The sound of the impact, the sickening crunch of Jade's fist meeting Liam's nose, stayed in Layla's ears long after the screaming stopped. Liam fell back, clutching his face, blood blooming between his fingers like ink in water. But Jade didn't stop; he was a blur of shadows and rage, leaning in for another blow before Layla threw herself between them.
"Stop it! Both of you, stop!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the park's empty benches. She shoved Jade back with a strength she didn't know she possessed, her chest heaving.
Jade stood there, his knuckles split and his breathing ragged, looking like a stray dog caught in the headlights. Liam was on the ground, a split lip swelling fast and blood dripping onto his pristine shirt. The "Golden Boy" and the "Rebel" were both reduced to a mess of bruises and broken pride.
"Get up," Layla commanded, her voice cold and trembling. "Follow me. Now."
The walk back to the house was silent and suffocating. Layla marched ahead, her back rigid, while the two rivals trailed behind her like shamed children. Inside, the house was fortunately still empty, the air smelling of the vanilla candles her mother loved, a sharp contrast to the metallic scent of blood.
She moved with clinical efficiency, snapping two ice packs from the freezer and slamming them onto the kitchen table. "Sit."
Jade and Liam sat opposite each other, the table acting as a makeshift border. Jade winced as he pressed the ice to his knuckles, while Liam gingerly held his pack to his crooked, swelling nose.
Jade was the first to break. He looked at Layla, the fire in his eyes replaced by a deep, aching regret. "Layla... I'm sorry. For the way I spoke to you. For hitting him. I just... I saw him holding your hand and I lost it. It was stupid."
Liam didn't even look at him. He stared at the salt shaker, his jaw set in a hard line.
"You're right, Jade," Layla said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low level. "It was stupid. But it was more than that."
She stood at the head of the table, looking down at both of them. "This isn't a competition. I am not some flipping prize that one of you gets to win after beating each other to death. You both clearly don't deserve me if you don't respect me enough to behave like two grown gentlemen."
She pointed a finger directly at Jade. "You. You didn't think to mention you dated his sister? That you were her 'first love '? You let me walk into that friendship blind."
She pivoted to Liam. "And you. You disappear each time without a word, leaving me to wonder if I did something wrong, and then you come back thinking things would just pick up from where they left? It doesn't work like that, amigo."
Finally, she turned back to Jade, her eyes flashing. "And you? The next time you make a comment about me being 'scraps' or 'moving on to the next guy', whether it's in my face or behind my back, I will donmore than hitting you. Do you understand me?"
A bizarre thing happened then. Amidst the blood, the ice, and the ruins of the evening, Jade caught Liam's eye. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Jade's mouth. Liam let out a huff through his nose that sounded dangerously like a laugh. They looked at her like she'd finally lost her mind, but there was a flicker of genuine respect in that shared look.
"Fix your mess," Layla snapped, ignoring their smiles. "Separately. Individually. Don't speak to me until you've figured out how to be men instead of boys."
After she kicked them out, the house felt too large. Layla retreated to her room, her hands finally starting to shake. She ignored the frantic buzzing of her phone.
It was Sarah.
Word traveled fast. Liam must have made it home, and Sarah had clearly seen the state of him. Layla stared at the name on the screen. She knew what Sarah wanted. She wanted to vent, to cry, and to tell Layla once again to stay away from the "monster" that was Jade.
But Layla didn't want to hear it. She wasn't just angry that Sarah had kept the secret; she was frustrated by the realization that Sarah was still in love with him. Every warning, every "be careful," wasn't just for Layla's safety, it was the residue of a heart that hadn't moved on.
Layla rolled onto her side, looking at the flyer for the Thailand trip pinned to her corkboard. She had feelings for Jade now, real, complicated, messy feelings that couldn't be deleted like a line of bad code. She didn't want to back down. She didn't want to yield the floor just because Sarah got there first years ago.
For the first time since moving to Quebec, Layla wasn't trying to fit into their story. She was starting a new one. And if she had to be the "crazy girl" who slapped a boy and threatened to kill the other just to get some respect, then so be it.
The front door creaked open just as Layla finished wiping a stray drop of Liam's blood off the linoleum. She froze, the damp paper towel balled up in her fist, as her mother walked in, balancing a grocery bag and her work tote.
"Layla? You're home early," her mother said, kicking off her shoes. She walked into the kitchen and stopped short, her eyes landing on the two discarded ice packs sitting in a pool of condensation on the counter. "What happened here? Are you hurt?"
Layla felt her heart skip a beat. How could she explain that the two most prominent boys in her life had just turned her kitchen into an infirmary? How could she tell her mother, who valued discipline and focus above all else, that she was the center of a street brawl?
"Oh, no, I'm fine, Maman," Layla said, her voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline still humming in her veins. She quickly tossed the paper towel into the trash. "Sarah was over. We were... we were just being clumsy. We were trying to move that heavy box of books in my room and she banged her knee pretty hard. I gave her the ice packs before she headed home."
Her mother narrowed her eyes, surveying the kitchen. For a second, Layla feared she'd spot a stray button from Liam's shirt or the lingering scent of Jade's leather jacket. But her mother just sighed, setting the groceries down.
"You girls need to be more careful. You have a long flight in a few months; I don't need you going to Thailand on crutches." She began pulling out vegetables, her mind already shifting to the evening's logistics. "Speaking of which, how is the Tim Hortons shift going? Did you check your hours for next week?"
"It's going well," Layla said, leaning against the counter to hide the slight tremor in her hands. "The manager says I'm picking it up fast. My first paycheck should be coming in next Friday. It's... it's going to be a big help for the savings."
"Good," her mother nodded, a rare flash of pride softening her features. "Independence is the only thing no one can take away from you, Layla. Stay focused on that. The boys, the drama at school, it's all noise. The only thing that matters is where you're going."
Layla nodded, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Her mother was right, independence was the goal. But as she looked out the kitchen window at the dark driveway next door, she realized that the "noise" was becoming a symphony she couldn't stop listening to. She was successfully lying to her mother, ignoring her best friend, and holding two rivals at arm's length.
She was playing a dangerous game with the variables of her life, and for the first time, she wasn't sure if the final result would be a ticket to Thailand or a total system crash.