Chapter 3
Iris
Layla pulls me through her house like she’s on a mission.
Her heels click against the hardwood as she leads me into the white kitchen with a dozen trays and dishes crowding the marble island.
She takes the cookie-filled Tupperware from my hands and peels back the foil, sliding it into a small open spot, squeezed between brownies and what looks like mini key lime pies.
“You’ve been busy,” I acknowledge.
She blows a curl out of her face, planting her hands on her hips. “Oh, girl, this is nothing. You should see the fridge. Grant said I was overdoing it, but…” She shrugs, grinning, “What can I say? I stress bake.”
“It looks great,” I offer.
The space is clean and stylish, a lot of white.
But not the kind of place I imagined Layla living. She’s so energetic and fun, but that’s not what’s reflected here, with the white kitchen and stainless steel appliances.
The vanilla candles.
It’s all very safe.
“I swear, I love a good party, but it gets me all frazzled, making sure everything is perfect,” she continues, frantically going through the cabinets and pulling out various items.
At the sound of footsteps, I glance over to find an attractive man walking into the kitchen, wearing a crisp button-down shirt, an unreadable expression on his face.
Grant, I’m assuming.
He gives me a quick once-over, almost like he’s sizing me up, deciding if I’m an acceptable guest in his home.
“Hey,” he says finally, nodding once. “You’re Layla’s new friend, Iris?”
I nod. “Nice to meet you.”
He offers a brief handshake, and I get the feeling he would’ve rather not, while Layla crosses the kitchen and slides herself between us with ease.
“Grant, baby, can you check the drinks in the cooler? Make sure there’s enough ice, please.” He holds her gaze for a beat too long, then heads for the back door without a word.
I watch after him. “Did I do something weird?”
“No way!” Layla exclaims, going over to a stack of napkins and setting them out. “He’s not really a party person, but he humors me.”
I offer her a sympathetic smile, and she waves it off like it’s nothing, but I catch the tightness in her face.
“You wanna help me slice strawberries for the sangria?” She says, changing the subject, and I join her, but part of me is still watching the door Grant disappeared through.
Layla wouldn’t be with him if he were like that all the time, right?
The backyard glows under string lights hung around the entire yard. Music plays from a speaker by the glass door that people spill out from, drinks in hand and plates piled high.
Layla seems to know everyone, greeting them with smiles and hugs. But she never forgets about me.
She stays by my side, and every time someone passes, she gestures them over with a bright, “Have you met Iris? She’s new in town!”
It’s easier than I thought it’d be.
Fun, even.
I’ve never had a best friend before. The closest I’ve ever had was my younger sister, back when I was still Kavi, and she’d followed me around like a little shadow.
I haven’t seen her in eight years.
She’s twenty-three now, she could be anywhere, living any life. I don’t even know if she would recognize me if she saw me.
I take a long sip of sangria, letting the burn of the wine settle the ache in my chest.
That’s a door best left closed.
Across the yard, I spot Layla laughing with a group of her friends. Grant is standing behind her, arms around her waist.
I watch him lean in and whisper something in her ear, and kiss her temple, making her smile up at him.
It’s sweet. Maybe I was wrong about him.
I’m still watching them when a voice cuts in at my side, low and grumbling. “Ugh. I hate that guy.”
I turn my head to find Nate, beer in hand, watching Grant like his existence offends him. “Wow. No hello, just straight to the hostility?”
He lifts his bottle in a half-hearted toast. “Hello. I hate that guy.”
I let myself laugh even though I shouldn’t, glancing back at Layla and Grant. “Why? He seems okay.”
“Wow, convincing,” he says dryly, then adds, “Dude’s the kind of guy who makes you take your shoes off at the front door. I bet he color coordinates his underwear drawer.”
I tilt my head. “That’s oddly specific. Maybe you could use some assistance in that department.”
Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse you, Ms. Patel, my underwear drawer is a mess, how God intended.”
“Right. I’m sure God intended for you to have wrinkly underwear.”
He takes a sip of his beer, squinting at me over the rim. “Organized drawers are for people who have their lives together. I coach high school football and live with an emo teenager, I’m just trying to survive the week.”
Teenager?
“I bet he’s got a label maker in his nightstand,” Nate smirks when I smile into my drink, hiding it with a long bull of his own beer.
“Okay, I’m mostly joking.”
“Mostly?”
He shrugs. “We don’t get along. He thinks I’m a dumb jock, and I think he’s a know-it-all. It’s a mutual agreement.”
I nod, turning back to the scene across the yard. “Well, know-it-all or not, he seems to love Layla.”
“Yeah, he does,” Nate says, but his expression shifts, and there’s something in his tone, quieter than before, an edge of sadness.
The air between us feels heavier than before.
Since the first day of school, Nate’s been impossible to ignore. He’s loud in a warm way, happiness radiating off of him. But now, he seems subdued.
I know that I hurt him last week, and I’m sure he’s not used to being rejected. Who in their right mind would reject Nate?
Me, apparently.
I wrap my arms around myself and look around at the party. I wish things could go back to the way they were. Before I knew that he felt something for me.
It’s not real anyway.
“You alright over there?” Nate asks.
He’s sweet. He wouldn’t be if he knew the truth.
My traitorous mind tries to tell me that maybe he would be okay with it, maybe he would still want me, but I can’t listen to it. Not when I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide the truth, to earn kindness in a world that rarely offers it to people like me.
I take another sip, slower this time, and glance his way. He’s watching me with those earnest eyes and that stubborn, open heart. “You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“I’ve been doing a bit of that myself lately.”
“I didn’t mean to make it weird.” I don’t even know why I say it. It’s only going to make things more awkward.
He doesn’t respond right away, looking out into the yard, as he lets out a sigh. “It’s not weird. Not really. Hurts though.”
My breath catches at the quiet truth that I doubt someone like him hands out easily.
And this time, he does look at me. “But I get it. You don’t owe me anything. I just thought maybe we could have something. Sounds stupid, I know.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “It’s not stupid.”
His shoulder stays close to mine, and I don’t move away. I don’t know what this is, only what it can’t be.
But maybe, somehow, we can still know each other.
“Oh man, here we go,” Nate says, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp.
Layla’s coming our way, tugging Grant behind her. I giggle into my glass, finding Nate’s hatred toward Grant a bit silly, but endearing all the same.
“There you guys are!” Layla throws her arms around me in a bone-crushing hug.
The alcohol has definitely kicked in.
“Whoa!” I steady her when she wobbles, pulling back. “Seems like you’re having a good time.”
“Even better now that I’m hanging out with my besties!” She squeezes between Nate and me, putting an arm around both of us.
Despite the happiness radiating off of Layla, Nate and Grant are locked in a silent standoff, glaring at each other.
“You guys okay over there?”
“Peachy,” Nate tips his empty beer bottle toward Grant, and Grant nods, whatever that means. Layla doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she’s ignoring it.
“Oh! You never gave me the tour of your house,” I say, casually, meeting Nate’s eyes. “Why don’t we leave them to talk about guy stuff, and you can show me around?”
His brows lift, unimpressed.
Layla, oblivious to the tension, gasps. “Oh my God, you’re right! I totally forgot. I have to show you the bathroom, it’s insane. Come on!”
She links her arm through mine and pulls me toward the house, and I go willingly, glancing back once to catch Nate’s scowl, but there’s a spark of amusement on his face.
Like he secretly enjoys it.
Grant’s already turned away, looking down at his phone, uninterested. “Have fun,” I mouth to Nate as Layla drags me up the porch steps.
Layla is pointing out decor items throughout the house, talking about this and that. And I realize I never asked Nate about something he said earlier.
“Hey, Layla?” I interrupt while she’s talking about a dog statue she bought, even though Grant hates dogs.
“Yeah?”
“Nate said he lives with a teenager. Does he…” I pause, considering that I might be overstepping, but the question slips out anyway. “Does he have a kid?”
“Oh! That’s Alex. He’s not Nate’s kid or anything, so don’t freak. He’s his brother. Their mom died a long time ago, and Nate’s been looking after him. He’s a sweetheart, nothing to worry about.”
Nate raised his brother?
Layla carries on about wall colors while my mind is stuck on Nate. And Alex.
Nate Wesley just keeps surprising me.