Page 2 of My Only

His silhouette made me straighten in my chair. Even in the dimly lit kitchen, I could tell his appearance was disheveled. When he flicked on the kitchen light, my heart sank the moment our eyes met.

“Oh, shit!” He slapped a hand to his chest. “Baby?” He chuckled nervously. “Damn. I ain’t even know you were in here.”

I said nothing. Still too busy analyzing his appearance.

His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone and slightly wrinkled. His sleeves were rolled all the way up to his forearms—something he only did when he was home and trying to relax before getting undressed.

I squinted as I continued assessing him. And the longer I observed, the angrier I got.

He froze in front of me, the forced smile on his lips disappearing. His eyes darted along my face.

The guilt in his hazel-green eyes was so evident I could touch it.

“Baby,” he started, his tone soft, almost apologetic. “Why you just sitting there all quiet?”

I said nothing.

I couldn’t move my tongue from the roof of my mouth long enough to speak. The disheveled clothing, the late arrival home, his tone, his body language… I felt myself short-circuiting.

For the past year, there were so many nights I’d stayed up waiting for him—watching the clock, listening for the door—before finally giving up and just going to bed.

It started with him coming home late once. Then it became twice a week. Eventually, it was an every-night thing. Sometimes, I only knew he had returned when he caressed my skin in the middle of the night, waking me from sleep. If not for that, I would’ve thought he never made it home at all.

And I always gave Hassani the benefit of the doubt. Always assumed he was just working late. The Greene Gardens Project was massive, so I figured work was keeping him away.

Tonight, though?

Shit just felt… different.

“Ayla,” he said. “Why are you still up?—”

“Where were you?” I interjected. My voice was hoarse and heavy. I almost didn’t recognize it.

He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it. All I got from him was a hard swallow.

I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping me. I exhaled every ounce of air in my lungs, not wanting to ask my next question but knowing I had to.

“Were you out with Harper, Hassani?”

He shut his eyes and sighed. “Ayla?—”

“Yes or no,” I spoke over him, my chest rising and falling so fast the influx of air made me lightheaded.

“I was,” he admitted. “But then my?—”

“God.” I exhaled sharply. After a brief pause, I said, “Hassani, I can’t do this shit anymore.”

I shook my head slowly. The moment the words left my lips, I felt the sting in my nose, the welling of tears in my eyes.

“I can’t do this, and I don’t want to.”

“Ayla—”

“Every fucking night since you started this project, Hassani, has been hell for me.”

He closed his eyes and dropped his head forward.

“This woman you’re working with… hmph.” I laughed bitterly once more but inhaled a deep breath after, one that ached in my chest. “She is up to something, and I’m tired of telling you about her. Tired of you making excuses. Tired of you making me feel like I’m acting crazy. And yet, here you are, walking into this house at this hour, telling me you were out with her.”

---