He was fucking nervous.
This whole thing—he might’ve overshot it. It might be too soon. Too complicated.
Against his right leg, his phone vibrated with a notification, and he was pretty sure he knew who it was. He slid his eyes to Layla, who was smiling down at her own phone, probably texting with Cara, so he reached into his pocket and took his out, too, tilting the screen slightly away from her.
Did you do it yet?
Michael, as expected.
Not until we’re in the air, Griff replied.
He watched as the bubbles popped up, then disappeared. Popped up again. Disappeared.
Christ, Griffin thought.He’s going to tell me not to do it. Waits until I’m on the plane to tell me not to do it.
I told Em, came Michael’s eventual reply.SORRY
Griffin smiled as he typed back:I knew you would.
Michael and Emily were pretty anti-secrets these days, at leastwhen it came to each other. About six months ago, they’d pulled off a pretty big one, sneaking away—alone—to City Hall on a Thursday afternoon to get married, hopping a flight for a weekend trip right after. They hadn’t told anyone until they were safely ensconced in their beachside hotel room, sending around a set of photos: hands joined as they stood before the judge, their first kiss as husband and wife, a selfie from their honeymoon balcony, backlit by an orange sunset over the glowing ocean.
In the weeks after, Griffin and Layla had heard about the fallout—Griff from Michael, Layla from Emily—that had come from both the MacKenzies and the Placketts, no matter that Michael and Emily had promised a small family celebration later. Whether that would eventually happen—and whether Griff and Layla would make an appearance at it—was still up in the air.
She’s gonna like it, Michael texted.
She likes her plans, Griffin replied.
She’ll like it, Michael texted.Em says so. Good luck.
Then, the flight attendant—speaking first in rich, musical-sounding Italian before switching to accented English—announced that the cabin door was closing.
Thanks, Mikey, Griffin typed, and shut off his phone.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, he was ready to do it.
He had a window for making it work, he knew. In first class, no matter the amount of coffee, Layla would fall asleep, out like a light, no eye mask necessary. She had her book out already, a Rick Steves guide to Florence and Tuscany, which she’d already tabbed with brightly colored sticky notes. By this point, she had tohave been over this book so many times that it would bore her into sleep.
Because she likesplans, he thought, and almost lost his nerve.
But then he remembered.
He remembered that she liked him—no, shelovedhim—she had told him hundreds of times now, the first time carved like a sculpture set on his heart. He remembered her skin under a specific sky, remembered a tower of gold. He remembered how they’d started, how they’d both become something new.
He remembered that she liked when he made plans of his own. For himself or for her or for them both.
So he leaned forward in his seat, reached around to his back pocket.
Stopped when the plane’s speaker crackled to life. When he heard the wordmedico, and felt Layla straighten in her seat beside him.
No, Griffin thought.Fuckingno.
“Seriously?” Layla whispered in stunned disbelief, which at least made him feel less alone in his knee-jerk annoyed response to a medical emergency.
The announcement was in English now, a call for a doctor on the plane, and Griffin sat back, deflated but resigned. Obviously, if someone was in need of—
“Anyone?” the flight attendant said now, and Griffin raised his eyes as Layla was unhooking her seat belt. The flight attendant, he thought, looked a little cheeky for making this sort of announcement—he didn’t see what there was to fucking smile about, if someone needed a doctor.
