He moved his hand, sliding it across the expanse of mattress between them. Taking hers, and twining their fingers together.
“I would, too.”
It was no kind of vow, not that she wanted one. Not that she was sure whether she would ever want one of those again.
But it was something. Something beyond this week. Beyond whatever happened today.
And that’s when her phone—newly set with its pager-sound notification—blared its intrusion into the room.
Chapter Thirty
Rehearsal breakfast is on!said the text, which Layla looked at for a long time, unsure about that exclamation.
On the one hand, Manon was an exclamation-type person: how she delivered compliments, welcomes; how she received gifts, new people, news. So getting a text from her with one—a group text, no less, sent to all the guests—was not surprising.
On the other hand, Layla simply could not grasp how it was an exclamation-type morning.
Not after the looks on everyone’s faces at the open house last night, once it was clear that Michael and Emily were leaving, looking taut and pale and doomed.
Not after knowing what Michael had to tell Emily.
Even if theyhadpatched it up—and Layla genuinely hoped they had—the breeziness from Manon struck her oddly.
Still, she was resolved as she walked back to the rental: freshly showered and back in her spreadsheet-planned outfit (“Rehearsal Morning: cream cardigan, olive green midi, beige heels”), prepared for what certainly sounded—judging by that exclamation—like a long day of pre-wedding and actual wedding events.
Were it not for the man walking beside her, she might have mistaken herself for the Layla of a few days ago, determined to plaster on an amicable smile, wearing her neutrals and wanting togo along, toget through it.
But she was not that Layla anymore.
And Griffin was beside her.
Quiet—increasingly, concerningly quiet—but still.
Beside her.
She stopped at the last turnoff, the one that would take them the remaining few steps to the apartment, and turned to him.
“I can go in first. If you want.”
A double-checking, that’s what she was doing. Earlier this morning, before she’d left his room to go back to her own, he’d been the one to suggest it—them going in together.
It’s not a secret, he said.I’m tired of secrets.
She’d been happy to say yes. Relieved and also strangely hopeful—as though their shared decision to show up to the breakfast together would somehow be the right sort of omen for how it worked out between Michael and Emily, free of their own secrets now, too.
Newly committed, about to be newlyweds.
Now, though, only a few steps away—already running a few minutes behind—Layla could not be sure he hadn’t changed his mind. It was his reticence, but it was also something else. Last-minute nerves, insecurity, cold feet. Like a groom on his wedding day.
“No,” he answered, which—even after every other interaction she’d had with him—seemed unusually curt.
Something must’ve shown on her face, and he reached up a hand, scrubbed it over the right side of his own.
“Sorry. Just, you know. Not sure what we’ll find in there.Would’ve rather—” He broke off, dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Would’ve rather heard from Michael.”
She nodded, getting it. His own way of being bothered by that exclamation point. She waited for whatever his next move would be, but fortunately, she didn’t have to wait for long. After only a few seconds, he stepped forward and took her hand in his before they continued on their way.
Almost as soon as they walked in, though, Layla was no longer hopeful.
