You’re lying, a little voice nudged her.You do know him now. You know he has panic attacks and he tastes like chocolate soufflé. You know he hurts. You know he hated putting you in that car.
But she ignored it.
“How’d it go with them last night?” she said to Emily now, giving it her best big-sister voice, taking advantage of Rosie’s distraction (posing for a selfie besideMan with the Broken Nose).
“Reallygood,” said Emily. “It was a smaller group, becauseDamaris and Abram passed, and Jamie took Sam to the opera last night.”
Layla was very proud not to react at all to that. At the moment, she could not even really remember the night Jamie had takenherto the opera, all those years ago.
“And I know I already texted you this, but seriously, you taking Griffin to dinner wassogood.”
Layladidreact to that. A feigned plucking of a nonexistent piece of fuzz off the front of the stupid summer turtleneck she decided to wear today, which had the advantage of hiding the beard- burn she saw on her skin in the mirror this morning.
“It was no big deal,” Layla said, about what was possibly the biggest deal of her life in a very, very long time, and noted that it felt as bad to say it out loud as it had to text it last night from her bed, when Emily’s all-capsTHANK YOUand string of heart emojis came through.
A few minutes later, Emily had sent a selfie of her and Michael, the huge, twinkle-lit Eiffel Tower in the distance behind them, both of them flushed and happy-looking.We’re out on our own now, talking and being together.
I’m so glad, she wrote back, but afterward, she’d closed her eyes until she could manage the pressure building there.
“I donotunderstand the deal between them,” said Emily now, keeping her voice low. “Michael always says his parents kind of thought Griffin was a bad influence when they were growing up, but like, Mom and Dad know Rosie brought pot brownies to my sweet sixteen, and they’re over it.” She shrugged. “Fitziskind of inflexible, I guess.”
Layla’s eyes wandered back to the man—reading another placard, while Paula waited patiently beside him in an oversize T-shirt that saidPARISon it, like the whole city was an Americanuniversity. This was a choice that struck Layla as way more embarrassing than the fact that Rosie was now recording an Instagram Live over by the window.
“And Griffinissort of a jerk,” Emily added.
For a split second, she wanted to say,I think it’s more than that; I think there’s something else there. I think whatever’s between Michael and Griffin and his parents, you might not know the whole story.
But saying that—she swallowed back a confusing feeling of being tugged in two directions, the middle line of her body stretching uncomfortably. As a sister to Emily, maybe she should. Maybe she should say,Figure out what that’s about before the wedding. If Michael can’t tell you everything, you can’t trust him to tell you anything.
But as a…friendto Griffin, maybe she shouldn’t say anything at all. Maybe she shouldn’t invite any more speculation on the things he apparently kept private.
The thought alone made her face prickle in remembered embarrassment—his rejection of her, her realization of what that rejection might have been about, him sending her away anyway.
Hewassort of a jerk.
She didn’towehim anything.
“I’m going to go catch up to them,” Emily said, preempting Layla from changing course, from resisting that tug in her middle and being the big sister again. “Paula looks bored.”
“Paula looks like she needs a jean jacket,” Rosie said as she slid back in beside them, linking arms with Layla. “It would match her T-shirt.”
Emily giggled. “Hush,” she said, and then walked away, catching up to Fitz and Paula as they disappeared from view.
Rosie tugged on Layla’s arm, moving them into the next room, as gorgeous as the last—its huge, arched windows casting sunlightover the pedestaled sculptures, the figure sketches hung on the walls.
“Okay, we’re alone now,” said Rosie. “Tell meeverything.”
Layla blinked down at Rosie, briefly wondered what they must look like from the outside: Layla like a staid chaperone in this beige turtleneck, hair carefully straightened, makeup light other than the (probably) metric ton of concealer under her eyes; Rosie a wayward, charming charge in a top made out of crocheted squares, four small, unsecured braids peeking out randomly in her hair, a smoky eye that (probably) looked so good because it was left over from last night’s makeup.
“About?” Layla replied, chaperone-sounding, because she couldn’t be sure what Rosie was asking. Had she figured out that things between Emily and Michael were still on unsteady ground? Did she think Layla had some kind of intel on the situation between Michael’s parents and Griffin? Did—
Rosie shook Layla’s arm, letting out a frustrated groan before whispering, “Did you fuck the billionaire?”
“Oh mygod,” Layla echoed Emily, nothing amusing about Rosie’s relentlessness now. Her face wasblazing. “No! Absolutely not. Why would you even—”
Rosie laughed. “I’m teasing! Well, sort of. The truth is, you two on that train yesterday—pretty cozy! Or as cozy as that guy can look, I guess. He’s a bit remote!”
“We were looking at stuff about Versailles,” Layla said, feigning interest in a placard. Nowshefelt like the wayward charge.
