However, things have changed.
Layla isn’t just messing with Nat this time.
She’s going after my new friends.
And I will gladly become a psycho to stop her.
Through the clear, glass windshield, I notice Layla throwing her hands up. She leans forward and I imagine she’s turning the key even harder in the ignition. The car rumbles for a short moment and then dies.
My smile inches up.
Nice job, Emmanuel.
I peer around the corner again. Layla’s still inside her car. It’s hard to see her face as most of it is covered by big, designer sunglasses, but her eyebrows are two taut slashes over the rims. She has her phone to her ear and is moving her arms aggressively.
That annoyed expression won’t shift any time soon.
Not with Emmanuel on speed dial.
It turns out that fixing the church van did, indeed, connect me with more customers—specifically with the Sunday school bus driver, Emmanuel, who works at the only rental car company the next town over.
Emmanuel has been bringing rental cars to our garage since the van was fixed and we developed a professional rapport. Enough so that I felt comfortable to ask him for this favor.
Layla’s car has been remotely disabled. She’s not going anywhere.
Whatever Emmanuel says tips Layla over the edge. She tosses her phone and opens her mouth in what I assume is a lot of frustrated screaming. It’s akin to watching a toddler have a meltdown, except I get to watch the spectacle on ‘mute’.
Layla’s behavior is a little surprising. I didn’t expect the situation to escalate this quickly. Perhaps a woman as beautiful and head-turning as Layla is used to getting her way and she isn’t sure what to do with herself when she doesn’t.
That lack of emotional regulation is working in my favor.
The moment has come for the final piece of my plan.
I send another text.
Riley: It’s time. We’re at The Tipsy Tuna.
Rebel: He’s on his way now.
When I look up, Layla has exited the vehicle and is calling someone.
I situate my phone in the upper pocket of my jumper with the back camera facing outward and stroll casually toward her. Themoment she makes eye contact with me, Layla’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Need some help?” I ask, tilting my head innocently.
“No, I don’t,” she spits.
“Looks like you got car trouble.” I gesture to myself. “I’m a mechanic.”
“I don’t care if you’re a dyslexic Martian. I don’t need your help, okay? Go away.”
There she is.
My mom told me growing up that the easiest way to tell if someone’s wearing a mask is to see who they become when they get angry.
I took my mask off the moment Nat told me that Layla was holding my friend’s proposal hostage.
Now, it’s her turn.
