As she nudged her way past Layla into the room, she added, inexplicably, “But not abillionaire.”
Layla’s cheek tucked in again, a little bite she was taking from the inside. Trying not to laugh was better than crying, but he didn’t see what was funny about getting price-gouged by a person with a diamond chip stuck in their face.
A door clicked open behind Layla, and seconds later, Emily was there beside her, her puffy eyes locked on to Michael’s.
“Hi,” she whispered shakily, and Griffin watched as his best friend’s chin quivered a tiny amount, right as his arms opened.
Emily stepped straight into them, tucking her face against Michael’s chest as his head lowered toward hers, his lips pressing against her mussed hair.
Griffin didnotlook at Layla.
“It was the CHAMPAGNE!” Rosie shouted randomly from inside the room, but Emily and Michael didn’t seem to hear. Emily murmured something against Michael’s shirt, and he nodded, then separated from her only long enough to start guiding her away.
“Uh,” Griff said, which was not one of his finer moments, in a lifetime of not-fine moments.
“They need some time,” said Layla, because neither Michael nor Emily was bothering to look back.
He turned toward Layla again. He didn’t like the way she said that. It had none of the unbothered optimism of Rosie shoving her way into the room, yelling about champagne.
“Did you fix it?” he said.
Her jaw ticked. Better than the blank stare. “I’m going back to my—”
“Layla,” Rosie interrupted, coming up behind her and holding out the white bag, “take the rest of these croissants. I already ate a donut thingy on the way back. One of those long ones. With cream inside.”
An éclair, Griffin thought, at the same time Layla said, “An éclair.”
Fine. Her pronunciation was not terrible. Based on his little Rosetta Stone lessons.
“I felt like I was in a porno eating it,” Rosie said, and Laylapractically snatched the bag out of her hands, muttering something Griffin didn’t catch.
Rosie snickered, then added, “Want one of these hot chocolates? I think it’s basically a war crime here to take them to go, so you might as well enjoy the spoils of my ruining a French barista’s morning.”
“Sure,” Layla said. Griffin thought it sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.
Rosie handed over the cup, and Layla managed a quick “See you later” before stepping fully into the hallway, using the hand still holding the bag to close the door behind her.
When she looked up, Griffin raised an eyebrow. He was not, generally, the lesser of two evils in any given interpersonal environment. At least Rosie made her laugh, which he would most certainly never manage to do.
It was subtle, but he saw it—the way her shoulders drooped the smallest amount. A clear confirmation of his not-the-lesser-evil status. Standing with that gray door behind her, no natural light in the narrow passage of the hall, she looked washed-out, tired. The pink in her cheeks from before drained away now.
He cleared his throat, about to offer to pay for the croissants. Just so he’d have something to say.
But she spoke first, her voice as quiet as Emily’s had been. “I don’t know.”
He stared at her, confused. “What?”
“I don’t know if I fixed it.”
Oh. Right.
“Tonight is on,” she added. “But I don’t know about everything else.”
He waited for a familiar feeling to come over him—frustration,impatience, irritation. If they were there—in his body, his mind—he couldn’t access them.
But if she was waiting forhimto say something consoling, something kind—something like,It’s okay—he couldn’t access that, either.
He thought of sitting in that strange, squared-off park with Michael, everything pretty and pristine, the clear sky a rare robin’s-egg blue.
