Page 12 of What Hurts Us

My family was as close as they could possibly be. Some kids I grew up with would differentiate between their immediate and extended family, but for me, my entire family was immediate.

Second, third, and fourth cousins, aunts of aunts, random friends who had been around so long I just assumed we were related somehow—it didn’t matter. Gatherings were always loud and full of love. But there was little independence to be had when you were a fraction of a whole.

Guilt plagued me for months after I chose to live on campus in college. After I graduated, that guilt was amplified when I got an apartment with some friends rather than moving back home. My parents were less than thrilled when I started travel nursing but always had my bedroom ready when I wanted to come home for a visit.

“Be omide didâr,” I said as my aunt finished her spiel, having filled me in on all the local gossip. She was a leader in the local Ladies Auxiliary and had been rambling on about the committee meetings for some fundraiser coming up.

“Be salâmat,” she chirped. “Promise me, Layla joon. Don’t work yourself to death.” She clicked her tongue as if knowing I wouldn’t take her advice. “Make a life, not just a living.”

I laughed. “I will.” I trapped my phone between my ear and shoulder as I fiddled with the keys to my apartment.

It must have been my lucky day. The noisy neighbors weren’t home. Good thing tomorrow was garbage day. The neighbor’s trash cans were overflowing with empty jugs and cat litter bags. That was weird. Since I had moved in, I’d never heard a cat meowing or seen one sunning itself in the window. Then again, they had blackout curtains like I did.

I ran through my mental to-do list. I’d do a little tidying up, catch up on a show, meal prep, then hit the hay early before my shift started in the morning.

But my luck was short-lived. The moment I got my door open, my neighbors pulled up, gave me a wary look, and hustled inside. A cloud of something god-awful that smelled like ammonia and rotten urine wafted from their unit. It was more putrid than necrotic flesh. I cupped my hand over my mouth and hustled into my apartment.

I peeked through my curtains and caught a glimpse of them staring at my apartment before retreating into their unit and slamming the door shut.

5

LAYLA

The pit of despair in my stomach grew to exponential proportions as I navigated the tight curve that led to my parents’ house. I turned up the radio, letting Maren Morris drown out the incessant loop of questions I knew were going to be thrown at me.

You’re working too much. Why did you get that terrible apartment when you have a room here with us? You’re getting too much sun. You’re not eating enough. You should really look for a nine-to-five nursing job at a private practice. The long, stressful flight nursing shifts aren’t doing anything for the bags under your eyes.

Well-meaning as they were, the questions always erred two degrees shy of “settle down and get a husband.”

Not that my parents were any kind of old-fashioned. My mother was the primary breadwinner in our family and had never been a stay-at-home mom. Even the years before my brother and I had hit preschool age, we went with her to the office and used recycled first-draft legal briefs as coloring pages.

Still, they insisted that I needed a man to make an honest woman out of me. But at this point, I was done with men. I had sworn off all members of the penis-wielding variety.Maybe I’d give women a try.

Eh, boobs didn’t really do it for me, and I would miss non-silicone penetration… eventually.

I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, stealing a moment of silence before the well-intended smothering began. A latent notification on my phone caught my eye. That little red bubble was hard to ignore.

But ignore it, I tried, because I knew exactly what it was.

Ah, screw it.I was a glutton for punishment. I knew I’d obsess over it anyway. What was the point in delaying the inevitable? I swiped through, opening the app and staring at the post one of the nurses I used to work with in Beaufort had sent to me.

Chase wasn’t smiling in the photo. He wasn’t even looking at the camera. He was staring ather.

Part of me had always had a girl crush on Bridget. Not because I was into her, but because I wanted to be her. Hook-ups be damned, Chase had never been mine to have. Not when he never looked at me with even an ounce of the affection he had for her.

I was happy for them, I reminded myself. Things were falling into place for two people who really loved each other.

He didn’t love me, and I didn’t take offense to that. It was what it was.

Part of me wanted a man who would tell me to stay when it was selfish of him to do so. Toward the end of my situationship with Chase, I broke the news that I had officially earned my CFRN specialization and had started applying to flight nursing positions.

Part of me—a rather large portion—wanted Chase to tell me to apply to a crew close to Beaufort so we could keep seeing each other. Maybe he’d move on from the woman who was engaged to someone else.

But he didn’t. He was genuinely happy that I had passed the exam and was one step closer to the job I had always wanted. But instead of asking me to stay, he congratulated me and offered to help me pack.

I had been good enough to fall into bed with, but not good enough to ask me to stay. The intrusive thought stung.

I pocketed my phone and got out of the car, grabbing the pastry box out of the passenger’s seat.

---