Griffin did remember. Michael’s parents had included him in a lot of stuff, once upon a time, including some holidays with their extended family. At first, it was awkward, the introductions around unfamiliar rooms, usually made by Michael’s mom, Paula.This is Griffin, she would say so cheerfully, everything a pleasant exclamation.He’s a friend of Michael’s from school! His mom is working today, so he’s hanging with us!
People always made a little noise at that, an intonation to their welcomes that suggested their pity. But Griffin never felt like he needed anyone’s pity, because he had Michael for his best friend, and that was more than a lot of people had.
I shouldn’t care about the way she looks at me, he told himself.I shouldn’t care about her hair up, her earrings, her nerves on the day of her wedding. I shouldn’t care about that anxious look she’s trying to hide.
“The bell tower, yeah,” Griff said, picturing the movie now, the redheaded, crooked-faced cartoon sitting on top of a gargoyle, looking out at a pink-and-purple-washed city Griffin could barely acknowledge he was actually in. “I remember.”
Michael nodded, and it was as easy as that: a settled truce between them. Griffin’s criticism of Emily, his sharp reply about sightseeing—all of it, forgotten. Sometimes, Griffin thought, this kind of conflict resolution was all that he and Michael were capable of now. Any other option had been scorched away on a single, horrifying night fifteen years ago.
Michael’s phone had gone dark in his hand, the distraction of playing tour guide for Griffin faded. His gaze gone to the middle distance.
Layla Bailey, Griffin thought, like an idea he had to get used to.
“I can’t imagine losing her,” Michael said.
Griffin watched as his friend’s throat bobbed in a thick swallow.
And he knew, heknewwhat would come next: could almost see Michael’s next words before he said them, little flutters of black ash blowing across this blue sky.
Griffin braced himself.
“Or maybe the problem is that I can,” Michael finally said, his voice quiet.
And right then, Griffin was glad to have forgotten his sunglasses. Glad to stare out again, unsquinting, into this too-pristine park and the huge, gallant buildings that surrounded it, all of it bathed in a ruthless brightness that made his eyes water. He would burn this place, this moment, into his mind. He would have an impression of it every time he closed his eyes, so that he wouldn’t be able to forget it next time, no matter whether Layla Bailey was near him or not.
No more nighttime walks or knee-jerk reactions, no more stomping down windowless corridors to knock on some woman’s door without a plan. No more longing for a dark dungeon to hide in.
Not for the next week.
What Michael needed now was a different Griffin: a daytime Griffin, a Griffin who’dtrainedfor this, a Griffin who slowed down enough to think straight, a Griffin who showed his full face in the light, no matter who stared at it.
And if that was a Griffin he couldn’t quite remember, then he would remember the other things: the teal chair next to his hospital bed,The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, the reason Michael could imagine losing Emily.
He would find Layla Bailey again, and if she couldn’t fix it alone, he’d find a way to fix it with her.
He could do it for one week.
Chapter Seven
“Thank god you’re here.”
Rosie said it with one slight, precise emphasis, exactly where Layla needed it.
Thank godyou’rehere.
That emphasis—it put Layla back into a version of herself she better recognized.
Nota version where she sat alone in a courtyard café, staring at a man’s coffee cup, heart racing, wondering what in the world she had agreed to.
Instead, a version who didn’t waste time wondering. A version who got the job done.
She had Rosie to thank, because Rosie was the one who texted her: a vibration that finally got Layla’s eyes off the coffee cup, the dark, untouched drink like the lightest part of Griffin Testa’s eyes.
Come up to Emily’s room, the text said.
Then, another.It’s Rosie, btw
And one more, when Layla was standing from her seat:
