Page 55 of Broken Brothers

“Chance!”

Goddamnit.

Guess we’re about to find out if I can be an adult about this.

I dropped the facade of being on a phone call, partially because Layla saying my name sounded so pained. She did not sound like she wanted to rub it in my face, nor did she want to gloat. I stopped, turned, and waited for her to come to me.

She looked unbelievably nervous to approach me, as if I might berate her once again. At the start, I had considered it, but seeing her now was like seeing a wounded dog that had bit me. I couldn’t help but feel some sort of sympathy, even if I knew after I made sure she wasn’t dying or anything insane I would never talk to her again.

Liar. You know yourself better.

“How are you?” she asked.

“What is this about, Layla?” I said, not interested in small talk.

She gulped and hesitated for several uncomfortable seconds. It wasn’t a New York minute—it was like a New York hour that passed in that time. I crossed my arms and waited—it’s not like I had anything else to do. You know, not like I had any major investment projects I had to do my research on. No, sir, nothing like that at all.

“I’m sorry.”

So it’s just like last time, huh. Just a bunch of stonewalling and nothing beyond that.

“Sorry for what?” I said, my words sounding more like a statement than an actual question.

“Sorry for everything.”

This is a waste of time. If she’s not going to go into any detail, we’re just playing games at this point.

“Everything doesn’t tell me anything, Layla,” I said. “I need to know what you’re apologizing for and why you did what you did. And don’t tell me ‘you know what.’ I want to hear you say it to know it’s sincere.”

Layla, noticeably, looked around us, as if paranoid about who might be listening. I found this move curious, although in that particular moment, I didn’t think anything of it other than her not wanting to create a public scene that would draw unwanted attention. Not that anyone in New York City ever had time or ever bothered to give unwanted attention.

“I’m sorry for using you, Chance,” she said.It’s a start.“I’m sorry that I took what you said and passed it along to my uncle. I’m… I’m sorry.”

I let my arms drop. I wasn’t about to hug her—that just felt repulsive and would destroy any self-respect I had—but I could let myself be a bit more open to what she had to say now. At least she could finally admit what she had done.

“It’s a start,” I said, the tension in my voice not quite as thick. “But why did you do it? Why?”

My questions also had finally started to sound like questions. We still had a wall of ice between us, but at least the surface had begun to thaw just a tad. I’m not sure what good it would do to have the wall melt other than for some cliche about peace amongst us all, but I couldn’t lie… it did feel a little good to have hatred fade away.

“I…”

Well, so much for that.

Layla stumbled over her words for several seconds, but it became obvious after a point that she just wasn’t going to say anything. This wasn’t about her not having a good answer. There was something she was unwilling to say for whatever reason. And so long as that was the case, I was not going to let that ice melt any further—if anything, I would resolidify it all.

“Don’t bother,” I said, crossing my arms. “I appreciate the apology, but I should have known you wouldn’t have a good reason.”

“Chance!”

“Or at least be unwilling to tell me,” I said, to which she did not have as strong a reaction as before. “You disgust me. I said I loved you. Nothing could have been said that was more honest than that. And you took that honesty for your own benefit.”

“I know,” she said, looking down. She wasn’t crying, but I wondered if that was a function of her having simply run out of tears. “Someday, you’ll find out. And when you do, I hope that you have sympathy.”

It took all of the maturity I had not to roll my eyes in dramatic fashion at that statement. So now she was the victim?

“Well, you found out my secrets, and you fucked me over with them,” I said.

Layla could not maintain eye contact with me. Good, I thought. She didn’t deserve to look into my eyes for what she did.