Chapter 6: The Boutique on Rodeo Drive
The boutique smelled like money and bergamot, which was a combination Layla had never encountered before and hoped never to encounter again.
She stood in front of a rack of silk pajamas that cost more than her first month's rent had, back when she and Omar shared that studio apartment with the radiator that screamed like a dying animal every time the heat kicked on. The pajamas were the color of champagne, which felt ridiculous. Who wore champagne-colored pajamas? Who looked at their bedroom and thought, yes, I need to match the beverages.
"These are our best sellers," the personal shopper said, materializing at Layla's elbow like a ghost who worked on commission. "The silk is mulberry. Hand-washed in France."
Layla touched the fabric. It was soft. She'd give it that.
"Hand-washed in France," she repeated.
"By artisans."
"Of course."
The shopper's smile didn't waver. She was probably used to skeptics—women who wandered in off the street with their Target leggings and their confused expressions, women who didn't belong in a place where the air itself felt expensive.
Layla didn't belong here. But Omar had insisted.
She glanced over her shoulder. He was standing by the fitting rooms with his arms full—three robes draped over one arm, a heated blanket tucked under the other, a silk eye mask dangling from his fingers like he'd grabbed it on impulse and wasn't sure what to do with it now.
He caught her looking and raised an eyebrow.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You're giving me a look."
"I'm not giving you a look."
"You're giving me the look you give me when you think I'm being ridiculous."
Layla turned back to the rack. "I'm not thinking you're ridiculous."
"You're thinking it loudly."
The personal shopper cleared her throat. "Would you like to see our cashmere collection? It's just arrived from Italy."
Layla's fingers found a set of grey cotton pajamas tucked at the end of the rack. Plain. Soft. Unremarkable. She pulled them out and held them up.
"These," she said.
The shopper's smile flickered, just for a second. "Those are our basics line. Very comfortable for lounging, but perhaps not quite—"
"These are perfect."
"Layla." Omar's voice came from behind her, warm and exasperated. "Those are twenty dollars."
"So?"
"So you're about to have surgery. You're going to be in bed for two weeks. You need the good stuff."
"I don't need the good stuff. I need something soft that won't make me feel like I'm wearing a costume."
He stepped closer. She could feel the heat of him against her back, the familiar weight of his presence. Five years, and he still made her aware of every inch of space between them.
"The good stuff is soft," he said.
"The good stuff costs three hundred dollars."
"The good stuff is worth three hundred dollars."
"The good stuff is a scam."
"The good stuff—" He stopped. Took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "The good stuff is what you deserve."
She turned to face him. He was still holding the robes, the blanket, the eye mask she definitely hadn't asked for.
"You're being ridiculous," she said.
"And you're being stubborn."
"I'm always stubborn."
"Which is one of the many things I love about you."
She snorted. "Nice try."
"It wasn't a try. It was a statement of fact."
"You think flattery is going to work?"
"I think flattery works about forty percent of the time. I'm playing the odds."
The personal shopper was watching them like they were a tennis match. Layla ignored her.
"I don't need a heated blanket," she said.
"You almost died in a hospital hallway five years ago from internal bleeding your parents never bothered to check on."
The words landed like a slap.
Layla's mouth opened. Closed.
Omar's expression didn't change. He wasn't trying to hurt her. He was just stating facts. The same facts he'd been carrying for five years, the same facts that woke him up in the middle of the night with his hand reaching for her, checking to make sure she was still breathing.
"If I want to buy you a heated blanket," he continued, "I'm buying you the heated blanket."
She stared at him.
The memory came anyway—uninvited, unwanted. The hospital hallway. The cold floor. The way her vision had gone spotty and grey at the edges. The blood she hadn't realized was pooling inside her until it was almost too late.
Two days after her father's boot cracked against her ribs.
Two days of walking around with a cracked rib and internal bleeding because she didn't know how bad it was. Two days of smiling through the pain because she was eighteen and invincible and too proud to admit she needed help.
She'd collapsed in the ER waiting room while Omar was filling out paperwork.
The doctors said if she'd waited another hour, she might not have made it.
Her parents never called.
They never checked on her. Never asked if she was okay. Never sent a text or an email or a letter or a goddamn carrier pigeon. Five years, and the silence was still louder than anything they'd ever said to her face.
Layla blinked. The boutique came back into focus.
"Fine," she said.
Omar's eyebrows lifted. "Fine?"
"Fine. Buy the blanket. Buy the robes. Buy the eye mask I didn't ask for."
"I knew you'd see reason."
"I'm not seeing reason. I'm seeing that arguing with you is exhausting."
"Same thing."
"It really isn't."
He grinned. The same grin from that night at the family gathering, ten years ago, when she'd pushed him playfully and he'd pulled her flush against him without thinking. The same grin that had made her stomach flip and her brain short-circuit.
She hated that grin.
She loved that grin.
She loved him.
The realization wasn't new. She'd known it for years. But sometimes it still hit her sideways, like a wave she hadn't seen coming. The fact that this man—this stubborn, ridiculous, patient man—had walked out of his own family's house with her that night and never once looked back.
She turned away before he could see the tears prickling at her eyes.
"The pajamas," she said to the shopper. "The grey ones. I'll take those too."
The shopper nodded and disappeared toward the register.
Omar stepped up beside her. His arm brushed hers.
"You okay?" he asked."Fine."
"Layla."
"I said I'm fine."
He didn't push. He never pushed. That was one of the things she loved most about him—the way he knew when to hold on and when to let go.
They walked to the register together. The shopper rang up the items one by one—the robes, the blanket, the eye mask, the grey pajamas. The total came to more than Layla wanted to think about.
Omar handed over his card without flinching.
"Stocking up for something special?" the cashier asked. She was young, probably twenty-two, with bright eyes and a friendly smile that hadn't yet been worn down by retail.
Omar glanced at Layla. Then back at the cashier.
"My wife is getting her body back," he said.
The words hung in the air.
Layla's throat tightened.
"Her body back?" the cashier repeated.
"She had a surgery. A few years ago. It saved her life, but it also—" He paused. Chose his words carefully. "It took some things from her. Things she's been working to reclaim."
The cashier nodded like she understood. She didn't. She couldn't.
Layla turned away.
She stared at a display of perfumes near the door, her vision blurring at the edges. Her body. Her stupid, traitorous body that had almost given out on her. Her body that had carried scars and pain and the weight of everything her parents had done to her. Her body that Omar had touched and kissed and worshipped like it was something sacred.
"Layla." His voice was soft. Close.
She didn't turn around.
"Layla, look at me."
She shook her head.
"Please."
She closed her eyes. Breathed. Counted to five.
Then she turned.
Omar was standing there with the shopping bags in one hand and his heart in his eyes. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"I meant it," he said. "Every word."
"I know."
"You're getting your body back. You're getting your life back. And I'm going to be there for every second of it."
She swallowed hard.
"I know," she said again.
He reached for her hand. Laced his fingers through hers.
"Let's go home."
She nodded.
They walked out of the boutique together, into the blinding California sun. The parking lot was full of cars that cost more than their apartment. Palm trees swayed in the distance. Somewhere, a dog was barking.
"I can't believe you spent three hundred dollars on pajamas," she said.
"I can't believe you wanted to spend twenty."
"They're the same thing."
"They are absolutely not the same thing."
"You're impossible."
"And you love me."
She looked at him. At his messy hair and his tired eyes and the way he was carrying her bags like they weighed nothing.
"Yeah," she said. "I do."
He squeezed her hand.
They drove home with the windows down and the radio up. Layla leaned her head against the seat and watched the city blur past. Five years since she'd walked out of her parents' house. Five years since she'd started over with nothing but a duffel bag and Omar's hand in hers.
She thought about the night her mother had pulled her hair back while she threw up. The way her mother had cried above her but never once defended her. The way her father had left and never come back.
She thought about the hospital hallway. The cold floor. The blood.
She thought about Omar, standing by the fitting rooms with his arms full of robes, arguing with her about the good stuff.
The good stuff. The stuff she deserved.
She reached over and put her hand on his knee.
"Hey," she said.
He glanced at her. "Yeah?"
"I love you."
He smiled. That smile. The one that had ruined her life ten years ago and kept ruining it in the best possible way.
"I love you too," he said.
They drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
When they got home—their apartment, the one they'd picked together, with the radiator that still screamed in winter and the neighbors who played music too loud—Layla took the grey pajamas out of the bag and held them up.
"You know why I wanted these?"she asked.
Omar was in the kitchen, unpacking the other bags. "Because you're stubborn?"
"Because they remind me of you."
He looked up.
"Your sweatpants," she said. "That night at the family gathering. The grey ones. The ones that made everything very obvious."
He laughed. A real laugh, loud and warm.
"I was so embarrassed," he said.
"I know."
"You were looking at me like you'd won something."
"I had."
He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. The pajamas fell to the floor.
"You know what I was thinking?" he asked.
"What?"
"I was thinking, this girl is going to be the death of me."
"And?"
"And I was right."
She laughed against his chest.
"You're still here," she said.
"I'm still here."
They stood like that for a long time. The apartment was quiet. The sun was setting. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, then stopped.
Layla thought about the surgery. The one scheduled for next week. The one that would finally put her body back together after years of pain and complications. The one that would let her stop being careful, stop being afraid, stop feeling like her own body was a ticking time bomb.
She thought about the night she'd met Omar. The way he'd looked at her across the room at that family gathering. The way he'd smiled.
She thought about the texts. The flirting. The talking stage that had felt like a dance—two steps forward, one step back, neither of them willing to admit what was happening until it was too late to pretend.
She thought about the motel room. The ugly wallpaper. The dripping pipe. The way he'd looked at her like she was something precious.
She thought about her parents. The disappointment in their eyes. The words they'd said. The silence that followed.
She thought about the hospital. The recovery. The years of therapy and medication and slow, painful progress.
She thought about Omar. Always Omar. Standing by her side through all of it.
"I want to tell you something," she said.
He pulled back to look at her. "What?"
"When I was eighteen. After I left my parents' house. After the hospital. I thought—" She paused. "I thought I was broken. I thought I was ruined. I thought no one would ever want me after everything that happened."
Omar's jaw tightened. He didn't interrupt.
"But then you—" She stopped. Breathed. "You looked at me like I was whole. Like I was worth something. Like I wasn't damaged goods."
"You were never damaged goods."
"I know that now."
"Do you?"
She nodded. "I do."
He cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones.
"You're the strongest person I know," he said. "You survived things that would have broken anyone else. You built a life from nothing. You fought for every inch of ground you've gained. And now—" He smiled. "Now you're getting your body back."
She kissed him. Soft and slow.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
They stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shopping bags and reminders of the past, and Layla felt something shift in her chest. Something that had been tense for years finally loosening.
The surgery was in six days.
She was ready.
Not just for the surgery. For everything that came after. For the life she'd been building, one painful step at a time.
Omar was there. He'd always been there. And he'd be there next week, holding her hand, waiting for her to wake up.
She picked up the grey pajamas from the floor. Folded them. Tucked them into her bag.
"Come on," she said. "Let's eat dinner."
"What are we having?"
"I don't know. Something that doesn't cost three hundred dollars."
"Impossible."
"Shut up."
He laughed.
They ate dinner. They watched TV. They went to bed. And when Layla woke up in the middle of the night—as she often did, reaching for him before she was fully conscious—he was there.
He was always there.
She pressed her face into his chest and let herself fall back asleep.
Six days.
She could make it six days.
She could make it six days.
The apartment settled into its evening rhythm—the radiator ticking as it cooled, the neighbor's television bleeding through the wall, the distant hum of traffic on the boulevard. Layla sat cross-legged on their bed with the grey cotton pajamas soft against her skin and a pile of new clothes beside her. She folded each piece slowly, methodically, peeling tags off and stacking them in a neat pile.
The robe went first. Then the second one. Then the third—the one she hadn't even wanted, the one Omar had grabbed on impulse because it matched the others. The heated blanket stayed in its box on the nightstand. The eye mask sat on her pillow like a question she hadn't answered yet.
Omar was pacing.
He'd been pacing for twenty minutes. Back and forth across the bedroom, from the window to the closet to the door and back again. His hands kept finding his hair, pushing through it, tugging at the ends. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were tight. Everything about him was tight.
Layla watched him out of the corner of her eye.
She'd seen him like this before—restless, wound up, unable to sit still. But that was usually about work, or money, or the landlord who kept threatening to raise their rent. This was different.
This was about her.
"Are you sure about Dr. Chen?" he asked.
She folded the last shirt. Set it on the pile. "I'm sure."
"Because I was reading about this other surgeon. In San Francisco. He has a really good success rate for this kind of procedure."
"I know."
"And there's a woman in New York who specializes in—"
"Omar."
He stopped. Turned. Looked at her like he'd forgotten she was there.
"We've met with four surgeons," she said. "We've done the research. We've asked the questions.Dr. Chen is the best option."
"I know."
"Then why are you pacing?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there with his hands at his sides and his chest rising and falling too fast.
"Should we wait?" he asked. "Maybe we should wait. Give it a few more months. See if—"
"See if what?"
"See if things improve on their own."
"They won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. The doctors know that. You know that."
He exhaled. A rough, frustrated sound.
"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "What if something goes wrong?"
Layla set the clothes aside. Unfolded her legs. Stood up.
"Come here," she said.
He didn't move."Omar. Come here."
He crossed the room. Slowly. Like he was walking toward something that might hurt him. When he reached her, she took his hands in hers and pulled him down onto the bed.
He sat stiffly beside her. His knee bounced. His fingers twitched.
"I need you to listen to me," she said.
"I'm listening."
"I mean really listen. Not just hear the words and then keep spiraling."
He looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed. He'd been crying, she realized. At some point today, when she wasn't looking, he'd been crying.
"What do you remember about the night I left my parents' house?" she asked.He blinked. "What?"
"The night I left. What do you remember?"
"I remember—" He paused. Swallowed. "I remember you calling me. Your voice was shaking. You said you needed me to come get you."
"And what did you do?"
"I came."
"You came. You drove forty minutes in the middle of the night. You didn't ask questions. You didn't tell me to wait until morning. You just came."
"I would have come from anywhere."
She squeezed his hands.
"When you got there," she continued, "I was standing on the front lawn. Barefoot. My ribs were broken. There was blood in my mouth."
"I remember."
"You carried me to your car. You didn't say anything. You just picked me up and carried me."
"You couldn't walk."
"I know. But you didn't have to carry me. You could have helped me limp. You could have called an ambulance. But you didn't. You carried me."
His jaw tightened.
"And then you took me to the hospital. And you sat in the waiting room for six hours while they stitched me up and x-rayed my ribs and asked me questions I didn't want to answer."
"I wasn't going to leave you."
"And when they finally let me have a room, you slept on the floor. Because the chairs were too far away."
"I wanted to be close."
"I know." She lifted his hands to her lips. Kissed his knuckles. "You slept on the cold hospital floor in your jacket with your keys digging into your leg. For three nights. Because you wanted to be close."
He was crying now. Quietly. Tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw.
"I've survived worse than this," she said. "I've survived things that should have killed me. And I survived them because you were there. Holding my hand. Carrying me. Sleeping on the floor."
"Layla—"
"I'm not scared, Omar. I'm not scared of the surgery. I'm not scared of the recovery. I'm not scared of any of it."
"How can you not be scared?"
"Because I've already been through the worst thing that could happen to me. And I came out the other side. With you."
His breath hitched. A broken, ragged sound.
"This time," she said, "we're not walking out of the hospital with trauma and scars. We're walking out with something we've been fighting for. Something we chose. Something good."
He pulled his hands free. Grabbed her face. Pressed his forehead to hers.
"I can't lose you," he whispered.
His voice cracked. Split open. All the fear he'd been holding back for weeks came spilling out.
"You won't," she said.
"You don't know that."
"I do know that."
"You can't—"
"Omar." She took his face in her hands. Held him steady. "Look at me."
He looked.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "You're not going to lose me. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Do you hear me?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her with those red-rimmed eyes, tears still falling, breath still uneven.
"Do you hear me?" she repeated.
"Yes."
"Good."
She kissed him.
Soft at first. Gentle in a way she rarely was with him. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other corner, then his lips. She kissed the tears off his cheeks. His eyelids. His forehead.
He made a sound—half sob, half sigh—and his hands found her waist.
She pulled him down onto the mattress.
The sheets were new. She'd bought them last week—something soft, something grey, something that felt like a fresh start. They smelled like detergent and the lavender sachet she'd tucked in the closet.
Omar's weight settled over her. His mouth found her throat. His hands slid under her shirt.
"I need you," he said against her skin.
"I know."
"I need to feel you."
"I know."
She guided him. Slowly. Carefully. This wasn't like the motel room, ten years ago. This wasn't frantic or desperate or hungry. This was something else.
This was two people holding onto each other in the dark.
Her hands moved through his hair. His mouth traced the line of her collarbone. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, closer, closer, until there was no space left between them.
When he entered her, she exhaled. A long, slow breath.
"I'm here," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
He moved inside her. Slow. Deep. The kind of rhythm that wasn't about getting anywhere—just about being here. Together. In this moment.
She arched beneath him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His name fell from her lips like a prayer.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
"I can't—I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You don't have to know."
"I need you."
"I know."
He buried his face in her neck. His body shuddered. She held him through it. Held him while he came apart, while his fear and his love and his desperation spilled out of him in waves.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the new sheets. Her head on his chest. His arm around her waist. The radiator ticked. The neighbor's TV went quiet. The city hummed beyond the window.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For falling apart."
"You didn't fall apart."
"I did."
"You didn't." She lifted her head to look at him. "You held on. And then you let go. That's not falling apart. That's being human."
He laughed. A tired, wet laugh.
"When did you get so wise?" he asked.
"Somewhere between the hospital and the motel."
"I love you."
"I know."
"Say it back."
She smiled.
"I love you too."
He kissed her forehead. Pulled her closer.
"Six days," he said.
"Six days."
"We can do six days."
"We can do anything."
She closed her eyes. Listened to his heartbeat. Let herself drift.
The surgery was in six days. And then the recovery. And then the rest of their lives.
She could make it six days.
She could make it anything.
She had him.