Meet Me Halfway(12)

“Why does it sound like you’ve been crying?”

Of course, she’d pick up on it right away. I’d known Layla since we were ten. We’d seen each other through our worst phases, our awkward phases, and our too-drunk-to-function phases.

She’d been the one to hold my hand for fourteen hours while I gave birth. She knew what I sounded like when I screamed, when I laughed, when I cried, and when I took a shit. She knew everything. So I wrapped myself in the comfort of our friendship and let myself fall apart a little.

“Am I a bad mom for being gone so much?” I heaved in a shaky breath, ignoring the car stopped next to me at the light. Lord only knows how deranged I looked.

“What? No. Who told you you’re a bad mom for working?”

“No one.” I sniffled, wiping at my nose. “Evaline asked me to take another position which would make me work a few random Saturdays, and I said yes. Not that I had much choice in the matter.”

“You gave up your only day with Jamie?”

“Yes,” I whispered, hating to admit it out loud.

“Who’s going to hang out with him?”

“I’m not sure yet, I’ll probably have to ask my parents.” As much as I didn’t want to ask, I knew they’d do it. They may not have been happy when I wound up pregnant at sixteen, but they loved him with every piece of their hearts.

“Bitch, I’ve told you I’d move there and help you. You know I will.”

“I know.” The line went silent for a minute, apart from her shuffling the phone around.

“Well, I’m pulling into Jamie’s school, so I have to go. I just needed to verbally process my emotions.”

“You still have a spare room?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. Call me later and we’ll talk details, but I’m coming. Don’t even try to argue with me. I have nothing important holding me here right now. It’ll cut both our rent payments in half, and I can help watch our son.”

I huffed through my nose, “Layla Davis, I don’t—”

“What’s that you say? You see Jamie walking to the vehicle and can’t argue? No worries, I’ll call you later, bye!” She yelled it all out in the span of a single breath, and then the bitch hung up on me.





I’d squatted down to grab a new soap dispenser from under the sink when I heard the clink of a dish being set on the counter. I twisted to look over my shoulder, “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

His face puckered like he’d stuck an entire lemon in his mouth, and he threw his head back, groaning. “I don’t want to wash the dishes tonight. Not having a dishwasher sucks.”

“Do you know what you sound like right now?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful.” I agreed. “You have dishes. You have food. You have running water.”

He looked at his feet, shuffling them back and forth. I knew he hadn’t meant it that way, he was just a kid who didn’t want to do a chore, but I also didn’t want him growing up not appreciating everything we had.

“You have two choices, bud, you can wash the dishes, or you can clean your room. I stepped on no less than four building blocks the last time I walked in there.”

“I’ll clean my room,” he said over me, already halfway out of the kitchen. Looking at the pile in the sink, I decided he had the right idea.

I let out a heavy breath, I didn’t want to wash the damn dishes either. Promising myself I’d do them before bed, I decided to take advantage of Jamie being busy and poured myself a glass of wine from the half-empty box in the fridge. Closing the door as quietly as I could, I stepped out onto the porch.

“Leave me the hell alone.”

The words were spat out so harshly, I reared back, plastering my back against my front door. I stood there frozen, hand clenching my cup, eyes darting around the dark to find the source.

“I don’t really fucking care, Courtney.”

It was then I noticed the small red glow of a cigarette out in the neighbor’s driveway and made out the outline of his body, pacing back and forth near his Nova.

“I. Don’t. Care. Have a nice life, or don’t. Preferably the latter.” He ripped the phone away from his ear and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

I wasn’t even the woman he’d been yelling at, but I felt just as small and exposed as if I were. What was it about men that made them believe their size gave them permission to talk to women that way?

As soon as I thought it, I squinted an eye, chastising myself. I didn’t know him or that Courtney woman. For all I knew, she was a nutjob sister or an ax murderer.

He suddenly whipped toward me, and I panicked, eyes widening, scared I’d accidentally spoken my thoughts out loud. He stared at me, smoke billowing out of his nose in a steady cloud.

Taking several large strides toward me, he stepped into the halo of light cast by my porch lantern, and I was able to see he was wearing a dark shirt with a logo on the breast I couldn’t quite make out. I’d thought his arms had looked muscled the other day, but in a t-shirt, the unblemished, defined curves of his biceps and forearms were on full display.

His lips were flattened into a straight line and his brows drawn low over his eyes. He looked pissed. With my free hand, I blindly reached behind me, feeling for the door handle. He’d just opened his mouth to speak when I found it. Not waiting for him to yell at me for eavesdropping, I shoved my door open and ran inside.