What she’d been doing for the last thirty minutes.
What about this?she typed, looking at the photo one more time before pressing send.
Hate it!came the immediate reply.It’s a turtleneck
Layla frowned at herself in the mirror, then typed back:It has short sleeves though. It’s a summer turtleneck. I thought kind of sophisticated looking
You look like you’re going to someone’s wake
Cara, jeez
Why is everything you’ve shown me gray or brown!!
Layla winced, backed up the two steps it took her to sag onto the bed. She did not want to type back,Because most of what I brought is gray or brown, because I was trying to be aggressively neutral, because I was trying to blend in.
She saw the typing bubbles pop up again.
I’m not sitting here on my day off, when I SHOULD be napping, to have you pick something gray or brown for a D A T E!
Immediately, Layla flushed with embarrassment. It had been an impulse to text Cara with this, an uncharacteristic one. No cheery, dishonest flag emojis, not even a more neutral mirror selfie with a quickDoes this look okay?which would also have been uncharacteristic, but not as immediately un-Layla-like as what she’dactuallysent, which was:
I am going out for dinner with the best man at this wedding and have no idea what to wear.
She had definitelynotsaid it was a date.
This was a mistake.
I’m sorry, Layla typed quickly, pressing send. She knew better than anyone that uninterrupted sleep on a day off was the holy grail for ED docs, Cara especially, who worked even more relentlessly than Layla did.
Cara sent back the eye roll emoji.
Then added,Stop being sorry, this is what friends are for! Now tell me what you have that is not Great Depression colors
Layla blew out a breath, tried not to think too hard about thethis is what friends are forcomment and what it really meant, coming from Cara.You’re-allowed-to-hate-himCara.You-can-tell-meCara.
You-should-not-go-to-this-weddingCara.
She typed,Is black a Great Depression color
Sexy black? Or funeral black
Layla stood from the bed again, went to the slim armoire built into the narrow space between the bed and window. Inside, she’d hung her most delicate things, including a black wrap top that she’d brought to wear beneath a—Fine! Fine,beige!—blazer. On its own, without a camisole beneath it, it would be low-cut, a deeper V than Layla was used to wearing, its extra short, gauzy, petal-style sleeves decidedly not funerary.
Smokestack black, she thought.
She tugged off the turtleneck. Changed her bra. Ignored her phone pinging once, then twice, Cara probably saying,I stg, if it’s another turtleneck Layla.
Slipped into the top, wrapping the long ends of it around her waist. She remembered trying it on, liking this part of it—a little secret hug you made for yourself when you got dressed, one that hung on to you for however long you wore it. Beneath the blazer, it was meant to be a private form of comfort.
By itself, it looked different.
She still had on the same straight-cut, ankle-length black pants that had looked business casual with the tucked-in turtleneck—thesophisticated summerturtleneck, theGreat Depressionturtleneck. Now, with the top tied, a deep V at her chest, a silky, trailingbow above her hip, they were night-out pants, pants that would show the narrowest slice of skin if Layla moved just so.
She thought of the ballroom garden at Versailles: Griffin’s hand on her lower back, over her boring Breton-stripe shirt, no chance of a slice of her unclothed skin in the mix. She thought, too, of opening the curtain of that dressing room at the Galeries, Griffin’s eyes all over her even when she was all covered up.
Her phone pinged again.
Before she could stop herself, she picked it up and stood in front of the mirror, snapping another selfie.
