Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

“Where’s he?” Is there another model running around here? Because that’s the kind of scenery I’d enjoy way more than the rose bushes. From a distance, of course. “Who?” I asked. “Your man.” Caught off guard by his blunt and presumptuous question, a pang hit my chest. It knocked the air from my lungs and the sense from my head. I didn’t stop to think before saying, “It’s… I… He’s… gone.” As soon as the words left my mouth like water rushing past a broken dam, regret followed. It was stupid. I was stupid. Not just because of the unintentional show of emotion that suddenly clogged my throat. But also because of how careless my admission had been. It wasn’t that he was a wall of muscles. His visible tattoos didn’t make me jump to conclusions. It was that he was a… well, a he. A giant stranger, and I’d just blabbed that I was completely alone. That no one would notice me missing. I have no sense of self-preservation. I’m a walking true-crime podcast in the making. I opened my mouth to lie and say someone was just getting lunch, but my missing verbal dam suddenly decided to repair itself. I couldn’t push the words out. It didn’t matter anyway. There was no malice on the wall’s expression as it softened in sympathy. The way he looked at me was almost worse than if he’d been evil or skeevy. Not really, but it didn’t feel great. His voice was even gentler than the look on his face. “Go sit down, Mama.”