Layla knocked on her neighbor’s door with a loaf of bread in one hand and a jar of soup in the other. It didn’t really sound like knocking. More like a two-pound loaf of bread banging against wood.
Meredith answered the door anyway, that holiday glow on her face and on the Christmas tree in the room behind her.
“Creamy chicken noodle,” Layla announced in a falsely cheery voice. “And the nine-grain bread Danny loves.”
“Layla brought dinner,” she called behind her. She met Layla’s eyes. “Again. Lay, what’s going on?”
The nickname sent a shockwave through her. “Logan.” Her throat closed around the rest of the sentence, because she couldn’t speak about him without choking up.
“You guys broke up?” Meredith covered her mouth with one hand and passed the bread to her husband with the other.
