Lucky Number Eleven

Chapter 20

Layla

I scrape the rest of the food off my plate and give it a quick rinse. Sticking it in the dishwasher, I pause to look out the window. The sky is a beautiful cascade of purples and oranges as the sun starts to dip on the other side of the lake. It's beautiful and I give a long thought about raising the baby here.

The baby. The words aren't quite as overwhelming as they were a few days ago. I'm still not sure how this is going to work out or how I'll learn to be a mother, but it seems more manageable. Maybe.

"Do you like it here?" I ask aloud, splaying my fingers on my abdomen. "It's quiet. You could play outside with no one to bother you and Mommy could work from the porch and make you lunch like my mommy used to do for me."

There's a serenity about this, so much so that I begin to wonder if it's actually possible. Up until now, raising a baby seemed more like a "Can I do this?" Now it's a "How do I do this?" and that's a totally different thing.

I glance at the refrigerator and think back to Branch. A grin touches my lips immediately, the good memories coming back around, even if they were just for a short time. Our future is going to be tangled, and I find myself hoping we can just get along a fraction as well as we did then.

I go back to the table and sit next to a yellow legal pad and black pen. A few notes are scratched into lists, things I need to work out and prepare and notes from a baby book Poppy brought me.

Looking up as a set of headlights shines through the windows, I stand as they flick off. I walk to the glass and watch Branch trudge towards the door.

A lump materializes in my throat, making it impossible to swallow and just as hard to even breathe. His head is down, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans as he hits the landing of the stairs. He doesn't look up until he's at the door.

The sound of the knock makes me jump even though I expect it and I stand and stare at the chunk of wood separating him and I. The barrier feels good between us. Like if I can stay inside and keep him out, I can hide in my little cocoon.

Then he knocks again.

I touch the handle like it might burn me, placing one finger on top of the metal knob.

He knocks again. "Layla, open the door."

The command part of that irritates me, but there's a quake in the tone that pulls at a heartstring. One. One heartstring because the rest of them still want to deck him in his handsome face.

"Layla, please open the door." There's a long pause. "I know you can hear me and I'm not going anywhere until we talk. So just do us both a favor and open up."

Flinging the door open, I catch sight of his face. His right eye has a purplish-blue circle around it, the underside swollen to the point I'm not sure how well he can even see out of it. The right side of his lip is busted, and it, too, is swollen. He looks at me, his eyes without the cocky glimmer I'm used to seeing in them.

"I didn't open this as a favor to either of us," I tell him. "I opened it to tell you that you need to leave."

"Layla . . ."

"I'm just full of things you don't want to hear, aren't I?" I spew bitterly.

"Will you stop it?"

"Get. Off. My. Porch."

"We need to talk."

Snorting, I go to close the door in his face but his hand stops it mid-push. He doesn't cross the threshold with his feet, but he certainly traipses right over that line with the look he's shooting me.