“Whatare you even saying?” she said, her voice louder than he’d ever heard it, and a thrill went through him.
This was her, the Layla he’d only seen in little glimpses.
The Layla she only showed to him.
“It’s just two people,” he said, the suspicion in him rising now, the frustration at a fever pitch.
It hadn’t embarrassed her to see those people.
It hadhurther.
“Two people kissing,” he said. “Awkward to be next to, okay. But not a reason to run.”
She raised her chin, defiant. But she didn’t respond.
“Is that,” he repeated, enunciating each word, “how he kissed you?”
He could see her chest rising and falling. He took another step toward her. Behind them, he could still hear the noise of therestaurant, but a half block down, it was so much quieter. If there were people nearby, he didn’t notice.
“Layla,” he said.
“No.”
It wasn’t loud enough to be called an exclamation.
Not loud enough, but emphatic enough.
“No, what?”
She closed her eyes briefly, swallowed. When she opened them again, she looked straight at him and said, “No. He never kissed me like that. Like I was—likewewere the only two people in the…in the universe. Not on my honeymoon. Not…”
She trailed off.
“Not ever?” He did not mean it to sound so fucking hopeful.
“I don’t—” She broke off, bit the inside of her cheek, her lips tightening with the motion. Plumping again when she finally readied herself to speak. “I don’t think ever. I don’t remember ever.”
Obviously, Griffin already hated him. Hated him first for being half a liability to Michael’s wedding. Hated him more for getting on that boat with a new girlfriend, for leaving the poor woman to get sick alone over the side of it. Hated him today for bowing gallantly before a dance, and for hearing that he’d left Layla alone, even for a single afternoon, on her honeymoon.
But now—now, hearing this?
He might have hated him more than he’d ever hated anyone.
Including himself.
“He should have,” he said.
She shrugged.
Shrugged. It made him so angry he wanted to shake her.
“He’s a piece of shit,” he said instead.
“He’s not,” she answered immediately. “You don’t even know him. He’s a good person. I told you, it was ami—hey!”
He’d taken the final step toward her; he’d grabbed her hand. His left hand, that’s what he used, because it was most convenient, and he didn’t care that it made an inexplicable spot on his thigh radiate with pain. He held her fast anyway, pulled her to the corner. Then to the left, down a different street, darker and less remarkable.
“What are youdoing?” she said, slightly behind him, but he didn’t answer yet. He walked until he didn’t feel his pulling hip or his straining knee anymore, maybe another half block. He didn’t stop until he saw something he wanted: a deep-set doorway, tucked beneath a stone arch. A gabled overhang above, sturdier than an awning. A dim light tucked into its rafters, flickering slightly.
