Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) Read Free Page B

it is and quickly change for bed. It’s only as I’m crawling under the sheets that I realize my cheeks are hurting from smiling too much. It’s a nice feeling.

Chapter Two
     
    Just as I’ve exited the 405 a new text pops up on the dashboard screen my phone is connected to. I pull up to a red light and glance at it.
     
    We’ve just landed. Meet you outside Terminal 3. Don’t worry about coming in - we’ll find you! -Mom
     
    The light turns green as I dismiss the text and I continue winding through the streets towards LAX. I am hyper alert from the venti white mocha from Starbucks I grabbed before jumping on the 101, a necessity after having to wake up extra early to make the trek down to the airport. I went to bed entirely too late. But a part of me thinks it was worth it. Dinner with Eric Jacobson (not Clapton) was nice. Even nicer after a few hours of deep sleep thanks to the wine. It was the first date - however unofficial - since I turned 20, and it wasn’t bad at all. It was nice to smile for a change.
    Terminal 3 is a slow eruption of people and their luggage and I manage to snag a spot along the curb behind a black Range Rover nearly identical to mine just as another car pulls out. Just as I’ve set the parking break I notice a commotion beyond the automatic doors inside the terminal. Men with cameras. A lot of men with cameras.
    I let a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding and divert my attention. Paparazzi at the airport is nothing new or unexpected. In fact, there was a time I was downright used to their presence. Maybe it’s a good thing mom suggested I stay in the car.
    I see mom and dad sneaking out through the automatic doors with a cart full of luggage and pop the trunk open from the key fob button. I move to open my door to get out to help when I notice dad holding his hand out.
    “S’okay, kiddo. I’ll get it,” he yells out to me. He makes his way to the trunk whilst mom opens the passenger door and climbs in. She’s wearing a Burberry coat with sunglasses and her cheeks are flushed pink.
    “Mom, you look like a spy.”
    “Oh!” she laughs jovially as she sets her purse down at her feet. “You like my coat? I tried talking your father into one and he flat-out refused. Picked something out for you though!”
    I grin at the image of my dad wearing the coat. I crane my head back and see he’s placing the luggage in almost haphazardly. Is he rushing? We’re not in that big of a hurry.
    “Why doesn’t he want my help?” I ask mom.
    “Oh you know, man stuff. He’s eager to be closer to home.” But as she says it she’s looking around, as though if for someone in particular. I look up at the automatic doors and see the photographers clamoring together, following an unseen subject into the early morning LA air.
    I hear the trunk close and see dad rushing the cart to the curb, carelessly abandoning it between two groups of travelers, and run back towards the car. He gets in with a flourish and is snapping in his seat belt in record time.
    “Okay I’m in. Drive.”
    I turn around to glance at him and he looks up at me like he’s not behaving strangely. “Hi Dad. Nice flight?”
    “Adequate,” he answers as if briefly contemplating the best answer. “Shall we go?”
    “Why are you guys in such a rush?” I look from him to my mom. She’s got her hand on her sunglasses and her attention is stuck on something. I follow her line of sight to the commotion of paparazzi. They are in a frenzy, practically surrounding the poor man and snapping pictures of him with near-blinding flashes of light.
    “Go, Lala!” Dad urges me from the back. I start the engine and shift into gear unseeing, my brain still trying to figure out what my eyes are stuck trying to figure out.
    A camera flashes in my direction, momentarily lighting up the terminal beneath the dark concrete canopy above us. A second erupts half a moment later, followed by a third, a fourth, and pretty soon the photographers