Say What You Want

BAILEY

She should have told her best friend about her father's announcement, but it's so sudden that they're startled as well. After declining being the new owner of their own company, her best friend, Layla, is now laying on her couch.

  "You look like a mess," she whispered, although actually, she looks pretty despite being drunk.

She sadly smiles, remembering how brave her best friend is back at the Christmas party. Layla told her father, the owner of Amelia's Clothing Inc, that she didn't want to inherit it.

  "A beautiful, brave mess," she mutters.

She walks to the couch and reaches out, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

How she hopes she's as brave as her telling everything that she wants to say. Hoping she can pour her hearts out, just like that.

If only it's that easy to confess your feelings to your best friend; she heaved a sigh and sit beside her.

  "Layla?" she gently shook her shoulder. "Hey. Let's get you settled in the bed," she whispered. "You'll have your backache, and your neck, sprained if you don't."

She remembers how she would complain about the same things every morning, when she sleeps on the couch.

Her soft snores stop. "Mm-mmm," Layla groaned, swatting her hand. Instead of getting up, she buried her face, further on the couch.

  She chuckles.

  The phone in her pocket vibrates, that she quickly stands; afraid of waking her up. She leans on the wall, facing the couch.

  Her gadget nearly slips from her grasp when she saw Layla's father on the caller ID. Of course, he's worried; it's pass ten o'clock, and probably can't take a hold on his daughter. She wonders where Layla's phone is.

  Gulping, she places the phone on her ear; the cold mobile grazing her skin.

  "Mr. Guevarra?"

  "Bailey, is Layla with you?" Mr. Guevarra's husky voice said.

  She gazes at her friend, who's sleeping soundly. One of her hand dangling on the large couch.

  "Yes," she whispered, "She's drunk and sleeping on the couch. Don't worry, Mr. Guevarra, I'll look after her."

  She always did and will always will. Why wouldn't she, especially now?

  Sometimes she wants to tell Mr. Guevarra how Layla feels about their company, or how she loves painting that she even won an award. Or tell him -how she dearly loves his daughter. But no, she's such a coward. She rather spend time with her without her knowing what she feels than take risk and lose their friendship.

  Layla's father thanked her; relief prominent in his voice. Then he hung up.

  Walking on her tiptoes, she went to the bathroom and grabs a basin. She adds some warm water on it and carries it back to her living room; muffling her footsteps as much as she can. She places the basin on the floor, then wipes Layla's face and forearms; thankfully she didn't vomit; at least not yet.

  How Layla drank over three bottles of beer amazes her every time; she doesn't even like the taste, but since it's her she's drinking with, she grows fond of it; thankfully there's always some barbecue to lessen the bitterness.

  Thank God for barbecues.

  She's busily wiping a dirt off her forehead, when Layla's fingers pinch her cheek.

  "Mmm," she protested inaudibly; her icy fingers, not letting her face go.

  "Why aw you swill up, silly?" she asked groggily. Her eyes opens; but only a fraction.

  This time, it's her who swats her hand.

  "Why else do you think?"

  Without saying a word, Layla pulls her, her foot knocks the basin. The warm water spills on the floor.

  She cursed.

  "Do that 'morrow," her best friend said, hugging her.

  If Layla knew how she feels, perhaps she won't talk to her again.

  With that thought, she wriggles, trying to break free, but she hugs her tighter.

  "If you don't stop -I'll kiss you."

  She froze. Kiss? that will be the last thing she wants, or the first? She's not even sure herself. Being so close to her messes her mind.

  She thinks of an excuse.

  "Layla, you smell like, shit," she lied. Her best friend is one of the fragrant people that she knew. Whatever state she's in, she smells of roses and morning mildew.

  "You don't smell any better, silly," she retorted, gently hitting her forehead with her hand.

  "You didn't even brush your teeth," she adds. But truly, she doesn't care.

  Layla moves closer and breathes out on her; she reeks of alcohol, but she doesn't mind. She snuggles on her neck, her hot breath sending chills on her entire body. Soon, she feels the slow rise and fall of her chest; she's finally asleep.

  As much as she wants to adjust the air conditioning, she doesn't bother; she can't afford to wake her up. Perhaps sleep is all she needs -for now.

  She hugs her back, protecting her from the cold, and from expectations of the harsh world; hoping her warmth will be enough.

  "It will be all right," she whispered.

  It's not like Mr. Guevarra will disown her for not inheriting their company, is he? The concern in his voice earlier only proves that he cares too much for Layla to do that. And even in the slightest possibility that he disown her, she'll stay by Layla's side.

  With that thought, she fell asleep.

  She woke up in a smell of egg and bacon. Creasing her nose, she feels the slight throbbing in her head. She only had a few bottles last night, and yet the ache pesters her head.

  She groans.

  "Wake up, sunshine," Layla's voice echoes from the kitchen, just a few yards from the couch.

  She bolted upright, soon regretting it, as a fresh wave of dizziness clouded her vision. How can Layla be dead drunk one night and a ball of energy the next day is still a mystery to her.

  "Morning," she mutters. She looks down at her shirt, it's not her blouse last night. "Did you just threw up on me?" she asks teasingly. It's not the first is she did. It's like 20 versus Layla's 35 times, clearly in favor of her. She massages her throat that suddenly feels dry.

  "No, it's actually you who vomits last night," she said in a singsong voice.

  She looks at her wide-eyed, although her back is on her. Her black, shiny hair is up in a messy bun. She's wearing one of her shirts.

  Well, they don't lie to each other. She felt embarrassed.

  "Sorry," she whispered.

  She waves a dismissive hand and soon put eggs on two plates. Her delicate hands pours a juice from her fridge, and a coffee on her mug. She then wipes her hand on the towel on her tabletop.

  "Let's eat?" she asked, beaming.

  If she cried further thru the night, her eyes don't show it. Actually, she doesn't look like she cried at all.

  She hastily washed her face and brushed her teeth, then join her for breakfast.

  "Bacon? I thought I don't have any left in my fridge," she said thoughtfully.

  "No, I went to the grocery," she said, eating a mouthful of loaf bread.

  Layla always does that.

  Being an orphan she is, she hates depending on other people. But when she met Layla, it's as if she can lean on someone for the first time; and she hates the feeling -at first. Soon, as their friendship grows, her friend always looks after her. And despite her saying not to buy her anything; she always does until one day she gave up complaining. Because every time she does, Layla gives her twice more of everything.

  They eat in comfortable silence, enjoying the food. She let her finish her breakfast before mentioning that her father called.

  She don't look surprised, but she's not happy either. She knows how much she loves her father, but sometimes love itself is just too much to bear; or at least that's what she thought.

  "I'll go see him on the house," she said, staring at her now empty plate.

  She wants to hug her. Tell her she'll come with her for support if she wants to. She wants to tell her to lean on her if she needed strength. To ask her of anything, for she'll give it all to her without a second thought.

  "Yeah," she sighed. "I'm afraid I can't - accompany you," she said.

  Because despite all the things she wants to say, she has to keep her distance, in order to guard her already aching heart. "I have this design to finish," she half-lied.

  Layla touches her hand, but she retrieves it before she can savor the feeling of her delicate hand.

  "I'll be fine, I'm not an infant, you know," she smirks. But her usually twinkling eyes don't show any enthusiasm at all.

  She fiddles on her pocket, then pulls her car keys; handling it to her.

  "Use it. Take care of Lay, I'll be working here, anyway."

  She hesitated a moment before taking it. Her warm hand touches her cold one.

  "Of course, how can I not, we're basically twins!" she exclaimed.

  When Layla accidentally knew that she name her car after her, she laughs. Saying how much she must be obsessed with her and keep teasing her for an entire week. Thankfully, she doesn't mind and finally shrugs it off.

  Layla gets dressed in her room, borrowing some clothes, as she promised to wash her blouse again, and return it.

  Once she's on the doorway, she called her out.

  "Yes?" her best friend grins.

  I love you; she wants to say. It's moments like this that she wants to confess. For she's afraid, she won't see her again or for a long time. It reminded her of the last day that she said goodbye with her parents, before they die on a car crash.

  From then on, she vows to say what she really thinks and feels. But with Layla, it seems impossible.

  No one told her it's so hard to tell you love someone if you really meant it.

  She gulps, her finger plays with the hem of her shirt. She looks anywhere but her eyes.

  "Take care," she simply said.

  "You know I will," she retraces her footsteps and kisses her cheeks. "You, too, silly."

  Then, just like that, she's gone.

  Gone for real? She really hopes not. She can't lose her too! No, not Layla.

  She looks up, trying to fight the tears that threaten to fall on her cheeks, as the cab stop on the hospital curb.

  In the middle of the night, she receives a call that her car crashes. And that they bring the driver to the nearest hospital.

  It took all her strength not to faint and go to Layla. With shaking hands she contacted Mr. Guevarra, who's now in the hospital.

  She was on the elevator waiting for the red number to be on 8; and dreading any second of it. She felt cold tears on her cheeks.

  "Stop, it," she hissed at herself, wiping it. The people around don't pay her attention.

  As soon as the elevator opens, she runs to the room that Mr. Guevarra told her. She pushes it open, revealing Layla, dressed in a white hospital gown; a bandage wrapped tightly on her forehead.

  She heaved a sigh, clutching her chest. Beside Layla, Mr. Guevarra stood.

  She doesn't care if she appears rude, for she runs toward her best friend and crashes her with a hug.

  "I'm sorry," she said, and loosen her arms; but not letting her go. "I'm just. I told you to take care, didn't I?" she asked. 

  "I -" Layla said.

  She pulls away, looking at her state. Aside from her bandaged forehead, she wears a sling on her right arm. She suddenly feels guilty hugging her tight.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "I -I'm fine, thanks," she said, then looks at her father.

  Something doesn't feel right. She feels it on her chest, her heart beat seems to double its pace; and every beat assaulted her ears that the sounds muffled, and it's only her she can hear.

  "What is it?" she asked in a crooked voice.

  "I'm sorry but -" she looks at her shyly, her hazel eyes so innocent. She gazes at her as if she's seeing her for the first time. "Who -are you?"

  All these years, she didn't tell her how she feels; too afraid that if Layla knew she's in love with her, that their friendship will be gone.

  But sometimes, no matter how you tried, the world will crush you with things you're so afraid of; and you've got nothing to do but face your fears.

  This time, she let her tears flow freely on her cheeks, as Layla regarded her with concerned eyes. And this time, she will brave enough to tell her what she feels.

  She hugs her; gently.

  "Don't worry, love. I'll help you remember."