He’d get up in a second. Once she was back to sleep again.
He didn’t notice that she already was.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In theory, a spa morning was the perfect idea.
Because Layla woke up sore.
Two kinds.
First, from walking: her feet, her calves, her hip flexors.
Second, from Griffin: the space between her legs, her lower abdominals, her heart.
God, her heart. Too hardworking, the whole night, no matter that she kept scolding it.You stay out of this, she told it, countless times, when whatever wave of pleasure he put her through ebbed for a moment, until the next one; when she saw him fighting a sheen of wetness in his eyes at their first joining; when she woke early this morning to find him asleep next to her, his hair a mess and his face finally, fully placid, an expression she had not—never once—seen on him since they’d met.
But in practice, there was no massage on the list for that.
“I picked the one for lymphatic draining,” Manon was saying from across the way, lounging elegantly beside Céline on one of the cream bouclé chairs arranged artfully around this calmingly dim,teak-walled lobby, the scent of eucalyptus wafting from places unseen.
Layla breathed in, trying to enjoy it. To be in the moment.
But even setting aside her heart, her body, too, seemed to be fighting her presence here, unwilling to take in the luxury of the space. It wanted back into Griffin’s bed, the soft, rumpled warmth of it. It wanted to stretch out, feel the twinges left behind by him, not have them rubbed away by someone else, let alone a stranger. It wanted to be next to his, to notice more deliberately the new sensations that collected within her throughout the night. It wanted to flex, to brag, to practice all its newest movements, the ones that felt native to the place of him, already attuned to where not to touch, and where to wander freely.
“It’s slimming!” Manon added, and then repeated the name of her selected massage-menu-item in her perfectly accented French.
At that, Layla’s body finally gave her a break, bringing her back to the moment.
Beside her, she felt Emily tense.
Emily, Layla reminded herself now, the same way she had when she finally forced herself out of Griffin’s bed this morning.It’s tomorrow, she’d told herself, trying not to curl back into him.It’s tomorrow, and you promised you’d be there for Em.
“Even in French, it’s still pseudoscience!” Layla said, and then snapped her mouth closed, widening her eyes down at her lap.
What the hell was that?she thought frantically, even as she tried to recover with a light, polite laugh.
“I’m kidding, of course!” she finally managed, smiling across the way at Manon. “Physician humor. You know me.”
You know me not to ever say anything like that, she thought.You know me not to blithely walk out of a museum and disappear for a whole entire day. You know me to show up on time to spa morning, andnot ten minutes late to the lobby because I couldn’t get out of the best man’s bed, because I had to go back to my own room so you wouldn’t see me in the clothes you saw me in yesterday.
But if Manon was thinking of any of that, too, she didn’t say it. She laughed, right at the same time Emily snort-gasped, and then said, “Pseudoscience started to lookmuchmore appealing when I hit sixty, chérie, I’ll tell you that!”
She clinked her cucumber water glass with the one held by Céline, who was maybe looking slightly askance at Layla, but thankfully, the conversation moved on. The rest of their party this morning—Damaris and Paula, who both seemed a little put off ever since being coaxed into the wispy spa robes they’d been given upon arrival; Rosie, who gave Layla a dramatically unsubtle wink in the lobby and then promptly linked arms with Samantha, as though she were sparing Layla from what she’d clearly assumed, after yesterday, were jealous feelings over Jamie—started chiming in with their own selected menu items.
“Oh my god,” Emily whispered, leaning into Layla’s shoulder. They were huddled on a love seat upholstered in the same bouclé, which had struck Layla in exactly one way when she’d first sat down:Griff would hate the texture of this. But then, Emily had come to sit beside her, and once again, Layla had tried to reset her mind.
Bride, not best man.
“That was hilarious,” Emily continued. “You know she told me to get Botox before the engagement photos?”
Layla pressed her lips together, fearful of another uncharacteristic outburst. But she set a hand on Emily’s knee, squeezing lightly in understanding. It was centering, this touch, flooding her with a rush of affection and tenderness. As much as she genuinely loved Manon—her generosity, her openness, even her vanity, which could be charming in its own way, especially since she was soself-aware about it—this moment of commiseration with Em over Manon feltsisterly. Layla, too, had once been party to Manon’s gentle brand of suggestion, on everything from Layla’s engagement ring (“Oh, a sapphire, I wonder what made him pickthat?”) to the way she and Jamie decorated their first apartment (“I’ve always admired bold colors in a home, even if they’re not for me!”). For the most part, Layla—who had lived without a mom for her whole life—had been weirdly grateful for these maternal intrusions.
But even she could see the way it grated.
And who else could truly understand that but someone in the family?
Who else could get it but a sister?
