The Virgin Society Collection

33. Two Girls Again

33

TWO GIRLS AGAIN

Layla

On Friday, I’m running around the city to meetings, seeing Farm to Phone, then popping into the Mia Jane shop to grab some fresh mascara for tomorrow night’s fundraiser.

The busier I am, the less I have to think about how I’ll feel hosting a charity auction with the son of the man I’m falling for.

Or the fact that I can’t ignore these feelings much longer.

Storm’s helping a customer, so I head to the counter with the tube and hand it to a woman with a nose piercing. “I’ll take this little darling,” I say.

“Perfect. And when is your next event?”

“Soon,” I say, since I don’t know if Mia’s told her team that it’s the end of next week. “I’m just figuring out details with Mia.”

That must catch Storm’s attention since he spins around, indicates to his customer he’ll be right back, then heads to me. “You better not leave without saying hello and goodbye.” He pouts.

“Of course not, but you look busy, and busy is good.”

“So they say,” he adds, then walks me to the door, lowering his voice. “Mia’s going to make the integration of your app into her brand official, but you didn’t hear that from me.

Then he mimes zipping his lips as he returns to his customer.

I zip back, but I can’t zip up my smile, especially when he invites me to a meeting next week to talk more about the collab. I say yes, then leave, floating on a cloud of possibility.

As I head home so I can grab my bag then pick up my friends, I call Geeta, updating her on the Storm tidbit. “That makes us even more attractive to a company like Omega, or Marcus or Limitless!”

“Yes. Yes, it does,” she says, and it sounds like she’s dancing in her little Hoboken abode. “This could be huge, and it all started in Miami,” she says, and I can’t escape the reminders of Nick, and my selfish choice to keep falling back into bed with him. “Seriously, all the work you did finding us marketing partnerships at that conference. We could be making bank soon, baby. I am super grateful. And that means I can maybe get a full-time caretaker for my dad.”

There. See? I didn’t just help myself in Miami. I helped our business, and in turn, her father. “That would be great,” I say.

We chat more as I walk home, but when my phone buzzes with a text, I tell her I have to go. Mostly because I want to see if Nick’s texted me.

Yep. I’m that girl who’s hooked on a guy.

Great. Just great. I open it anyway, but it’s not from Nick.

It’s David, and I detest that I’m less excited to hear from a friend who’s in my life than a man who may or may not be.

David: Cynthia says no tie for tomorrow night. Do you agree? P.S. She says she can’t wait to meet you.

As I walk, I stare at the text for too long till the words seem like they’re levitating off the screen. My head swims, and my heart twists in on itself.

When I reach my building, I answer him at last.

Layla: No tie and same here.

Then I head to the sixth floor with a lead weight in my chest.

I’m about to meet my two best friends, the people I’m closest to in the world. My friendships mean everything to me. But on the side, I’m having a secret affair with another friend’s father.

Last night, and this morning with Nick, I finally felt like one whole person—like I wasn’t broken, just bent.

Now, I’m two girls again.

Something I no longer want to be.

I type Nick a note on my phone, then in a flurry, I finish packing for the Hamptons, tossing a few more items into my overnight bag. After sliding on my rings, I take off for my car, then pick up Harlow at her place.

Bridger’s waiting with her at the curb, an arm draped possessively around her waist, whispering something in her ear.

When I pull up, I call out, “Get a room!”

Bridger turns to me. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

“Or maybe not,” Harlow says, then presses a goodbye kiss to his lips. “Don’t work too hard while I’m gone.”

He scoffs. “Not possible.”

She takes a step toward my car, but he grabs her wrist and hauls her in for one more kiss. When he finally lets her go, he says to me, “Good luck this weekend, Layla.”

I thank him, then we head off to pick up Ethan.

The three of us cruise out to the Hamptons, and I try to stay in the moment behind the wheel, the wind in my hair, the sun on my shoulders. To savor the jokes and the laughter, the music and the chatter.

The honesty too.

It’s enough to make everything clear.

Once we reach my mom’s home on the beach, I’m feeling less guilty and more resolved. We make cocktails and mocktails, then gather by the pool, lounging on the outdoor couch as the sun sets. Harlow and I paint our toenails in between drinks. Ethan hunches over a notebook, scratching out lyrics—I think—to a new tune.

A bird squawks as it circles the house next door, perhaps hunting for bread from dinner. The waves crash in their steady rhythm. This place is so familiar, and the peace I feel here with my friends clears my head the rest of the way.

It’s time. “I told Nick about this,” I say, touching my tattoo.

Ethan stops writing.

Harlow stops painting.

“You did?” she asks.

“And I wrote him a note earlier. I haven’t sent it. But I need to,” I say, resolute as I pick up my phone. I have to be resolute. There is no other option.

Ethan and Harlow scurry next to me on the couch, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

Layla: I care about your son too much to keep sneaking around. We need to talk when the fundraiser is over.

Ethan lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You don’t fuck around.”

Harlow leans in closer. “I’m proud of you. When are you going to send it?”

“Now? Can I send it now?” I might sound overeager, but I’m just ready. I can’t keep doing this.

Ethan and Harlow meet each other’s gazes, then nod. “Shoot your shot,” Harlow instructs.

I hit send, then I make a show of turning the phone to do not disturb. “Now, my pets. Tell me all about your weeks. Your day. Anything. Spare no detail,” I say. I’ve taken up enough of the spotlight.

We chat and catch up on work and life as Harlow tells me about a new exhibit she’s curating, then about the success Bridger is having with his TV production company. “He’s getting ready to launch Ellie Snow’s new show,” Harlow says, clearly proud of her guy. “The love letter theme is so…chef’s kiss.”

“Of course. Because you and your man inspired it,” I say, with a knowing grin.

She just shrugs happily. “Maybe a little.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Ethan says.

Then I pat his thigh. “Your turn. Tell me stories.”

Ethan shares the latest on Outrageous Record, finishing with how he’s trying but failing to write a new song.

“What kind of song are you hearing in your head?” Harlow asks.

“Something you can make out to,” he says, decisive.

“Duh,” Harlow teases.

“Those are the best kinds of songs,” I say, forcing my mind to stay right here with them rather than on the man I want to make out with.

“I want something sultry. The kind of song that hits you right in the heart, and in the panties,” he says with a salacious grin. “But I could use a little inspiration.”

“Like a burst of creativity?” I ask.

“I was thinking more like a hot hookup,” he deadpans. “I mean, I do find blow jobs super inspiring.”

Harlow slugs his shoulder. “You are obsessed with blow jobs.”

“Truth. He was raving about them the other week.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Like the two of you don’t radically enjoy face jobs.”

Harlow raises a hand. “I solemnly swear I love them.”

“Me too,” I say, lifting my palm as well.

Harlow sits up straighter, her eyes twinkling. “Wait. Maybe your song should be titled ‘Blown Away.’”

Ethan jumps up, grabs his pen and notebook, and writes that down. Then, he paces around the pool deck for a while, busy with his muse as Harlow and I talk about everything and nothing.

When Ethan finally settles back in with us on the couch, he shares a few lines. Damn, my friend rocks. “Would it be a total blow job of a compliment if I said that’s really fucking good?” I ask.

“No, it’d be a face job of one, Lay,” Harlow says.

“Let’s give it up for both BJs and FJs,” Ethan puts in, then the original Virgin Society says a collective thanks for the great joys of oral.

I feel like I’m home again, like I’m all me again, and it’s great. But when I go to bed that night and finally turn my phone back on, I’m still foolishly hoping for a response.

A message blinks up at me. My stomach swirls with nerves as I open it.

Nick: We do. Let’s talk Sunday night.

I’m dreading Sunday now, and I also want to speed up time.