Michael needed Emily, and Emily was—
“Which museum?” Griffin said, when they stepped onto the elevator.
“Rodin,” Michael said, and Griffin tried not to be relieved that it wasn’t the Louvre.
Still, he might’ve liked to see that painting Layla loved so much.
“A lot of outside stuff,” Michael said. “Sculptures.”
“That’s good,” Griffin said, and meant it. Outside would be good for him today, probably. Fresh air always helped.
When they got into the back of the car that Michael ordered, Griffin took out his phone. He did it to not think about Layla, to look up shit about this museum and these sculptures so he wouldn’t have to keep thinking about what it would be like to see her again. What he would say to her once he did.
How he would fix what he’d broken. If he should even try.
But of course, even the phone reminded him of her. Of being next to her on the train, passing it back and forth. She wouldsquint, sometimes, and he wondered if she wore reading glasses ever. He should’ve asked her that last night, not that it mattered. He shook his head, frustrated with himself. Navigated to a page with a list of the outdoor sculptures, started scrolling.
Stopped and blinked at what he saw.
He couldn’t help but let out a huff of ironic laughter.
“Figures,” he said to himself, staring down at the little screen.
“What?” Michael said from beside him.
Griffin had to admit: For a second, he’d almost forgotten his friend was there.
“Nothing,” Griffin said, pressing the button to black out his screen again. “Just realized we’re about to seeThe Gates of Hell.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Honestly, I would.”
“Ro! Keep your voice down!”
Inside one of the many gorgeous, glossy parquet floor rooms of the Musée Rodin, Emily scolded her best friend gently, with a laugh in her voice—a light and welcome sound after the van ride over here, when Em had been reticent, obviously frustrated with Michael’s decision to go get Griffin if it meant separating from the group.
Since Layla had been at least partially responsible for that decision—not that Emily had noticed her quiet suggestion to Michael—she was grateful for Rosie’s relentless sense of good humor.
Especially because Layla didn’t feel like she had much to spare this morning.
“What’s it called?” Rosie said, moving to another side of the pedestal, looking for the sculpture’s placard. When she found it, her eyes widened delightedly. “Man! With! The! Broken! Nose!” she whisper-exclaimed.
“Oh my god,” Em said to Layla. “I know where she’s going with this.”
“This is Rodin predicting hockey romance book heroes,” Rosie said.
“There it is,” Emily muttered knowingly.
“Don’t act like you don’t read them!” Rosie turned to Layla. “Doyouread them? I for one am deep in my fantasy era right now, sort of a more magical creatures instead of men situation, but if hockey sounds like something you’d be into, I have some rec—”
“I don’t,” said Layla, maybe too abruptly. Not because she would not, in fact, take a book recommendation from Rosie—honestly, at this point, she probably would’ve taken a piercing recommendation from Rosie—but because she didnotwant to think about romance.
In any context.
Layla watched as Emily’s eyes drifted ahead into the next room, where Fitz and Paula had advanced to. Even after only a bit of time with them—the lobby, the van, the time they’d spent inside the museum so far—Layla had observed that Fitz treated sightseeing like he was going to be quizzed at the end. He would bend to read the placards, barely looking at the art itself, his mouth moving as though he was committing it to memory. Maybe in someone else she would find that endearing, but she was currently holding a grudge against this man she hardly knew.
On behalf of some other man that shealsohardly knew.
