Chapter One

Three months earlier

“I'm lucky to have someone like you for a friend,” she said. “Someone who can still remember who I am when I'm so lost that I can't.”

He smiled back. “How could I forget you? I never could. Never, Layla.”

She adjusted the paper robe around her body, jumping slightly when she felt a hand pat her leg.

“The doctor will be here soon,” Lance said softly. “He'll make you feel better, okay?”

She nodded, closing her eyes when his hand brushed against her cheek to wipe away tears that had gathered there.

She was positive that her ribs were broken, just like her heart. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe...it hurt to think.

She had been lucky to get away from the house that night, she wouldn't lie. Lucas was such a light sleeper, she had to sneak out of the house as quietly as she possibly could in complete darkness. It had taken her about five minutes, stopping every time that a floorboard would squeak or the door would creak when she opened it. As it was, she had left the house with only the coat on her back – no clothes, no purse, no money...nothing.

They had waited at the hospital for two hours just to be taken back to triage and x-ray and it was already six in the morning. His alarm would be going off in fifteen minutes, and that's when he would notice that she was gone.

If he found her, she knew he would kill her.

“What time is it?” she asked him quietly.

He glanced at his watch. “6:07,” he said.

She closed her eyes, allowing more tears to slip out.

“Just a few more minutes, Lay,” he said.

“I don't have a few more minutes,” she said. “He'll be awake in eight. He's going to come looking for me. And Lance, he'll kill me.”

“Hey, remember that I told you that he has to get through me to get to you?” he asked.

She nodded slightly.

“Guess what? He's not getting through me or you. He's already awake. Police arrested him at his house thirty minutes ago.”

It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears, only because the movement of her torso would send piercing pain through her body.

“They're charging him with assault and battery,” he said. “He won't get a court date until at least Monday. He may not be in prison the rest of his life, but there's no way he's getting out tonight, Lay.”

“How?” she asked. “We didn't even go to the police station.”

“Remember when they took the pictures, right before we went down to have your x-rays? The hospital reported it. The police didn't even hesitate.”

In the chaos and worry and anxiety of everything that had happened that night, in addition to the distress of being in the hospital in the first place and the pain she was going through, she only vaguely remembered when the nurse asked Lance to leave the room. Layla had fought it; she wanted him there, because without him she was scared. But the nurse reassured her she would be fine and shooed him out quickly. She had been asked to strip down to nothing, and they had taken pictures of her injuries while she cried.

It wasn't just the abuse that she had suffered for almost three years, every single day. It wasn't the injuries she had sustained tonight. It was the whole process. Being beaten and bloodied; sitting in a hospital room with the other people surrounding her staring at her and Lance, as if he was the one who had done it to her; then being asked to strip down to her naked skin while they evaluated her with a fine-tooth comb.

The violation didn't stop because she got out of the house, or because Lucas got sent to jail for the weekend. It was ongoing.

“Lance...”

It was all she managed to get out of her mouth before her head collapsed onto his shoulder, dissolving into a mess of tears. He immediately wrapped his arm around her shoulder, combing a finger through her blonde ponytail that was falling out.

“Just a few more minutes, Lay,” he whispered, swallowing back his own emotions.

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“Have you ever taken this medication before?”

Lance hiked an eyebrow, wanting to ask the female pharmacy technician if she saw the name on the label and if he looked like a “Layla”.

“It's not for me,” he said. “It's for a friend.”

“Well, has your friend ever taken the medication before?” she asked.

He glanced down at the label – Percocet, 5mg.

“Uh...I have no idea,” Lance said. “Probably not.”

The lady went into a long list of side effects – but he zoned out after nausea and vomiting. It was ten in the morning; they had finally released Layla from the emergency room an hour ago. He had dropped her off at his house and came immediately to the nearest CVS to fill her prescriptions and get her a few necessities. She had chosen not to go back to the house immediately to get her things, feeling slightly more comfortable knowing she had a couple days to get her things in order before Lucas got a chance to bail himself out of jail. He hadn't slept all night.

By the time he walked in his front door, throwing his keys on his counter with a loud clang, his eyes were closing on their own.

“Oh God, what a night,” he said to himself, moving his aching neck around in a circle.

He sat the plastic bag filled with Tylenol and medical tape, along with other necessities like a toothbrush for her for the next few days, on the counter, picking the white paper prescription bag out of the bag.

“Lay,” he yelled softly. “Medicine's here.”

When he got no response but silence, he smiled.

“Passed out,” he said to himself.

His best friend had a trying day. She was such a sad sight to see, with the taped spots on her torso for her broken ribs to heal, the bandage over her eye, and the cleaned cut on her lip. It broke his heart. If Lucas wasn't already in jail, Lance would be there by now – because he would have killed Lucas himself.

He and Layla had been best friends for what felt like forever. It almost felt like they had been best friends since before they were born, even though their mothers told them it was only since they were about five. They had met in Sunday School, where both of their mothers taught, and their friendship had only been cemented when they were in the same class for kindergarten, first and second grade.

Their mothers had been friends long before that, and both of them were always amused by the relationship between Lance and Layla. Most times they were inseparable. Other times, they had fought like cats and dogs, blowing up at each other for one reason or another before stomping off in a childish manner and refusing to talk or play with each other. Usually it would last as long as it took for their mothers to sit at the kitchen table and have a cup of coffee before they were playing with each other again, like nothing had ever happened.

Lance was like a son to Layla's parents, even though Layla was an only child herself. Layla was like a second daughter to his own parents, Jim and Diane, and was sometimes around the house more than his real sister was, almost taking her place when Stacy reached the age that she was out with her friends having a social life all the time.

Distance had separated the two of them after he had gone off to be a pop star in NSYNC, even though they had kept in contact with each other. After she had gone off to fashion school, they talked less frequently. It only took a few years for contact to almost come to a screeching halt altogether.

But just three years ago, she had moved back to New York to be closer to him. And that was when Lucas had entered the picture.

He walked into his bedroom, stopping and leaning against the doorway with a smile. She had laid down in his bed, curled up into his blanket, and fallen asleep right there because of the strong painkillers the hospital had given her.

“Oh Lay,” he said to himself.

He walked over to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge next to her.

“Layla,” he whispered. He didn't dare touch her or shake her; her taped up ribs scared him. He had never been one to picture her as a porcelain doll, remembering the times she could hold her own in a shoulder-punching match against him – but the way he saw her today, she looked so delicate.

“Mmmmm?” she mumbled. Her voice was muffled and cloudy from the drugs.

“I got your medicine,” he said softly. “I'm gonna go take a nap on the couch if you need me.”

He stopped when she tightly grabbed his arm in her fist.

“Don't leave me,” she said. “Please.”

Even half-asleep and drugged, he could hear the fear in her voice. He had never seen her like this before; at the hospital, he could hardly let her out of his sight before she was asking for him. She would wring her hands together even as they shook, hugging her arms into her body.

“I'll stay with you, Layla,” he said.

He stood off the bed and walked to the other side, removing his shoes before laying down in the space next to her. She barely let him get comfortable before she turned her body, wrapping an arm around his torso.

“Just don't leave me,” she said tiredly.

He caught the scent of her shampoo as she snuggled her face into the crook of his shoulder, and closed his eyes, savoring the smell of fresh lavender.

There was only one thing that he had ever kept a secret from his best friend in the entire world – he was unconditionally, undeniably, and irrevocably in love with her.

He had been ever since they were kids. It started out as a crush, of course when they were little. He always heard that when little boys and girls 'liked' each other, they showed it by being mean and bullying each other. If that were true, he and Layla fit the bill.

As close as they were, as inseparable as they were, it seemed like they were always fighting. When they were little, they would scream at each other, pick on each other, and even push each other down. When they were teenagers, it progressed into calling each other names and refusing to talk to each other. But now they had grown up, and he wondered...

He still felt the same way. But did she?

Did she ever feel that way about him? If she did, he wondered why she never said anything to him. Was she scared that she would lose him as a friend? Or afraid that he didn't feel that way about her? All of those were reasons he hadn't told her...plus one.

When she moved to New York to be closer to him, he thought he had a second chance. The day he had picked her up at the airport, he saw all the possibilities ahead of him – what could happen if he told her, what they could be if she felt the same way. He didn't want to rush into anything, though. He wanted to give her a chance to get settled into New York and her new life before he hit her with something as big as this.

But two weeks into her new life in New York, she met Lucas. And here he was, three years later. He hadn't changed that much, and neither had his feelings. But she had, and now she wasn't the same woman he used to know. On the outside, yes; on the inside, definitely not.

Time – maybe – would be the only thing that would heal her enough to open up to him on the level he wanted her to.

“I'll be right here,” he whispered to her, even though he was certain she was already fast asleep again from the drugs.

He was prepared to give her as much time as she needed.

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Layla pulled the front of the robe closed against her, holding her steamy, warm mug against both of her hands. It wasn't necessarily all that cold outside – after all, it was only mid-September – but the warmth of Lance's fuzzy robe and the heat coming from the mug felt good.

She stared out in his backyard, looking at the reflection of the moon and stars against his pool. He was still asleep when she left the bed. He had only mumbled as she pulled herself away from him. She couldn't stand laying down anymore. She knew the doctor had ordered her to take it easy and lay as much on her injured rib as she possibly could to reduce her risk of developing pneumonia, but eventually it had become so painful to lay on it and take deep breaths that pain prevented her from sleeping any longer.

The Percocets may have helped the physical pain, but they did nothing to touch the emotional pain. As much as she had tried to push it aside and tell herself that this was for the best...she missed him.

It was sick. It was disgusting. The thought of missing a man like that made her sick to her stomach. But her heart couldn't help feeling what it felt.

The problem with being in love with an abusive person was that she fell in love before the abuse ever started. And the problem with love was that once you fell in love, you couldn't simply fall out of it.

She couldn't help but think of one of her favorite verses from the Bible, Corinthians 13:4-7. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered.

Thinking about it, and going over every part of that verse in her head, none of it seemed to describe the love between her and Lucas. Their love was never patient or kind. Their love was full of constant envy, pride, jealousy, and boastfulness. The constant beatings were obviously a dishonor to her as a woman and a girlfriend. Lucas was always self-seeking. And clearly, he was very easily angered.

But there was one part of that verse that she couldn't get past – it keeps no record of wrongs.

She believed in the Bible, and she believed every part of Corinthians. And it was so hard to push that one out of her mind. As a child raised in the South, she was taught that everybody deserved forgiveness. Going through what she had gone through, she wasn't sure anymore.

Did that include Lucas? How was she ever supposed to forgive him?

She jumped when she heard the patio door open quickly.

“So that's where my robe went,” Lance said as he leaned against the frame, pointing the beer in his hand towards her, a smile on his face.

She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” he said. “Though it is a tad big for you.”

“That's what I like about it,” she said, snuggling into the robe further. “And it smells like you. It's like getting a big, fuzzy, constant hug from you.”

“I hope that's a good thing,” he said as he stepped down onto the concrete stairs, shutting the mesh screen door behind him. “How're you not passed out cold?”

“You can only sleep so long before your body can't take sleeping anymore,” she said.

“So you're out here, staring into nowhere,” he said. “Because I assume to a degree that's less boring?”

“I was thinking,” she said.

“It's just as comfortable to think about Lucas in bed, you know.”

She looked over at him. “You don't know I was thinking about Lucas.”

“I've known you since we were five years old,” he said. “After the day you've had – we've both had – if you weren't thinking about Lucas, I'd be worrying about you.”

She watched him pull from his beer. “I'm a horrible person.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I show up on your doorstep at two in the morning bleeding on your carpet – and you take me to the hospital, call the police for me, put me up for the night, go to the store to get my medicine, loan me your robe, do everything for me...and here I am thinking about how much I miss Lucas. That's so not fair to you, Lance.”

He looked away from her, twirling a finger around the top of his bottle. On one hand, he understood. On the other, he couldn't deny that it hurt him.

“It doesn't make you a horrible person,” he said. “It's natural, Lay. You didn't spend an hour with the man – you spent three years with him. He's been a part of your every day life for three years, and now...he's not. You gotta adjust. You don't just change overnight.”

“I don't think I can hold it against him,” she said.

“Wait,” he said. “What do you mean, 'hold it against him'?”

“The Bible,” she said. “Corinthians 13. Love keeps no record of wrongs. What he did was what he did. What he did was what he will have to be held accountable for. But what kind of Christian would I be if I said he was wrong and held it against him for the rest of my life?”

“Wow, Lay,” Lance said, chuckling slightly. “Um...I think when God said that, he didn't mean it quite the way you're interpreting it.”

“How will I ever hate him?” she asked. “I'm smart enough to know that I should. But I don't.”

“Layla, I'm not a psychologist,” he said, leaning forward in his patio chair. “I guess if I was, my life would be a lot easier...but my guess is that, it's like grief. There's stages, you know? You're in denial right now. It hasn't really sunk in that it happened, and it hasn't sunk in that it's over. You don't really know what to do. You don't have to go back to that ever again. You don't have to forgive him for what he did – I don't think God will hold that against you. And you don't have to hate him either. The important part is that you realize that what he did to you was wrong and that you never put yourself in that position again.”

“Yeah,” she said. She sighed, pushing herself up out of the chair, wincing at the pain in her rib. “It hurts again, so I'm going to take a pill and go back to bed. Night, Lance.”

He watched her walk away from him, pushing the screen door open and closing it behind her, disappearing into the darkness of his house. He bit his lip as he turned back, looking at the night reflection in his pool.