The Virgin Society Collection

45. I Had A Feeling

45

I HAD A FEELING

Layla

On Sunday morning, I swing my tennis racket over my shoulder and head out the door to meet my mom at the club. Nick leaves with me, his hand on my ass the whole time we walk down the hallway to the elevator.

As we wait for the lift, he turns to me, a playful grin on his face. “Now remember, sweetheart. Just say these words to her. Nick has a bigger, better cock than any man in the world, so stop setting me up .”

“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“You can also tell her I give you multiple orgasms,” he deadpans as the elevator arrives.

“I’ll for sure let her know you love to eat my kitty,” I say when we step inside the empty car.

He cups my chin. “Fair’s fair. Tell her you love to suck my dick too.”

Laughing, I say, “How about I just tell her my boyfriend has a filthy mouth and leave it at that?”

“You know who else has a filthy mouth?”

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend’s girlfriend,” he says in a low, sexy voice. He kisses my neck, first adoringly, then roughly like he’s going to leave a mark. So very him.

But I push him away. “No hickeys. That will not impress Mama Mayweather.”

He stops then takes my hand as we leave, his tone turning serious. “Someday, I’ll impress her. For you .”

My chest flutters. Nick doesn’t like to play the who’s who game. He doesn’t need to impress people for himself. He’d only want to make a good impression someday for my benefit. So Mom can breathe more easily, knowing I’m with someone who adores me.

I hold that sentiment close to my heart on the way to Randall’s Island.

On the court, I bounce on my toes, waiting for Mom’s serve. Like she was born to decimate people at this game, she lifts her racket and sends the ball screaming my way.

I lunge, but I don’t stand a chance. The ball flies past me to the edge of the court.

Game. Set. Match.

Beads of sweat roll down my chest as I jog to the net and shake hands with her. “Good game.”

She points her racquet at me. “Tell the truth. Did you let me win again?”

“No. You are just a beast.”

With a closed-mouth smile, she walks to the bench at the side of the court and grabs her water bottle. After a long gulp, she nods to the club. “Shower and lunch?”

I glance around. The court is surprisingly empty. No one’s waiting for it. I seize my chance. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, feeling ready and eager.

It’s time. It’s just finally time.

“Sure. What is it, darling?”

There’s no way to dip a toe into this water. I jump. “I’m not going out with Kip next week. He reached out this morning to set up a time, and I told him I’m seeing someone.”

“You are?”

“Yes. But even if I weren’t seeing him, I don’t want to be set up anymore, Mom. I don’t like any of those guys. They’re all self-centered, egotistical, pampered dude bros.”

She winces, setting down her water bottle on the bench beside the court. “What even is that? A dude bro?”

“The opposite of Dad.” That’s the easiest way to put it.

“I see,” she says calmly, fingering the wedding band she still wears. Maybe it’s subconscious. Maybe it’s intentional—a connection to her lost love. She’s done it for years, touching it absently, when she’s knocked off-kilter.

“But I met someone, and he’s incredible,” I continue, and I don’t try to hide the hearts and flowers in my voice. I can’t hide the way I feel.

“That’s wonderful. Would I know him?”

As a matter of fact…

“Yes,” I say, then square my shoulders. “I’m with Nick Adams.”

She jerks her head, her mouth open like a fish. “Rose’s ex?” she finally gasps.

“Yes. And he’s David’s father,” I add so we don’t have to go through everything one by one.

Her eyes widen. Her voice dips. “Darling. That’s…”

“Scandalous?”

“Layla.” It’s a chide, like I’ve misbehaved.

“Well, is that what you mean?” I’m not holding back anymore. Her feelings matter, but mine do too.

“No,” she says. “That’s not what I meant.”

But she doesn’t elaborate. I didn’t expect her to throw me a party for seeing her friend’s ex-husband. I only want her to stop playing matchmaker and to start respecting my choices. “Look, you don’t have to like him. You don’t have to play tennis with him. But I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me. And that’s that.”

She grips her racket tighter. “Okay,” she says, but it’s harsh, like a bite, and it irritates me.

“Fine. You don’t like him,” I add. “I get it. That’s your choice. But he’s my choice. And you need to know that so you can stop setting me up.”

She grabs my arm desperately, like she thinks I’ll jet off. “I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with me. I feel foolish. I wish I’d known sooner. Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to be set up?”

Take care of Mom . Dad’s last words echo daily in my head.

“Because I wanted you to be happy,” I grit out past the inevitable swell of emotions. “That’s what Dad would have wanted. For me to look out for you.”

There. That’s the truth. That’s honoring him and her.

Letting go of me, she lifts her fingers to cover her mouth like she’s holding back a deluge of tears.

I go on. “And I know you wanted me to be with a man from a family you know. With a pedigree. Who went to an Ivy League school and is a member of a country club.”

Sharply, she says, “Stop.”

I’m taken aback. She doesn’t usually speak to me that way or stare at me with fierce fire in her gaze. This is boardroom Anna.

“That’s not what I want. Do not conflate the two.”

“But it seemed that way?”

“I want you with a man I trust because I want you to be safe,” she says tightly, in a way that keeps her tears in check. “I don’t care about a man’s money. You don’t need to marry a rich man. Like Cher said, I am a rich man . I make enough to take care of you if you ever need a thing. I want you with someone I trust because…” She takes a deep breath, perhaps for fuel. “I never trusted Joe. I had a feeling, and I never did a thing about it.” Her voice wobbles, teetering on the edge of a sob. “I couldn’t put a finger on it, so I never said anything, and that regret lives with me.” She pokes her chest for emphasis. “It’s not because of where he came from. It was a gut feeling, and I did nothing about it.”

The guilt she must be carrying. The needless, misplaced guilt. It’s heartbreaking.

I grab her arms, hold her tight. “Mom, it’s not your fault,” I say softly, full of emotion.

Tears run down her cheeks.

We’re both sweaty from the game and messy from crying, but I don’t care. I hug her, both of us needing the contact. “Don’t carry that with you, Mom. No one could have known. Dad and Joe had a fight the week before, and Dad didn’t know what Joe was capable of. Joe probably didn’t know what he was capable of. I certainly didn’t know when he walked past me into our building. It happened, Mom. It just happened, and only one person is to blame,” I say, squeezing her hard, trying to give her some of my strength, my certainty.

She sniffles.

I let go but keep a grip on her shoulders as I look her in the eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault,” I repeat.

Another thick tear rolls down her cheek. She shudders out a staggered breath, then lets go and swipes her face.

Then, she nods. Perhaps it’s acceptance or the start of it.

“You can’t change the past,” I say. “You can only change how you live your present.”

She manages the tiniest hint of a smile. “How did you get to be so wise?”

“I had to,” I say, then I nod to the club. “Want to get a cobb salad?”

She rolls her eyes. “This place has the worst cobb salad. Can we go someplace else?”

“I know a good diner in the city.”

“Let’s go there.”

At Neon Diner we don’t talk about boys or men, or the past. We don’t talk about the job she wants me to take on someday at her company.

Another time. Another time, too, I’ll tell her I have a meeting with Mia later this week to talk about next steps.

Instead, we chat about the best and the worst restaurants in the city, about Ethan’s band and Harlow’s art gallery and Jules’s work casting new TV shows, and Camden’s burgeoning business.

Mom eats up every detail.

When we’re done, we say goodbye on the street. We part ways without her mentioning Nick, or men, or Beautique.

Perhaps it’s a new start for us.

And I hope it’s one for her.