26. Whatever It Was, Whatever It Wasn’t
26
WHATEVER IT WAS, WHATEVER IT WASN’T
Layla
On Sunday night, Jules reclines on my purple sofa, staring daggers at the bottle of pinot gris, like it’s the cause of my romantic woes. “Fuck white wine. You need whiskey after that sad story,” she declares when I finish giving them chapter and verse on my sorry situation.
It’s a girls’ night in at my place, and Harlow, Jules, and Camden are gathered around the olive and cheese tray on the coffee table. A deck of cards sits next to it, along with poker chips.
But we paused our game of poker once I told them about the Friday night run-in with Raven. “So yeah, that was super fun,” I say, flipping a poker chip absently. “Telling a big fat lie to a colleague.”
“You win. That’s definitely the suckiest romantic situation I’ve heard in a while,” Camden says, then points to the wine. “And you don’t need wine or whiskey. You need a massage, a pedicure, and a blowout from the best in the city.”
I laugh, skeptical but interested. “Blowouts cure the man blues?”
Camden flips her red strands. “Fact: a good hair day is the only true fix for a dating conundrum.”
“Conundrum,” Jules deadpans, staring at her bestie. “More like a dating dead end.”
I whimper, then lift my glass and glug the rest of my wine.
Harlow leans her head against my shoulder. “My poor pet.”
I set the glass down on the coffee table with a thunk, then sigh. “I mean, whatever. I can’t be that sad. It’s not like we were even dating,” I say, trying to keep the whole thing—whatever it is, whatever it was, whatever it wasn’t—in perspective.
Camden scoffs. “Oh, I’d be sad if I couldn’t have hot sex with my friend’s dad.”
Jules swats Camden’s shoulder. “Girl, do not even think about my dad that way.”
“Not your dad, babe. But some dads are hot,” she says with a you know it shrug.
“Fact,” I chime in, smiling for the first time in several minutes. “Like David’s dad.”
Jules doesn’t break her stony expression, still directed at Camden. “But not my dad. Not Tate Marley.”
Jules huffs but then draws a circle in the air around us. “No one here is banging any of our dads.” She crosses her legs, kicking her Mary Jane heel back and forth, looking like some kind of come at me siren. But that’s Evening Jules. With her short plaid skirts, and button-up white blouses, she’s got a whole naughty-but-tough schoolgirl look going. Makes me wonder how many costumes she has.
Harlow pats my shoulder. “Exactly. Layla’s banging her ex’s dad,” Harlow chimes in.
I gasp. “You’re evil, Harlow.”
“I mean, you are banging him,” Harlow adds, then lifts her iced tea, smirking above the rim before she takes a sip.
“We did not bang the other night,” I point out, squaring my shoulders.
Camden clears her throat. “Wasn’t his dick in your mouth?”
“In the backseat of your sports car?” Jules adds.
I grab a pillow and throw it at Jules.
She catches it. “I’m just saying. You were pretty much banging.”
I hold up a stop-sign hand. “And there is no more banging. It’s a bad idea. A very bad idea.”
“Banging an ex-boyfriend’s dad does seem complicated…” Jules adds, going thoughtful, letting go of the tease as she meets my eyes. “But it also sounds like it was more than banging. It sounds like you like him.”
That’s the million-dollar issue. I sink back into my couch. “I do.” I swallow roughly, past the knot of emotions tightening my throat. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to feel a thing. But now I feel so much it scares me.”
The mood shifts in my living room. The easy vibe slinks under the door. “Is there a way at all?” Jules asks, carefully.
I’ve played out scenarios. But they’re all so complicated. “I don’t see how there could be. He’s such a good dad. He cares so much about David, and he’s focused on his son. Which only makes him more attractive.”
With a sad smile, Camden reaches for the wine bottle. “Maybe you two just needed to get it out of your system, and when you see each other again, everything will be fine.”
But will he be out of my system? I wish. Though it hardly feels possible. I pick up the deck to deal.
“Who knows?” I say as I shuffle. “I’ll see him at the auction next weekend. And probably this week, too, to finish up some prep, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see him alone again.”
Though, I do know. I probably won’t see him by himself. That’s what we agreed to on Friday night. I haven’t heard from him all weekend. He hasn’t called or texted, and I haven’t either. Nor has DistractibleGuy left any comments on my videos.
I know why he hasn’t. Truly, I do. But I wish he had.
I hold up my glass. Camden refills it. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she says, sympathetically.
There’s a collective nod.
“Maybe it is,” I say reluctantly. Only, I’m not certain anymore. I’ve let Nick in more than anyone except my friends, and I can’t help but think he’s worth it.
But we’re just not in the cards.
I deal the next hand and go on to lose the game. I try not to view it as a metaphor.
Two days later, I meet with Mia and Storm at a pool hall. The fashionista loves to play, and she’s been teaching Storm, she tells me.
Storm taps her shoulder with the pool cue. “She’s the pool mentor I never knew I needed. Do you know how hot guys think it is when you can play pool?” He brandishes the stick with a wicked smile.
“Gee, I wonder why,” Mia deadpans, staring pointedly at the stick.
“You said it, hun,” he says in playful accusation. He has pet names for everyone. It’s delightful.
“Hmm. What about pool hall makeup,” she muses, changing topics on a dime. She looks to me, her gray eyes twinkling.
“We need a how-to on that,” we say in unison.
“Yes! And we need events, and sessions, and so many things,” she declares.
As the three of us play, we brainstorm our next collaborations. At the end of the game, Mia sets her palms on the edge of the table, her loose curls flowing around her like she’s an ethereal dark angel. “I want to integrate your app into my brand, Lola,” she says, going starkly serious again. “With you running it still. With your vids. I think it could take us both to new levels.”
I’m a little giddy with hope. Especially since it sounds too good to be true. Still, when we leave, I say, “By the way, my real name is Layla, as you may know. You can call me Layla if you want.”
“What would you like me to call you?” she asks.
“I’m good with both,” I say.
“Then Lola works for me.”
“You’re my Lola girl,” Storm chimes in.
I smile, then I take a mental picture of the three of us. I imagine we look as hopeful as I feel.
Then, Mia’s phone trills. She emits a squeak when she sees who’s calling. “Oh! That’s my honey in California. Ciao!”
In a heartbeat, she’s off, turning the other way, tra-la-la-ing down the block like the fashionista the media has made her out to be. Flighty and whimsical.
I like her. A lot. I want to believe she’s not simply Mia Jane, that she’s also the Mia I’ve come to know in these brief interactions—a smart businesswoman. Someone who makes things happen, opening up flagship stores in a heartbeat. Someone trustworthy. But what if she’s not?
After all, hopes can be dashed in the blink of an eye, so I try to temper mine.
When I leave, I meet David at a coffee shop in Chelsea, and I feel like a liar once again just by breathing.
He wraps his arms around me in a hug. “Dude, I have good news!”
“Tell me,” I say, eager to keep the spotlight on him.
“Cynthia is going to come with me to the auction. She wants to help out backstage.”
I squeeze him harder, sharing his excitement. “I guess things with her are definitely going well then?” I ask when I let go.
“They are. But you’ll forgive me for cheating on you, right?”
I laugh to cover up my feelings. “Of course. But she better not emcee it with you,” I say, wagging a finger, keeping the mood playful.
“You’re my auction emcee. She’s my date,” he says, sounding proud.
“You’re not going to propose again at the auction, are you?”
He laughs. “Probably not. But I do think the whole slower-speed approach worked. Work has been tough for her since her boss at the bowling alley is a hard-ass. Plus, she’s saving to go back to college. She’s balancing a lot. She admitted that’s what freaked her out when I proposed.”
“I’m glad she told you that.”
“Me too. It helped,” he says, and then his smile brightens more, so it’s nearly contagious. “Oh, and my dad’s going to meet her tomorrow night.”
That’s…wow. I should say a simple that’s terrific . But I’m feeling too many things at once—surprise at this news, a little disappointment that Nick didn’t tell me, then foolishness for thinking he would. We’re not having that kind of relationship. We’re not having any kind of relationship.
His relationship is rightfully with his son. “That’s great,” I say, meaning it. These two men care so deeply for each other. I should not get in the way.
David beams, nodding a few times. His enthusiasm makes him look even younger than his twenty-one years. “Yeah, I’m stoked. Especially since my mom has no interest in meeting her. But no surprise.” He’s trying to sound blasé, but I’m not buying it.
“She’ll come around,” I reassure him, even though I truly have no idea. With Rose, it seems like, well, like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
David shrugs lightly, as if he’s taking it all in stride. “It is what it is. Even though she’s a bartender, she’s kind of shy when she’s out of her element. And my mom is a little, how shall we say, intense. My dad’s good with people though. But you know that already,” he says, and wham.
One mention of his dad and me, and tension slams into my bones. Does David know something? Is he onto us? Did Raven say something to David? They aren’t that close, but you never know. I’m on alert as David adds, “And thanks again for getting those golf clubs from Kip.”
“It was my pleasure,” I say, then wish I could take it back because of the double entendre.
“Maybe you and Dad could grab some of the final items later this week?”
Yes, god yes.
But no, just no. Nick and I agreed to stop. “Why don’t you send me the list? I’ll grab them in my car,” I say.
“But then you’d have to park at, like, five different places in the city.”
Solving a Rubik’s Cube in under a minute would be easier, but still, I say, “I really don’t mind doing it. I could even ask Harlow or Ethan. Or Jules. Or Camden.”
I might as well list everyone I’m friends with.
But David waves a dismissive hand. “You know what? I’ll go with you. It’ll be fun.”
David Adam Bancroft is the happiest person I’ve ever known. My heart warms up just being near him, and I’m aching to tell Nick that he did right with this kid. That no matter how complicated the situation was when David was born, somehow, his dad—maybe his mom too—managed to give their son what he needed to become this good, upbeat, kind young man.
But truthfully, I know David’s heart comes from one person—his father. David is the man he is because of Nick.
And that makes me happy. But a little sad too.
Central Park is fifty-one blocks long and three blocks wide, and every time I walk through this centerpiece of the city, I feel like it contains so many secrets in plain sight. Secrets that its forty-two million visitors a year walk past day in and day out.
I almost feel like I could disappear in there, and sometimes that’s what I need. That evening, with the sun still high in the summer sky, I head into the park on my way home, walking along the lake, past joggers and cyclists and after-work exercise warriors till I reach the edge of the water. A little bit beyond, I find an empty green bench under a tree. I beeline for it before anyone else can claim it.
I do some of my best thinking here, and, admittedly, my worst thinking too.
Alone, I replay the last several days, the last several weeks, all the conversations, with my friends, with David, with Nick. I wish there were an easy answer. I wish I could ask someone for the right answer.
Would I ask my dad if he were here?
I don’t honestly know. It’s not as if we talked about romance or boys when I was seventeen. He was a typical dad like that, and I was a typical girl.
Would I ask him now that I’m twenty-three?
I don’t know the answer to that either.
Instead, I ask myself the questions.
But I don’t like the answers I’m giving me, so I stand, run my thumb along the glistening metal plaque on the top slat of the bench, and then go.