Chapter Fifteen
She thought for sure he’d fight her.
Not in the moment—not while everyone was standing there watching, not while she went on to do a bang-up job of making the whole thing sound like a prearranged plan.
“I insisted,” she’d said, directing her words to Manon, who’d invited this whole extra charade by deviating from the itinerary (tonight, Layla still remembered from her spreadsheet, was supposed to be Free Time! for them all). “A thank-you, you know. For the clothes he bought me last night.”
That last part, she tried to say meaningfully, the way Manon said things like, Darling, of course she doesn’t have to switch hotels.
She tried to say, For the clothes he bought me, like she was saying, For the way he saved me from Samantha’s vomit, and Jamie’s cowardice, and for the way he saved today in ways you don’t even know about.
All the while, she stood next to him, oddly relieved to be by his side again, no matter that he was doing his whole smokestack thing, all-black brooding silence with his hat brim lower now.
The minutes before—when he’d been ushered over by Rosie, when there had been that awful exchange between him and Griffin’s father—had been stomach-droppingly difficult for her, worse than when Jamie and Samantha had shown up on the boat yesterday.
And then, the hug from Michael’s mother.
If it could be called that.
She knew. Knew from the way he held his body and face—she’d been looking at him all day, after all—that he needed a rescue.
But when the moment passed—when Manon said, “Oh, that’s so nice!
” as though she was relieved, and when Paula not so subtly took this opportunity to offer an actual agreement to the invitation—Layla thought for sure he’d fight her.
That he’d grab her hand again and pull her away, taking advantage of the group’s distraction with their meetup plans.
That he’d say, We’re not actually going to dinner.
He didn’t, though.
He turned to her and said, “I’ll meet you down here at seven,” as though he was a completely normal person and not a smokestack fae prince with a sometimes-job who was also a surprisingly good dancer.
Embarrassingly, until he walked away, she hadn’t once meaningfully thought of Emily, only a glancing awareness that she, too, had tensed at the interaction between Griffin and Michael’s parents.
Only as Layla watched the elevator doors close behind him did it occur to her that making a different dinner plan might feel to Emily like being hung out to dry.
But Emily was on board—more enthusiastic than Griffin’s I’ll meet you down here at seven. In fact, as soon as Griffin was gone, Emily had come over and clasped Layla’s hands. “Thank you,” she’d said. “That was perfect. Thank god you’re here.”
“Oh,” Layla said, still catching up to what she’d done on impulse, strangely bristled by the way Emily reacted as though this was all part of Layla’s plan. Layla’s job.
“It was no—” she started to add.
“It’s like, things are weird there,” Emily interrupted. “And with Griffin out of the picture, Michael and I will have an easier time tonight.”
Layla said, “That’s good, then,” but what she was thinking was decidedly less supportive.
She was thinking, Michael’s parents seem pretty lousy, actually.
And also, But why are things weird there?
And maybe, a little bit, You better get used to weird things, when you marry into someone’s family.
Now, once again standing in front of the mirror in her room, forty-five minutes before she was meant to meet Griffin for this plan that had not at all been offered up for Emily’s good, part of her still expected he’d cancel.
A brief text from the phone he’d shown her all those interesting things on.
Part of her felt that she’d deserve it, what with what she was currently doing on her phone.
What she’d been doing for the last thirty minutes.
What about this? she typed, looking at the photo one more time before pressing send.
Hate it! came the immediate reply. It’s a turtleneck
Layla frowned at herself in the mirror, then typed back: It has short sleeves though. It’s a summer turtleneck. I thought kind of sophisticated looking
You look like you’re going to someone’s wake
Cara, jeez
Why is everything you’ve shown me gray or brown!!
Layla winced, backed up the two steps it took her to sag onto the bed. She did not want to type back, Because most of what I brought is gray or brown, because I was trying to be aggressively neutral, because I was trying to blend in.
She saw the typing bubbles pop up again.
I’m not sitting here on my day off, when I SHOULD be napping, to have you pick something gray or brown for a D A T E!
Immediately, Layla flushed with embarrassment.
It had been an impulse to text Cara with this, an uncharacteristic one.
No cheery, dishonest flag emojis, not even a more neutral mirror selfie with a quick Does this look okay?
which would also have been uncharacteristic, but not as immediately un-Layla-like as what she’d actually sent, which was:
I am going out for dinner with the best man at this wedding and have no idea what to wear.
She had definitely not said it was a date.
This was a mistake.
I’m sorry, Layla typed quickly, pressing send. She knew better than anyone that uninterrupted sleep on a day off was the holy grail for ED docs, Cara especially, who worked even more relentlessly than Layla did.
Cara sent back the eye roll emoji.
Then added, Stop being sorry, this is what friends are for! Now tell me what you have that is not Great Depression colors
Layla blew out a breath, tried not to think too hard about the this is what friends are for comment and what it really meant, coming from Cara. You’re-allowed-to-hate-him Cara. You-can-tell-me Cara.
You-should-not-go-to-this-wedding Cara.
She typed, Is black a Great Depression color
Sexy black? Or funeral black
Layla stood from the bed again, went to the slim armoire built into the narrow space between the bed and window.
Inside, she’d hung her most delicate things, including a black wrap top that she’d brought to wear beneath a—Fine!
Fine, beige!—blazer. On its own, without a camisole beneath it, it would be low-cut, a deeper V than Layla was used to wearing, its extra short, gauzy, petal-style sleeves decidedly not funerary.
Smokestack black, she thought.
She tugged off the turtleneck. Changed her bra. Ignored her phone pinging once, then twice, Cara probably saying, I stg, if it’s another turtleneck Layla.
Slipped into the top, wrapping the long ends of it around her waist. She remembered trying it on, liking this part of it—a little secret hug you made for yourself when you got dressed, one that hung on to you for however long you wore it.
Beneath the blazer, it was meant to be a private form of comfort.
By itself, it looked different.
She still had on the same straight-cut, ankle-length black pants that had looked business casual with the tucked-in turtleneck—the sophisticated summer turtleneck, the Great Depression turtleneck.
Now, with the top tied, a deep V at her chest, a silky, trailing bow above her hip, they were night-out pants, pants that would show the narrowest slice of skin if Layla moved just so.
She thought of the ballroom garden at Versailles: Griffin’s hand on her lower back, over her boring Breton-stripe shirt, no chance of a slice of her unclothed skin in the mix.
She thought, too, of opening the curtain of that dressing room at the Galeries, Griffin’s eyes all over her even when she was all covered up.
Her phone pinged again.
Before she could stop herself, she picked it up and stood in front of the mirror, snapping another selfie.
Pressed send.
Sexy black! Cara wrote back, immediately.
Followed by the drooling emoji.
Layla used the little eye roll guy back.
Smiled down at her phone as she watched the typing bubble come up again, oddly delighted.
She realized that it had been a long time since she and Cara had texted this way—light and teasing and not weighted by Cara’s gentle prodding after Layla’s state of mind, and Layla’s practiced answers about how well she was doing, how work was keeping her so busy, how all the travel was so good for her.
How therapy was going great, how she had really started to make peace about the divorce.
She started to type, too, her and Cara in their little messaging bubbles on different sides of the same ocean.
I missed this, she wrote, then backspaced. That was too heavy for the moment, too honest. It would make Cara worry, which she still didn’t want.
I’m sort of nervous, she tried, but deleted that, too.
She didn’t want to admit even to herself that she was nervous, nervous in a different way than she had been for every other cursed event of this wedding week so far.
She was date nervous. Butterflies-in-her-stomach nervous, which had nothing to do with what she was doing tonight.
Tonight was a rescue. Two pretend-friends who were both liabilities, staying out of the way for the sake of the wedding’s success.
Anyway, he could still cancel.
She watched as Cara’s bubble disappeared, too, and for a second, the room felt stunningly, sadly quiet. Layla tapped at the side of her phone, feeling lost in translation. There had been a time, once upon a time, where she told Cara everything.
Put on some heels, Cara finally sent through, and Layla let out her breath, both relieved and disappointed.
She moved back to the armoire, looked down at the tidy row of shoes she’d lined up last night before bed, desperate to do something orderly to distract her from the boat cruise, the Galeries, the deal with Griffin she’d agreed to.
She should probably wear flats. They were beige, but then again, there was all the walking. And also, this was not a date.
In her hand, her phone pinged again.
Probably him canceling, she thought, shoring herself up.