Everyone can leave. I learned at a young age that nothing is forever. No matter how pretty and shiny your life is, it can all change in an instant.
If you ignore the small incidents, turn a blind eye to the tiny fissures spreading through the foundation, the smallest thing, the lightest touch, can send your entire world crashing down around you.
Standing in my living room, the one I worked so hard to make feel like home, I grieve for the splintered shards of what was once my life.
Glancing up, I see Landen, his eyes warring with darkness and light, love and hatred, anger and kindness. Sometimes it’s like he’s two different people, and I can’t help but wonder which version of him will finally win the battle for his soul.
“I’ll get a garbage bag,” I say softly, because someone has to say something.
“Wait.”
His voice is scratchy, almost like he’s been crying. Well that makes two of us. I turn on a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this, Layla. For my temper. For the way I am.” He pauses to rake a hand through his hair. “But you need to see. This is how I am. Who I am.”
My throat constricts and I pull in my lips so my mouth doesn’t do the turning-down-about-to-ugly-cry thing it does.
His shoulders slump and he steps towards me, something snapping beneath his foot as he does. “God, I love you so much. I swear I don’t want to do this to you. To us. But…” He offers me a pleading attempt at a smile. “But I can’t be a parent. You see that, right?”
My heart beats so hard it throbs throughout my entire body. I close my eyes for a second and listen to the sound of my own breathing before looking into his. “Landen, we had a fight. You’ve been under a lot of pressure and this isn’t an ideal situation. I get that. You lost your temper and—”
“And you’re making excuses for me. Like you always do.” He’s so close his scent surrounds me, permeates my skin. It’s sharp and clean, cologne and soap, and just…him. Familiar. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to pull him to me and let him make everything better. But somehow I manage. Maybe because I know it won’t be enough this time.
“So what, Landen?” I choke out over the sob rising in my throat. “My aunt wants me to have surgery on Monday whether I like it or not and you can’t control your temper? So I have to have an abortion because the two of you don’t want me to have a baby? You must be out of your fucking minds.”
I rarely curse so I’m not surprised when Landen’s eyes go wide.
I take two steps, planning to brush past him to get to the kitchen and grab a garbage bag, but his arm strikes out to stop me. Strong hands grip my shoulders and spin me so I’m facing away from him. When he speaks, low into my ear from behind me, his angry, even tone sends chills up my spine. “Look. Look around you. What do you see?”
Shaking my head, I jerk and twist in an attempt to free myself. His fingers dig in deeper—not enough to hurt but rougher than he’s ever handled me. “I see a mess, okay? One that needs to be cleaned up.”
“Look closer. Look at the walls, Layla. Look at the cabinet doors. Think. Why doesn’t the refrigerator door open unless you lift while you pull? Why do we have so much fucking art on the wall? Are we opening a museum?” His voice is thick with pain, and it cuts into me even more than seeing our home destroyed.
The answers to his questions rush to the forefront of my mind, drowning me. Two of our cabinet doors are broken because he slammed them too hard when he was angry about something that had happened at practice. The refrigerator door has been jacked up since the night I told him I was taking night classes. He was getting something to drink and nearly ripped the thing off its hinges.
I can’t even count the number of holes in the walls or recall exactly where each came from. He always apologized and I would just buy another picture to cover them.
He’s right. No child should have to grow up in a home like this.
“It’s my fault, too,” I say, turning in his arms to face him. “You’re right. I made excuses. I covered it up. Pretended it was normal.” There’s nothing I can do to stop the warm, wet tears that fall. “But we can get you some help. Maybe the team—”
But he’s already shaking his head. “It’s who I am. No amount of therapy or whatever can change that.”
“Landen—”
“I’m my father’s son.” He reaches a hand out to wipe away my tears and I see moisture gathering in his eyes. “And I won’t do that to a kid. I won’t.”
My heart breaks for him. I feel every tiny splinter as it happens. “I know you won’t. Landen, it’ll be different. You’re not—”
“I’m not doing this, Layla.”
“Not doing what?” I whisper, cringing at the thought of hearing his answer.
“Not risking being an abusive asshole that makes another human being feel worthless. I won’t cause that kind of pain.”
“You won’t. I wouldn’t let you. I’ll—”
“I used to wish I was dead.”
The depth of his sadness, the hollow echo of his voice sets off a bone-deep ache in my core. A sob escapes, making me sound like a wounded animal.
Landen huffs out a sarcastic breath and swipes his hand quickly across his eyes. “Actually, I used to wish he was dead. And then I realized that was never going to happen. So I just wished that I was.”
My knees go weak, and Landen sinks to the floor right along with me. We just sit there, holding one another. Smack in the middle of our mess. One that neither of us knows how to clean up this time.