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The words hit wrong. Cold. Clinical. Nothing like her usual texts filled with rambling thoughts and heart emojis.
Me:
What's wrong? What can I bring you?
The response takes forever.
Layla:
Just tired. Need sleep.
Four words. That's it. No 'love you.' No 'see you tomorrow.' Nothing.
Me:
I'm coming over.
Layla:
No need.
Me:
Not asking. Be there in 30.
She doesn't respond.
Twenty-eight minutes later, I'm standing outside her door with pharmacy bags filled with soup, medicine, tissues, a ridiculous stuffed bear that says 'Feel Better.' My hands shake as I knock.
When she opens the door, my heart stops.
She's not sick. She's devastated.
Red eyes. Messy hair. Work clothes wrinkled like she's been curled up in them for hours. She looks broken, and the sight makes my chest cave in.
“What happened?” I push inside, dropping the bags to cup her face. “Who hurt you?”
She pulls away and closes the door. “You did.”
The words punch through me. “What?”
When she turns back, her face is stone. “Phase Two, Bennett. I know about Phase Two.”
Every molecule of oxygen leaves the room.
No. Not like this. Not before I could explain.
“Layla, let me?—”
“Explain? Explain what?” Her voice is deadly quiet. “How in twelve months, everyone I care about loses their jobs? Or how you knew I’ve been working my ass off to make NeuraTech viable enough to save them, that you let me believe I’d make a difference, and the whole time you were planning on destroying my father's company anyway, not to mention fucking me while you did it!”
The crude words from her lips shock me. She never talks like that. Never reduces what we have to something so ugly.
“It's not what you think.”
“Isn't it?” She crosses her arms. “Because it seemed pretty straightforward in the documents I saw today. Campus closure. Ninety percent of jobs eliminated. My father fired. Me given a pity consulting role before you throw me away too.”
My stomach drops. She's seen everything. The worst possible version before I could show her the rest.