Pressed send.
Sexy black!Cara wrote back, immediately.
Followed by the drooling emoji.
Layla used the little eye roll guy back. Smiled down at her phone as she watched the typing bubble come up again, oddly delighted. She realized that it had been a long time since she and Cara had texted this way—light and teasing and not weighted by Cara’s gentle prodding after Layla’s state of mind, and Layla’s practiced answers about how well she was doing, how work was keeping her so busy, how all the travel was so good for her.
How therapy was going great, how she had really started tomake peaceabout the divorce.
She started to type, too, her and Cara in their little messaging bubbles on different sides of the same ocean.
I missed this, she wrote, then backspaced. That was too heavy for the moment, too honest. It would make Cara worry, which she still didn’t want.
I’m sort of nervous, she tried, but deleted that, too. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that she was nervous, nervous in a different way than she had been for every other cursed event ofthis wedding week so far. She wasdatenervous. Butterflies-in-her-stomach nervous, which had nothing to do with what she was doing tonight. Tonight was a rescue. Two pretend-friends who were both liabilities, staying out of the way for the sake of the wedding’s success.
Anyway, he could still cancel.
She watched as Cara’s bubble disappeared, too, and for a second, the room felt stunningly, sadly quiet. Layla tapped at the side of her phone, feeling lost in translation. There had been a time, once upon a time, where she told Cara everything.
Put on some heels, Cara finally sent through, and Layla let out her breath, both relieved and disappointed.
She moved back to the armoire, looked down at the tidy row of shoes she’d lined up last night before bed, desperate to do something orderly to distract her from the boat cruise, the Galeries, the deal with Griffin she’d agreed to.
She should probably wear flats. They were beige, but then again, there was all the walking. And also, this wasnota date.
In her hand, her phone pinged again.
Probably him canceling, she thought, shoring herself up.
But it was Cara again, short and simple.
And Layla?
Yeah?
Have a great fucking time out in Paris tonight.
* * *
Luckily,the heels were comfortable.
Not flats comfortable, not clogs-for-the-hospital comfortable, but night-out-in-Paris comfortable. Good-with-her-outfit comfortable. Black velvet, block heel, a little platform. An open toe, and thank god she’d had a (neutral) pedicure before coming. When she got into the mirrored elevator again, she thought of herself two nights ago, dressed in demure blue.
Now, she thought she looked like the better part of a bruise.
He was waiting when she emerged: in the lobby like he had been this morning, but this time, standing. Staring toward the glass doors, hatless, and he’d shaved since she last saw him. Clearly, his outfit had not taken any additional planning time, because it was, as usual, all black: shoes, pants, one of those soft-looking long-sleeved shirts again.
But it didn’t seem so remote to her now. It didn’t seem so rudely lazy.
It seemed like theymatched.
“Hello,” she said, when she got close, trying to close an imaginary fist around every single one of those pesky butterflies in her belly.
At least one—atleastone—still flapped wildly when he turned to look at her.
He did not return herhello, but she felt his roaming eyes like a greeting anyway. Top to open-toe, and then back up, lingering, for the most perfect few seconds.
First at the V.
