalk toward the pond in the center of the park. “No, I don’t want to live in New Zealand.”
“Well,” he finally said, grabbing her hand to pull her attention away from the window. “Whatever you want to do, just say the word. I want to help any way I can.”
God spoke to her, she was sure of it. It was the push she’d needed. It was the nod of approval in her father’s eyes, in the way he smiled at her, looked at her like the past months and their distance from each other had never happened at all.
“Can I come home?”
She hadn’t expected her father’s frown. She thought he’d smile wider that he’d be excited to have her back, but she hadn’t been prepared for the way his mouth tightened or how long he waited before he answered her. And then, that forced smile he’d always reserved for disgruntled opposing coaches and anal refs, twisted across her father’s lips. “Of course, sweetheart. I can help you pack.”
Fear is real. It’s a tactical thing that breathes against the back of your neck. It’s the whisper of worry that we all try not to listen to, the one that niggles and nags in your mind, telling you that something would always be there to disappoint you, to make any hope you have for joy seem like the faint memory of dreams you knew would never come true. Donovan lived in that fear. Daily. For weeks. If he was being honest with himself, he’d let fear consume him since he was eighteen.
But as he walked into his apartment, dog tired from his practice, from the drills Declan made them all run through in some freak attempt to let a missing Mullens know he could handle the squad in his absence, Donovan experienced a new fear that wasn’t fear at all. It was abject horror, terror, the blinding fright of loneliness, of losing something he thought was his but had never had enough nerve to claim.
The apartment was empty. All the small little trinkets and girly things Layla had scattered around his place—the purple cable knit throw she kept on the back of his couch to hide a tear in the leather, the little boxes and bowls littered around the coffee table and on the entertainment center, her perfume and makeup, her scarves and neatly folded clothes, were gone. Every trace Layla had left of herself in his home was vacant now. The only thing of her that Donovan could feel was the tight squeezing burn in his chest; it was the place where she’d been for months. It was the empty spaces her presence, her laugh and smell had filled since the first time she’d kissed him.
He looked over every inch of his apartment, growing worried, at first, when she wasn’t there, thinking that maybe something had happened with the baby, that maybe she’d gone off still annoyed at him as she had been for weeks. Maybe, he’d thought, this was a punishment because he hadn’t touched her. Because he hadn’t wanted to chance even the remote possibility that he’d see his daughter moving inside Layla. He couldn’t… no.
But as he searched and did not find her, as he looked hopefully for a scribbled message, something, anything to tell him where’d she gone, Donovan realized the only damage done to Layla and their baby came with Donovan’s distance, with his firm belief that getting too close to either of them would hurt too badly when it all fell apart. And it would. He knew it would. It always fell apart, and so he sat on his couch, head back, eyes focused on the textured surface above him thinking of how quiet his apartment would be now. How absent the sights and smells of Layla would turn his place back into the cold, lifeless shell it had been before she started coming to him every night.
And the baby… would she even let him be there when the birth happened? Would she let him hold her hand as she pushed their daughter out of her body and into the arms of people he didn’t know? Did he want to be there at all?
His mind went back to that sonogram, the slow movements of that tiny life on the screen, the soft, comforting whoosh of a heartbeat that told Donovan he’d made something precious, finally done something remarkable with his life. It had scared him. It had fascinated him and he knew he’d never see that, feel that again. If he was lucky he’d get to hold her once. If he was lucky, he’d give her one parting kiss.
Donovan didn’t bother to dry his face when the shock of Layla’s departure and the memory of his daughter’s image on that machine became too much. He thought he’d ignore the buzzing of his phone. If Layla didn’t want him, didn’t want their life together anymore, then he wouldn’t run after her. He wouldn’t make an ass out of himself in some pathetic attempt to change her mind. But his phone kept ringing, then chirping over and over and he sighed, brushed his arm against his wet face before he dug his phone out of his pocket.
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.