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“You could have.”
“Was I?”
Silence.
My heart sinks.
There it is.
“Was I your girlfriend, Mitchell?”
“Layla, what we have is more complicated than some fucking label.”
“Of course it is.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I texted you.”
“What?”
“I texted you last night.”
He goes quiet.
“I asked if you were coming back. You didn't answer.”
“I was tied up with work.”
“I know. You're Mitchell Knight. You're always tied up with something.”
“That doesn't mean I was ignoring you.”
“But how was I supposed to know that?”
I swallow.
“I waited.”
The admission humiliates me more than it should.
“I sat there like an idiot and waited for you. And you didn't answer.”
“Fuck.”
“So, eventually I looked around and realized I didn't know what the hell I was doing. After what Myrna said, I felt stupid just assuming I could go to your house.”
“Layla—”
“No. Really. You didn’t answer. What was I supposed to think?”
My voice gets quieter.
“I mean, what’s been happening really? We have sex. I sleep in your bed. You kiss me in front of people. You call me Firecracker and hold my hand and make me feel like—”
I stop.
Like I'm yours.
