Free Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) by Crystal Cierlak Page A

one side, giving him free access to my neck. In a moment he’s secured the chain and clasp and his lips are placing a chaste kiss just beneath my ear.
    I open the locket again and stare down into our faces. You wouldn’t know from the first photo that our marriage was not as strong in love as it could have been. But with Tyler we were always connected, and love was clearly evident in our faces in that moment.
    “If I remember correctly,” Nick is saying from behind me, “the minute after we took that photo we realized he had defacated something fierce into his diaper.”
    The spell is broken and we are both laughing in hysterics. Nick has placed his hands on my shoulders and pulled me close to him until I’m leaning against his chest. He’s so warm and the night has turned so chilly, the breeze coming in off the Pacific adding a particularly icy bite.
    “Cold?” he asks. I nod and wrap my arms around my chest, Tiffany box and bow still in hand. He picks up the bottle of champagne and angles his jaw in the direction of the elevator. This time when we board we’re talking and the tone is light. We’ve finally broken free of that wall and all that it kept us from.
    As we walk down the hallway Nick shares the singularly hysterical (to him at least) story of the look on my face the first time I opened Tyler’s diaper to find one of his diabolical expulsions.
    “It was not that bad!” I laugh as the key unlocks my suite.
    “What wasn’t? The shit or your face?”
    “No, the shit was awful but I handled it with as much dignity as anyone could! Unlike some people...”
    “Oh come on that was one poopy joke and I made it count.” I shut the door behind him and set my purse and the Tiffany box down on the desk. “Jesus Christ, Lay, what happened in here?”
    I grimace at the sight of my room. Bags upon bags upon bags of shopping have exploded in concentrated piles around the room.
    “I didn’t have time to put things away when I returned,” I say regretfully, laughing at the sight. It’s not unlike what my bedroom looked like as a teenager. All that’s missing is a few posters of a popular boy band.
    “Things like this?” He’s got a Victoria’s Secret bra hanging by one strap from his index finger and a shit-eating grin on his face. I snag it away from him and tuck it back into the enormous shopping bag.
    “Yes, things like that,” I chuckle.
    “This is what you did all afternoon?”
    “Among other things,” I reply defensively, reaching for two cups to pour champagne into.
    “This is bringing back memories of when we were young and wealthy and married.”
    “To being young and wealthy,” I cheer as I offer him a cup of Cristal. We clink them together and sip and both realize at the same time that one is not like the other.
    “To divorce,” he offers a secondary cheer as a joke, but it falls somewhat flat.
    “Thirty years old and twice divorced from the same person is more like it,” I utter beneath my breath before taking another generous sip.
    “Well, to being wealthy then,” and he takes another sip.
    “I’m sure it’s written down somewhere that toasting to our wealth is in considerable bad taste,” I playfully admonish him.
    “Who cares? I like having money,” he smiles charmingly at me. “I think you do, too,” he says and takes another deliberate glance around the room.
    “If it bothers you we could always go to your room,” I joke.
    He smiles generously at me and puts his cup back down on the desk. “It’s getting late.”
    It’s like the jokes and laughter have disappeared from the room completely.
    “You’re leaving?” I ask, and I can’t help the obvious disappointment in my voice.
    His brows have furrowed again and there’s an almost pained expression crinkled in his eyes and nose. “Do you want me to stay?”
    Suddenly things have gotten real. I take a healthy sip of Cristal and turn to place it on the desk, buying myself some time. I run a hand through my hair,