“Rosie,” she said, keeping her voice low. “How about you go pick up a couple of croissants? Some hot tea?”
Rosie stood again, wobbly but with a little light in her eyes.
“Yes! Pastries! That is such a good idea! I will be in charge of pastries. And tea!”
She was already shoving her feet into a pair of thick-soled sneakers, not bothering with socks. She had on a pair of flared yoga pants and a neon-green T-shirt cut off into a crop top that absolutely looked slept in. Her hair was…not brushed.
Layla thought,You can’t go out intoParislikethat!but then the faucet shut off, and Rosie’s eyes widened with panic as she looked up at Layla again.
“She knows you were on your way up,” she said. “Just tell her I’ll be right back. I need fresh air before I see her again, so I don’t say the thing about her being crazy! I’mliterallyon the verge!”
Clearly, she meant it: Right as the bathroom door opened, the door to the room closed softly behind Rosie’s retreating form.
Leaving Layla alone to face whatever she had done.
* * *
At first, mostly it was more crying.
Emily came out of the bathroom and crumpled against Layla’s shoulder, fresh tears soaking through her shirt within seconds. When Emily finally lifted her face long enough to swipe a hand across her reddened, puffy nose, Layla gently guided hertoward the non-tissue-splattered bed, patting her back and encouraging her to take deep breaths.
Patience, Layla knew, was a virtue—an important part of getting to good information,trueinformation from someone in a crisis. Were they really staying away from cigarettes, had they truly been consistent with their medication, was there some symptom they were too embarrassed to mention?
But as the minutes ticked by, patience started to feel like a liability. Like Emily would never manage to dam up her tears, like tonight would get canceled purely because she’d drowned in them.
Layla decided to be proactive.
“Em,” she began, ignoring the nerves that crested inside her at the thought of confronting this directly. “Whatever I said last night—”
It was all she managed to get out before Emily swung her wet, devastated gaze straight at Layla’s face.
“You talked to Michael?” she said, her voice high and anxious. “What did he say? Did he…How is he?”
Talk about a symptom Layla was too embarrassed to mention.
But she wouldn’t lie, not now.
“I didn’t talk to Michael,” she admitted. “I talked to Griffin.”
Something shifted in Emily’s expression. Less devastation, more…frustration.
“Oh, I’m surehe’sthrilled,” she said, an ironic little laugh escaping her, and Layla felt her brow lower.
Griffin Testa was definitelynotthrilled.
Not about this, and also probably not about…anything, actually. Layla could picture him being presented with a birthday cake or a box of puppies or a straightforward solution to climate change, and simply staring at all of it in bored, judgmental disgust.
“Why would you say that?”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t think he likes me. He’s never been all that nice to me.”
You should see him with a box of puppies, Layla thought.
“Some people aren’t nice,” she said instead, annoyance leaking into her tone.
This has to happen for him, she could hear him saying.
“He mentioned that it was something I said,” she prompted again.
