“What is it, Cailín?”
She inhales deeply, like she’s steeling herself for a difficult conversation. “How much of last night do you remember?”
My brow furrows in confusion. I remember making an arse of myself, but I don’t recall anything too concerning—other than losing that fecking bet to Norah.
“I lost a bet to Norah, but I’d think you’d be pretty happy about that,” I confess.
Her face transforms into a full-blown smile for a second. “Oh, I am. Absolutely. This morning would be going completely different had you won.”
I cringe. “Aye, I imagine. You’re welcome then.”
Layla rolls her eyes but then her smile falls. “Do you remember leaving the pub?”
“Not at all. I vaguely remember floating from the floor to the door, but nothing after that. Why? What’s going on, Layla?”
She squeezes her eyes closed. “It’s nothing.”
“Hey.” I grip her chin. “Look at me.”
I wait for her to open her eyes and when she does, they’re glistening with moisture.
“You said something,” she whispers. “But if you don’t remember, I’m guessing it was just from being drunk, so it doesn’t count.”
“What did I say?”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget I said anything.”
Layla starts to slide out of the bed, but I wrap an arm around her, tugging her into me. “Layla, please. Talk to me. If I said something terrible, I need to know so I can make it right.”
She hesitates. As her lips part to speak, the doorbell rings. The shrill sound lances through my head, making me cringe. Layla takes advantage of my misery to jump out of bed and dash out of the room, leaving me floundering at what I could have possibly said to make her act so strange.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Layla
Literally saved by the bell.
I can’t decide if I’m happy or upset that Teagan has no recollection of telling me he loves me. I’m not even sure if I should tell him what he said. Shouldn’t the first time those words are uttered be memorable for all parties? Will he feel obligated to keep saying it if he didn’t actually mean to tell me?
Do I love him?
Maybe…yes…I don’t know.
I always hoped that when I found the right person, professing our love would come organically. There would be a defining moment or event that lead us to confessing our mutual feelings for one another. It would be romantic and emotional. Followed by passionate love-making.
God, I sound pathetic. That’s books and movies, not the real world. The real world is your boyfriend of onlya handful of months getting drunk off his ass, slurring that he loves you as his buddy helps you haul him into an Uber.
I could tell him what he said and have a super awkward conversation that would lead to him telling me he loves me because he feels obligated to or telling me that he doesn’t love me. Both options are shit.
For now, I put those thoughts away, padding down the hallway to the front door. When I pull it open, I’m stunned to find my oldest brother, Marcos, standing there with a duffel bag at his feet and a grin on his face.
“¡Qué tal, Layla! ¿Qué pasa?”
“¡Marcos! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?”
I don’t give him the chance to answer before flinging myself at him and wrapping my arms around his neck.
My brother is the spitting image of my father. Tall, muscular, dark brown eyes, and a mop of black curls on his head. His complexion is darker, not surprising considering he plays soccer professionally for Juárez. I haven’t seen him in over a year and am surprised at how much I’ve missed him. My eyes sting with tears as I pull back to look at him. He seems to be in good health, but he looks tired, and the mischievous sparkle I’m used to seeing in his eyes isn’t there.
