The Best You’ve Ever Had

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Layla

I pull up to Ben’s home in a cookie cutter track-style neighborhood. A strange feeling settles in my chest as I grab the plate of sweets and march up the snow-lined path to his home.

Last time I saw him, we were both kids. Young adults with big dreams and zero sense of how the world operates. Now we’re both well into adulthood, with places of our own, grownup jobs, and the bitter taste of reality.

I had known since my father left and parents divorced that life is hard and unrelenting.

While Ben on the other hand, always had a good, easy life. His parents were well off money-wise, and in a happy and healthy marriage. He got A’s throughout school without much effort, while I had to study for hours to do well on tests. Girls flung themselves at him, while I didn’t grow into my looks until my early twenties. Life for him has been easy, and now he’s experiencing a taste of this other side of the coin. The dark, crushing side where bad things happen to good people.

I knock on the wood of the dark brown door with my knuckles three times. Besides the sound of the television blaring from inside, there is no movement or other signs of human life. This motherfucker better not be dead, because I don’t have the bandwidth for that right now.

“Open up. It’s Layla,” I yell through the door.

No response.

I knock again—obnoxiously persistent for a solid thirty seconds. Still, he doesn’t answer.

Spotting the security camera above the porch light, I point up at it and say, “Don’t make me break down this door. You know I gladly will.”

Then I ring the doorbell, over and over again until, finally, the door creaks open.

He stands before me, holding himself up with one hand on the jamb of the door. A pissed off look resides in his eyes as he simply stands there, glaring at me like I’m the devil’s incarnate.

My belly does a strange flip flop. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since graduation. Pictures on social media do not do his transformation justice. Over the last eleven years, he has turned from a boy to a full on ridiculously handsome man. His tall and lanky form has massively filled out, with biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. His black hair is a mess, as if he’s run his hands through it a million times. And it dawns on me. He is exactly the type of man I’d go for; but, personality wise, he is the complete opposite of what I’d ever want.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, voice full of disdain.

I walk into his house, pushing past the resistance of his body from attempting to stop me from entering. “ Checking in on you. Our moms were worried since apparently you’ve fallen off the face of the earth.”

“Well, you’ve checked in. I’m alive. Now you can go.” He opens the door and gestures his hand out, waiting for me to turn around and leave.

I take one look around his house and instantly know that’s not happening. Dirty dishes and empty beer bottles are scattered throughout. Multiple piles of laundry sit on a lounge chair adjacent to the couch. And some trashy show about pawn shops is playing on the television. “If you would’ve picked up your damn phone, I wouldn’t have needed to come here. Do us both a favor and stop ignoring your family.”

With one hand still on the handle of the wide-open door, he glances down as if he’s been caught red-handed. He looks beat down and tired. And my heart swells with empathy for what he’s going through. I don’t want to care, but fuck, I do.

I also know I can’t coddle him. This back-and-forth has always been our dynamic.

Walking back over to the door, I gently lift his hand off the knob and shut it. We stand there, staring at one another in silence. Eyes simultaneously taking in the other’s changes over the years, all while not backing down from whatever weird showdown this is.

Finally he sighs and walks over to the fridge, popping it open and digging around for awhile before coming back up with two beers. I sit at his kitchen table, scooting junk mail and an old pizza box to the side. He places a beer in front of me, before cracking open his own, as he sits on the dining room chair across from me. The way he sways on the chair, all loose limbs and tired muscles, tells me everything I need to know about him right now.

I nod in his direction. “You look like shit.”

His dark eyes snap up to mine. “Did you come all this way just to insult me?”

“Oh yeah, totally. Flew all the way here purely so I could kick some sense into your ass.”

With the beer bottle to his downturned lips, he sarcastically mutters, “A waste of a trip if I do say so myself.”

I lean over the table and snatch the clear glass bottle from his hand. As I take a sip from it and place it out of his reach, he yells out in protest. “What the fuck?”

“It’s apparent you don’t need anymore alcohol. You smell like a fucking bar.” I grab my phone, unlock it and slide it over to him. “Now grow a pair and call your mom or Mick.”

He glances between me and the phone sitting on the oak table, caught off guard by my brash behavior. “I can’t.”

“And why not?”

Leaning back in his chair, he grabs a fistful of dark hair in frustration. “Because.”

“Because, what? Just say it already.”

He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Because it’s too fucking much.”

“That’s understandable. Of course, this is a lot. But as far as I know, you’re not the one dying. So be there for your grandpa, like he’s been there for you.”

He leans down, his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He starts to cry and I have no idea what to do. I’m the worst possible type of person to handle big emotions in difficult situations like this. As a lawyer, I pass my client a box of tissues, give them a moment, and then carry on. But with him, the man I’ve known since diapers, that feels too cold. It feels like I should be doing more, yet I have no idea how to.

I walk over, and place a stiff hand on his back. “I’m sorry you and your family are going through this. I really am. But you need to be there for him. As hard as it is for you, it’s even harder for him. He’s going to need support from the people he loves the most.”

“I know,” he replies, as he takes a shuddery inhale.

With a flat hand, I pat him on the back a few times, awkward and mechanical like a robot, as I stare down at his unfairly thick head of hair. His tears turn into a watery laugh, leaving me even more confused. “Um, are you okay? I can’t tell if you’re laughing or crying.”

He looks up at me from the chair, a drunk boyish grin on his tan face. “You’re really bad at this aren’t you? Consoling people?”

I crack a smile. “Literally the worst.”

With both hands, he pushes his hair out of his face and leans back with a groan. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good. And then we’re cleaning your house. As much as we both don’t want me to be here, I can’t leave in good conscience knowing you’re living in a hazmat zone.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I think I saw something take a peek out of that old pizza box. We’re cleaning.”

With no response to my last comment, he stands up and grabs his phone that’s charging on the quartz kitchen counter.

For a brief moment, his thumb hesitates before finally taking the plunge and selecting his mom’s number and putting it on speaker phone. He probably knew I’d double check that he wasn’t calling for more shitty pizza.

She instantly answers, “Honey?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh thank goodness. I was worried about you. Did Layla come over there and lay down the law?”

He glances up at me. All dark eyes and sharp jawline. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I knew she’d be the one to whip you into shape. Don’t make me worry again like that, okay? You don’t have to be strong for Grandpa, but at least be there .”

I can see the emotion well up in him as he nods, and heads down the hall with his phone in hand to talk to his mom in private. As the two of them speak, I have no shame in being nosey. I inspect everything in his house while I wait and begin the process of cleaning. I look inside the cupboards. Start throwing bottles in the small recycle bin that I discovered under the sink cabinet. Flip through a photo album lying inside the entertainment stand. Open closet doors as I fold and put away clean towels. Within twenty-five minutes, I have the place looking completely different. It feels therapeutic being able to transform and remedy a situation so easily. It’s not months of planning and preparation, appointments and court dates, and the relentless stress of legal battles. It’s much simpler, and results in a quick transformation.

He walks out and stops short in the hall when he sees my handy work. “How…”

“I’m quick, right?” I reply, spreading my arms out and motioning to the clean space. “Your conversation went well?”

“Yeah, it did.” He grabs at his neck with one hand, his bicep flexing with the action. “I feel like a dick for not doing it sooner.”

“If anyone understands, it’s them.” I plop down on his couch and cross my arms, secretly distracted by the horridly addicting pawn shop TV show. “Now go take a shower so you don’t smell like a Budweiser dumpster.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. I can sense him behind me, still and staring. My skin tingles under his assessing gaze, but I act like I’m not affected in the slightest. We are entirely too comfortable in each other’s presence. If countless hours spent together as kids and teens did one thing, it made us keenly aware of how the other person ticks.

Finally, I hear his footsteps pad down the hall and the sound of the shower rushing through the walls like soothing white noise. I spread out on the L-shaped section of the gray couch, cross my arms, and settle in to watch a hilariously absurd negotiation over an antique stripper pole on the television. My eyes grow heavy, and I fight sleep like it’s an inconvenient intruder. But my internal clock, used to being in bed an hour ago, wins the battle as I drift off.

At some point, even with my eyes closed, I sense him standing nearby, watching me. I want to tell him to move along and to stop staring like a little creep, but I am the one who fell asleep in his home.

In the past, he would have dipped my hand in a cup of warm water to see if I’d pee in my sleep. But present-day Ben lays a cashmere-soft blanket over me, turns off the television and lights, and lets me sleep in peace. And a couple minutes later, in a half-sleep daze, I hear him on the phone, whispering in a hushed voice. “Hey Gina, I didn’t want to have you worrying, but Layla is here and accidentally fell asleep.”

And that’s how I realize maybe he isn’t a half-bad guy.

Yet, I still want nothing to do with him.