“I’ve heard,” he ground out.
“Anyway—” She broke off, waved her glass of wine in thedirection of where Layla sat, tucked between Emily and Manon, head bent toward her former mother-in-law, a smile on her face. “She’s handling it magnificently.”
She’s a fucking liar, Griffin thought, and this time, he didn’t try hiding the way his gaze went to her. A violet sky above, halos of light from the string of white globes draped in a crisscross pattern high above the table, some of the city lights starting to twinkle on behind her. They were stopped now—the boat did that, apparently, at particularly memorable places, and one of the waiters would provide a brief history lesson—and he’d noticed that when it did, Layla was a little more like she’d been this morning: She didn’t look around, instead focusing her attention first on whatever the waiter-slash-tour-guide was saying, and then on conversation with Emily, or now Manon, or even Samantha, who sat across the table from Layla, one side of her body always pressed tight to her date’s.
Only once had Layla looked up to meet Griffin’s eyes: right before the boat had passed under one of the bridges, a dark arch swallowing thickly, the lights over the table like weak candle flames inside the belly of a whale.
For a split second, he thought that look in her eyes was saying something completely different thanWatch me.
He thought it was saying,Save me, and he’d felt the hand that had been on her arm suffuse with a heat that set his teeth on edge.
But by the time the boat emerged again, she’d been back to how she was now: easy conversation, easy smile. The most amicable person in the world.
“So how long have you known the groom?”
Céline again, newly emboldened—as though she thought she’d earned the right to ask him a question, now that she had provided him with information he’d actually requested.
Across the table, Rosie with the piercings perked up, having looked fairly disconsolate since the tuna (“It’s cold,” she’d said, upon taking her first bite, and the woman beside her—Damaris, Griffin thought it was—had informed her gently that the tuna was, in fact, raw).
“Oh, yeah,” Rosie said. “I want to know, too!”
“Forever,” Griffin said curtly, another lie, but one that felt close to truth. Griffin and his mother moved next door to Michael’s family when Griffin was six years old, and his memories before that were pretty minimal, anyway.
He had the feeling Céline and Rosie were sharing an irritated look, but that was fine. He was grateful for the reminder. He turned his attention toward Michael, who looked decidedly more relaxed now—Layla’s amicable magic, apparently, doing the trick. When Emily swallowed a sip of wine and leaned in to press a spontaneous kiss to Michael’s cheek, Griffin watched his friend smile and reach out gratefully for his fiancée’s hand.
Fine, Griffin thought in Layla’s direction.Lie all you want, then, so long as it’s working. So long as Michael can have this.
As if she heard him, she looked up and met his eyes, her smile flickering at the edges. A little bit belly-of-the-whale again.
He set his warm palm against the leg of his pants, ignoring the memory of her skin. He was not a person she could look to for saving.
The sound of silverware clinking deliberately against glass reset the moment, everyone looking to where Emily’s father was rising from his seat, a fast-forwarded version of his son. Griffin supposed it wasn’t fair to dislike him on that basis alone, but also he’d heard this man call Layla a ridiculous nickname, so no points in his favor, either.
“Watch,” Céline said, presumably to Rosie. “He’s going to start by saying he doesn’t like public speaking.”
“Good evening, everyone,” Robert began, his voice pitched deeper than when he’d introduced himself to Griff at the beginning of the night. “It’s not my favorite thing to make speeches—”
Rosie snorted quietly.
“—but it’s so special for my wife and me to welcome you all here for this week honoring my daughter and Michael.”
Griffin took another sip of his tepid water. Women didn’t get names in this man’s speeches, apparently. Maybe more nicknames would be forthcoming.
“While we’re missing Michael’s parents tonight, who won’t be with us until tomorrow, we do think of this evening as a special occasion—before the party expands as the week goes on and more guests arrive, this is a chance for us to connect with those people who are closest to us.”
Griffin couldn’t resist another look at Layla, but from here, he saw nothing amiss at this mention ofpeople who are closest. Relaxed but still upright posture, one forearm resting lightly on the table, fingers gently set on the stem of her wineglass, face tipped up toward Robert. In the near distance, over her right shoulder, the vast length of the Musée d’Orsay—“in the Beaux-Arts style,” the server had said—was bathed in soft, pinkish-gold light, but for its two clock faces. Those looked ruthlessly white, a pair of wide eyes taking in the show.
“As I think all of you know, Paris is a special city to our family. Manon first brought me here in…”
Griffin stopped listening, shifting in his chair. What the hell was wrong with these people, anyway, treating this entire city likeit was some kind of familial entry test? Michael hadn’t told him all this history when he’d let Griffin know about the wedding.
“…and to Layla, who is still like a daughter to us,” Robert said, cutting off one annoyed direction of Griff’s thoughts and sending them down another, even more annoying path.
Beside him, Céline made a quiettsk, one that seemed like it was for Griffin’s ears alone.
“We are so happy you came. Our hearts are so full to have you back with us.”
Involuntarily, Griffin let out a noise of his own—not unlike that muffled grunt from earlier, morphing into a half cough, half throat clear. It was loud enough to draw attention: everyone from the opposite side of the table looking his way, this man who actually did seem to like making speeches lifting his eyes from Layla to crane his neck toward where Griffin sat.
