The Best You’ve Ever Had

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Layla

After returning our skates and packing up our cars, we all huddle near the cab of an old beat-up truck. Everyone except Ben and I sip on beers while holiday music drifts from the vehicle’s speakers. This is small-town living in a nutshell—worn-out pickups, shared beers, and long nights under the stars. It’s a simple, familiar comfort that feels like home.

The other couples have their arms around each other, warming up together under wool blankets in the crisp night air. Being surrounded by all these lovesick idiots makes it hard to ignore how much Ben and I stick out like a sore thumb. We stand side-by-side, not looking at each other yet acutely aware of the other’s presence. Occasionally, our arms make contact, lingering for a moment before one of us shifts. I find myself living for those fleeting touches because they awaken a part of me I thought had been long gone, like a flame igniting in the dead of winter.

After a solid hour of swapping stories, he must sense that my social battery has been drained. He nudges my arm, and tilts his head toward his car, silently asking if I want to head out. I nod once in confirmation, and we start saying our goodbyes in total sync.

As we drive back to my mom’s house, I notice the tension in him. His hands grip and release the steering wheel as it becomes abundantly clear he’s building up to ask me something. I have no idea what he would ever need to ask, but it takes a lot to make him nervous, so I prepare myself for the worst.

Pulling up to the curb outside the house, he turns off the car, and looks right at me. “I have a favor to ask.”

Dread rolls through my stomach.

I hate favors. Despise them. I don’t like feeling like I owe anyone anything, or having people feel like they owe me.

I shoot him a look. “What kind of favor?”

He scratches the back of his head, as his eyes tentatively glance away. “It’s a big one.”

“This can’t be good.”

“Be my fake girlfriend.” He finally makes eye contact, this time there’s a sense of pleading, tinged with a note of desperation, and a dash of embarrassment. “For Mick’s sake. You know how damn happy that would make him. The perfect, happy distraction so my family can have something good to look forward to. It’s what they’ve always wished for.”

My stomach drops. This isn’t what I expected him to ask. I thought perhaps he’d ask me to set up a big Christmas party in Mick’s honor, or maybe even go shake down someone that owes him money.

Not this.

I shake my head. “Horrible idea. Nope, not in a million years.”

He’s not surprised by my answer, he knew I’d shoot him down the second he asked. If nothing else, I give him props for having the balls to ask me.

“Please. For Mick. To make him think my life is going somewhere.”

“It’s a bad idea. It wouldn’t end well for anyone. Once we fake break up, won’t it be awkward for the rest of our family? And wouldn’t that make us horrible people for lying to a terminally ill man?”

“It’d make us horrible people if you look at it the wrong way. But look at it from a different angle. They would have something to talk and dream about besides the looming death. Mick would be so damn happy if he thought we were together. To know who I’ll end up with before he passes.”

“Find someone else. We can barely get along for more than five minutes at a time. Making people think we’ve gone from sworn enemies to besought lovers is an impossible task, and you know it.”

He sighs, frustrated. “That's where I disagree. Look how long we got along tonight. It’s only plausible if it involves you. You’re the one person that people would believe as my girlfriend, especially to our families who have always hoped for it.”

I shoot him a death glare signaling that he’s out of his mind. “I think you may be suffering from a psychotic break and need professional help.”

And with that, I practically run as fast as I can back to the house, without busting my ass on the slick frozen sidewalk. When I glance back, his car is still there, idling while he watches me get safely to the front door.

The craziest thing about his whole proposition is that he doesn’t seem crazy at all. In his eyes, I can actually see how it makes perfect sense.

But I’m not a liar, and I’m definitely not a good actress.

The next morning, when I return from my morning run, I see a car I don’t recognize in the driveway. It’s a flashy blacked out Audi, with every bell and whistle possible. Its shiny sleek body frame doesn’t fit in with the neighborhood, and it raises an immediate red flag in my mind. From my running belt, I pull out my house keys and loop the sharp metal between my fingers. If someone has broken into my mother’s house, they better be prepared to be stabbed by a half dozen metal keys. I may be small, but I’m scrappy as hell.

I unlock and open the front door, cracking it open to listen for any voices or signs of Mom awake. All I hear is silence, and the eerie emptiness makes my heart pound. But then I hear my mom’s over-the-top giggle. This laugh is one I’ve heard a thousand different women use when they’re trying to make a man feel better about one of their terrible jokes.

The sound rings through the air again, followed by an entertained male, voice that’s muffled through a closed door. I follow the sounds down the hall, only to find my mother’s door closed. When she speaks again, I hear her say, “Oh, Paul.” And that’s when my freak out officially commences.

Mom may as well have a sock around her door knob signaling the need for privacy for her booty call. But as strong as I may be, I’m not fine with hearing whatever the hell is going on in there. Under no circumstances will that be allowed while I’m living under this roof for the next couple weeks. Which is why I obnoxiously yell, “Mom, I’m home!”

Standing smack dab in the middle of the family room’s geometric rug, I wait like a parent anticipating their troubled teenage child to come home drunk. Mom appears round the corner, hand-in-hand with a silver-haired fox, with too white teeth and a mustache. They’re giggly and smiling at me as if they’ve been busted, yet they don’t seem to really give a shit. My eyes dart between the two of them and land on their conjoined hands. Mom smiles up at the man, as if he’s painted the goddamn Mona Lisa. And he smiles right back down at her as if she’s a crown jewel. They don’t even need to say it out loud—they’re disgustingly in love.

“Well, there you are. I wanted to introduce you to Paul, my boyfriend.”

He steps forward to shake my hand, and his sweaty little palm irritates me. I thought this household had been in agreement that we did not engage in serious romantic pursuits. We had always agreed that most, if not all, men are bastards we want nothing to do with. At least not in official ways, with titles like boyfriend.

In an attempt to not be rude, I paste on my best fake-happy lawyer smile. The one I’ve practiced a thousand different times in the mirror to make sure it really hits all the right targets.

“Nice to meet you.” I turn to my mother, who is trying not to laugh at what she knows is my shocked shell state. “So, how long have you two been together?”

“Hm, almost a year now actually. Next month will be the anniversary of when I first met your gorgeous mother.” Paul smiles his veneered smile at my mother and I, knowing he’s buttering us up like a Thanksgiving roll.

“A year, huh? I’m surprised I’m just now hearing about this.”

With a tight smile, Mom glances over in my direction, clearly nervous to tell me about her relationship. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” She shrugs. “You never come to town, and it felt awkward telling you over the phone or when I was up in the city.”

“Well, happy to officially be in the loop now.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence passes, as everyone is at a loss of what to say. Then much to my horror, from out of his back pocket, Paul pulls out a sprig of mistletoe and holds it above his and my mother’s heads.

“Oop, look at that. Mistletoe.” He winks at her, and she giggles like a middle school girl before leaning in and pecking him on the lips.

This sly motherfucker, attempting to break the tension and swoon Mom with some holiday magic moves. Did he have that in his pocket the whole time? Waiting for the perfect moment to pull that little stunt? The worst part is Mom is eating up the whole act.

On one hand, I am relieved to see her happy. On the other, I don’t trust Paul as far as I can throw him. And I’m weak, so I can’t even lift him to toss him in the first place.

He pockets the mistletoe, and announces, “So, should we all drive together to lunch at the Brooks’?”

“Lunch at the Brooks’?” I ask.

“Brandy wants us all over for a small Christmas get-together. Just casual—wine, hors d’oeuvres, and dessert. No presents allowed. She wants to see you while you’re in town.”

“I’ll go get ready. I can drive myself though, so don’t wait for me.”

“It’d be nice to drive there together, so you and Paul can get to know each other more.”

Like a grown adult, I swallow my pride even if it does feel like a bowl of nails on the way down. There’s nothing I’d dislike more, but for my mother I’ll do it. “Can’t wait.”

An hour later, I emerge from the bathroom fresh off an ‘everything’ shower, and dress in one of the form-fitting, long sleeve dresses I packed. It errs on the side of dressier, but if I’ve learned anything from professional mixers, it’s that it’s always better to be overdressed than under. Not having to wear pants is also a plus.

“Wow, don’t you look nice,” Mom comments while I put small gold hoops in each ear. “You trying to impress someone?”

“The only person I care about impressing is myself,” I remark.

“If I’ve done nothing else in my life, at least I know I raised a strong daughter. You sure are a force to be reckoned with, aren’t you?”

“Being a force to be reckoned with makes me a lot of money in my profession.”

“Well, I’m very proud of you and all you’ve accomplished. I don’t tell you that enough.” With a pat on my shoulder, we smile at each other in the mirror. She starts to head out of the spare room, but stops and looks over her shoulder to add, “Also, be nice to Paul or I’ll play Christmas music for the entire time you’re here.”

My laughter bursts out of me due to her unexpected, and very festive, threat. Only my mom would threaten someone via holiday music. And it works.

The entire drive to the Brooks’ house, I ask Paul about the details of his life. I’ve found out he has a set of twins, a boy and a girl, who are now grown adults with children of their own. He’s a recently retired orthodontist. And he plays the trumpet at the Moose Lodge with his buddies on the weekends.

From the passenger seat, Mom looks thrilled at my sudden interest in Paul’s life. But you know what they say—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

-

We arrive right as a dusting of snow begins to fall. The flakes descend from the sky, appearing light and fluffy, and seeming to sparkle in the gentle glow of the holiday lights. The exterior of Brandy and Dante’s large custom home is decked from the ground to the roof with colorful lights. Atop the roof, Santa’s sleigh is accompanied by eight reindeer which has me trying to figure out how the hell they got that up there.

Before we even enter, I can hear the muffled sound of Ben’s dad, Dante, playing a generic Christmas song on the out-of-tune piano. Without even seeing them, I already know that Mick will be right next to him, singing—badly—with all the holiday season happiness possible. That’s where they’ve always been during the Christmas get-togethers. Dante plays, while Mick sings beside him, a spiked eggnog and sugar cookie in hand.

Mom, Paul, and I walk straight into the house, not even bothering to knock since our families are so close. Dante shouts his hello’s from over his shoulder at the piano. But Mick isn’t by his side, which immediately has me glancing around the room for him.

As I power walk to the kitchen to set down the expensive bottles of wine I insisted on purchasing along the way, I spot him. He’s stationed on the couch in the family room. Brandy dotes over her father, tucking a warm blue blanket around his legs, and fluffing his pillow.

It surprises me, because even though I know he’s eighty and sick with a terminal illness, I failed to picture him looking sick. But why would he not? I haven’t seen him in years. His body looks withered and pale. His movements have slowed and appear strained, as if he’s moving underwater against the force of pressure. My heart stops in my chest at the sight of watching him slip away from this world right before our eyes.

Suddenly, I get it. Ben’s spiral makes so much more sense now. When you can physically see how an awful illness has affected your favorite person, you realize this is happening whether you want it to or not. You become hyper-aware that this saint of a man will only be in our lives for a painfully small amount of time. It hits you full force with the realization that life is short and there will never be enough time.

Ben is on the couch beside them, telling a story about one of his fire training sessions gone awry. They all spot me at the same time, stopping their conversation as I walk over. I lean down and hug Mick, gentle so as not to hurt him, but longer than I’ve ever hugged him before. Over his shoulder, Ben and I make eye contact. His eyes reflect what I’m feeling too. The quiet sadness of reality.

“Mick, how are you?” I ask.

He’s weary as he attempts a smile, his good nature oozing out of his every pore. “Like shit. But a little better now that I get to see my second favorite family.” His voice is wobbly and frail. But he’s trying hard to put on a tough face, which only makes my heart break more.

“Well, you look good,” I lie.

He waves me off. “We both know that’s not true. I look like shit and you know it.”

I smile, absolutely caught in a lie, and not afraid to admit it. “I can’t just go around telling people they look terrible, now can I?”

This makes him roar in laughter for a few short-lived seconds, before his body finally gives out in exhaustion from the energy spent. “Oh boy. Christmas is going to be good with you here.”

As I hug Brandy next, she murmurs against my shoulder, “Oh, it feels so good to see you in the flesh and hug you again.” She pulls me back at arms length and inspects me head-to-toe. “And wow. How is it fair to be smart and gorgeous? Look at her, Ben. Isn’t she the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen?”

Ben looks at me, really looks at me, and it makes my stomach flip. Not breaking eye contact, he says, “She’s beautiful.”

In an attempt to shake the hazy pride of him calling me beautiful, I crack a joke. “Don’t think I know what you’re up to, Brandy. How much did you have to pay him to say that?”

She throws her head back with a boisterous laugh, while he cracks an amused smile at us both.

“Don’t worry that dream sailed ages ago. As much as your mom and I tried to weasel you both into an arranged marriage so we could selfishly live out our lifelong dream of being sisters, we knew it wasn’t going to happen as soon as you two could talk and immediately began arguing instead.” She stares off into space with a small smile on her lips, reminiscing while simultaneously imagining the possibility of it all. As if she can picture her son and I walking down the aisle, our families a blubbery, happy mess. Little black hair, blue eyed babies running amuck through their backyard.

It’s remarkably strange how life offers such an abundance of choices, each capable of steering us down vastly different paths. But my path is more akin to a deserted road. Purposely destined to be alone.

In an attempt to change the subject, I ask, “Can I get anyone a glass of wine? Brandy? Mom?”

They both enthusiastically accept, while Ben declines—perhaps because of the massive case of don’t you dare, you practically just sobered up side eye I give him. Turning on my heel to head toward the partitioned kitchen, I hear Mick call out my name. “Layla, glass of wine for this old man too, if you don’t mind.”

I stop short, hesitating. “Is it okay if you drink?”

He huffs out a short laugh. “Doctors advised against it due to possible drug interactions. But what’s it going to do…kill me? News flash, that’s already happening.”

“So in other words, we’re going to be booze buddies tonight?”

“Booze buddies.” He chuckles at the phrase, finding it amusing. “Pour me one glass for now, please. A very tall glass.”

Ben follows me into the kitchen, which is decorated with an eclectic collection of holiday-themed gnomes. He stands close behind me as I pour four glasses of wine, filling them so generously that they nearly spill over.

Leaning over to inspect the amount, he whispers, “You’re not really going to let him drink all that, are you?”

I go to elbow the know-it-all attitude out of his body, but my arm meets a solid wall of muscle instead. As he stands so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, it takes every ounce of willpower not to press my ass against his pelvis.

“Back up, or else that elbow will be in your nose next time.” My flirting could use some practice, but for him, it works.

“You’re tiny. I’d like to see you try to even touch my nose.”

“Fine. Challenge accepted.” With that, I jump onto him. He stumbles back a few steps, caught off guard by my random pounce. But even with my element of surprise, he holds me up, a hand on my backside, as if I’m weightless.

With a closed fist, I playfully tap his nose, “Bam. Got you. Told you I could. Now put me down.”

“Nope. You jumped up here first. Now you’re stuck with me.”

“Benjamin Brooks. Let me down this instant.”

“You’re the one who attacked me. Consider it payback.”

In a way, I like this. I like being manhandled and having someone tell me what to do for once, instead of me being the one giving out orders. In any other situation, I’d roll along with it. But only twenty feet away, his father drunkenly bumbles around on the piano, and our mothers and Mick are tearing up over some Hallmark holiday movie disaster.

I tilt my head toward the forgotten glasses on the counter. “C’mon. The wine. Everyone is waiting for it.”

“Okay, fine. You can leave.” He sets me free, but the way I slide, agonizingly slow, down the length of his body is almost unbearable. Why does it have to feel like this? So frustratingly sensual and over-the-top, like we belong in some steamy eighties movie scene.

The way he lets it happen, awareness tensing his body, lets me know he feels it too. The air between us should be crackling with the sharpness of dislike, but instead, it’s filled with sparks. We clear our throats, as if we can clear away this new sexual tension that has somehow sprouted up. I circle back to the family room with wine in hand, leaving him behind in the kitchen, before I do something stupid like suck his dick or tell him he’s unfairly handsome.

Handing a crystal glass to Mick, he takes a small sip, his ears already turning red. “Sure tastes better when you know it might be your last.”

I sure as shit have no clue how to respond to that, which is probably what he’s aiming for. Mick is a lot like Ben in the way that he’s silent and watchful one minute, then dropping a comment just for the shock value the next.

He eyes me, a twinkle in his eye as he waits for my response. Like he’s a tennis player that just launched his ball to my side of the court and is waiting to see how I’ll react.

I bite back the lump in my throat and force a grin. As I watch him sip the drink, my heart tugs at the thought of what’s to come.

After a five minute attempt at watching the cheesy holiday movie, I admit defeat and slip back into the kitchen. Ben’s still there, loading the last plate into the dishwasher.

“I didn’t know you knew how to wash dishes,” I quip, hopping up onto the counter beside him. “Guess you’ve come a long way from the boy who used to hide out in the bathroom to get out of doing chores.”

He dries his hands on the snowflake towel and looks at me with a smirk. “Bold words coming from someone who used to swear she was ‘too short’ to reach the sink. Looks like we’ve both evolved.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, I still try to use that excuse.”

“Hey, how come you haven’t come back to Havenbrook until now?” he asks, his back turned as he starts the dishwasher.

My stomach tightens. I’m pretty sure he already knows why I avoid this place, but he’s not too afraid to ask point blank and confirm his suspicions.

“Bad memories,” I say, keeping it short. I don’t want to seem weak, though he already knows what those memories are. It shouldn’t still hurt after all these years, but it does. Being here is a constant reminder of the season when everything fell apart.

“Then make new ones. Better ones.”

I shrug, trying to deflect. “I didn’t realize psychoanalysis was part of the package deal tonight.”

He leans in, hands braced on either side of me. “Just curious, really. I’ve always wondered what it would take to bring you back here.”

If it wasn’t for his family and Mick, I wouldn’t have. I’d be perfectly content buying my mom first-class tickets to visit me in the city instead, avoiding my dumpy, yet still charming, hometown where everything changed.

“All I hear is that you’ve thought about me,” I tease.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “How could I not? The real question is, have you thought about me?”

Of course I have. Pictures of him and his family have come up on my social media feeds. But until now they seemed like a part of my past life, one I didn’t foresee ever knowing or seeing again.

A strand of his dark hair falls loose onto his forehead. Before I think twice, I reach out and finger comb it back into place. When I realize what I’m doing, and who I’m touching, I pull my hand back as if he’s bitten me. But my simple touch has turned his gaze from light-hearted fun to a full-on blaze.

“Have you thought about my proposition anymore?” he asks, voice low.

“I don’t like lying,” I whisper.

His face inches closer to mine. If anyone was to walk into the kitchen at this exact moment they’d have no idea what to think of this spectacle.

“Me either.” His dark eyes drop to my lips, causing every molecule of oxygen to be sucked from my lungs. Is my childhood foe thinking about kissing me?

While the idea should disgust me, I’m shocked to find a part of myself wanting him to. Holding my breath as I wait for him to lean in and close the distance. But he pushes off the counter with a sigh instead. “I also hate knowing that he’s going to leave this earth worried about the fact that I may end up alone.”

“I’m sure that’s the last thing he’s worried about.”

“Just ten minutes ago, he told me the thing that makes him the saddest about dying is not being able to see my future wife and children. Missing out on what lies ahead.”

My heart breaks all over again at his words. At Mick’s sadness about missing out. At Ben’s worry of not being able to satisfy his grandfather’s concern during his final days.

I jump off the counter, and adjust the hemline of my dress. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

His head jerks up, surprised. “You will?”

“Yes. But don’t make it awkward. No kissing. Of course, no sex, even though I’m sure I don’t need to specify that.”

He grimaces. “Pretty sure there’s a slight chance we might need to kiss in order for them to buy it. How about no tongue though?”

“Fine. No tongue. Lastly, promise not to fall in love with me.”

“Only if you promise the same back.”

“There’s not a chance in hell that’d ever happen,” I scoff.

To seal the deal, he extends his hand. I take it firmly, locking eyes with him, pretending I’m completely unaffected—despite the electric jolt that surges through me the moment our skin connects.

As our parents’ voices grow closer, he whispers, “I’ll make an announcement tonight.”

I jump at him, grabbing his corded forearm as he begins to walk away. “Wait. No. Not tonight. We need to hash out the details first.”

But right as I’m clinging to his body for dear life, our families walk in. Dante pushes Mick in his wheelchair and settles him at the kitchen table. It looks like I’m hugging Ben’s arm to my chest, and everyone immediately notices. They exchange wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow glances, silently wondering what the hell this is all about.

Fuck it. There’s no good time to pull the trigger, so might as well be now. I relax into him, pushing my body into his side. He looks down at me, those dark eyes impressed by my sudden acting skills.

Clearing his throat, he says, “We need to tell you all something.”

I paste a tight smile on my face, and squeeze the living hell out of his arm, hoping it’s a little painful for what he’s putting me through right now.

“We’re dating,” he announces.

Assuming it’s a joke, our parents roar with laughter—even going as far as to slap each other’s backs like we’ve just told an excellent punchline to a joke. Ben and I stand there, still touching while watching them, unsure of what our next step should be since no one clearly buys this poorly thrown together charade.

Snaking my arms around his waist, I put on my best convincing lawyer voice, and confirm everything. “As unlikely as it may seem, it’s true. We’re together.”

The entire room gets quiet as they begin to realize that perhaps we’re not joking. They finally take a moment to observe the way we’re touching. How we’ve gone from throwing words and fists to being all over each other.

Mick’s eyes light up. “Well, this wasn’t on my bingo death card. But I can’t lie…if this is true, then I’m ecstatic.”

“We didn’t see it coming either,” Ben replies.

Mom eyes us with cautious excitement. “When did all of this come about? Is that why you slept at his house the other night?”

“Layla slept at his house?” Brandy shouts with elation. “Maybe it is true after all.”

I grind my teeth. “Yep. That’s exactly why.” It definitely wasn’t because I fell asleep from jet lag while watching the world’s worst show.

“Have you two been talking for awhile or is this brand new?” Dante asks from beside his wife.

“We’ve been talking over the phone for a few months now. Last night we decided to make it official.” His gigantic arm wraps around my torso, his hand settling on the curve of my hip. From habit, my brain puts me on alert that he’s going to try and pull some prank. I tamp down the feeling, and focus on how touching him feels surprisingly not weird. It feels comfortable. And safe. Like I fit perfectly in the crook of his arm.

“Well, it makes sense. He did have a crush on you for the longest time, Layla. Everyone just assumed you wanted nothing to do with him though. Glad you proved us wrong after all.” Brandy winks at me, as Mom comes up from behind and rests a hand on her shoulder. They both look at each other and squeal like two girls in a puppy store.

Ben grows stiff again at his mother’s confession. When I look up at him, he doesn’t make eye contact, and a pink dusting rises on his face.

I can’t let this slide. This ammunition is too good. “Oh, you had a crush on me, huh? This is news to me. Very big news.”

“I told my mom you were cute once when she caught me staring. I was probably thirteen. I liked all girls at that age.”

Brandy interjects, “I’ve always seen the way you look at her. Like you want to kill her…with love.”

“Aw. Kill me with love. Isn’t that sweet, Benny?”

His fingers bunch the fabric of my dress as he pinches my waist. I yelp, as he leans to whisper in my ear, “Don’t call me that.”

“Or what?” I blink up at him, emoting a face of pure innocence.

Grabbing my hip hard, he crushes me against his body. “You don’t want to find out.”

It sounds like an ominous warning. One I want to challenge as I always do. But there’s an undertone to the threat that seems to fall on an unknown side of him. One that has the potential to shatter our current dynamic.

Mom and Brandy can’t stop beaming over at me squished into his side. I can’t hear exactly what they’re whispering about, but I hear bits and pieces of they can barely keep their hands off each other. And oh, to be young, and in love.

If only they knew, he was purposely smothering me for revenge, and I was digging my fingernails into the muscles of his abdomen. We can barely keep our hands off each other because we’re in the middle of an all-out war. One in which we would enjoy nothing more than to see the other’s downfall.

Throughout the night, we stay close together. Now that our seemingly together relationship status has been announced, it would seem out-of-place to be on separate sides of the house all night and not speak.

I hadn’t thought this far ahead, that I’d actually have to spend time with him. We are teamed up for the holiday themed trivia, and seated next to each other at dessert.

My idea of hell has been reconstructed to be an exact replica of this specific evening—pretending to be in love with my childhood rival, while being forced to participate in meaningless holiday activities.

Nothing, and I repeat nothing, could be worse.

What have I fucking gotten myself into?