Didn’t correct her.
Just nodded once and turned my attention back to the table.
Layla set the wine bottle down with a quietthunkand walked back toward the kitchen without another word.
Syx slid into the seat across from Alexis, still grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“This is gonna be afundinner,” he said.
I didn’t respond.
Just sat there, staring at the empty plate in front of me, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Truth was recovering from egg retrieval.
Alexis was sitting at my table, playing games I didn’t have the energy for.
Layla was pissed.
Syx was entertained.
And I was already exhausted by all this bullshit.
Layla returned with the first course—roasted oysters with garlic butter and parmesan, plated like art.
She set them in front of each of us without a word.
Her movements were precise, professional, but I could feel the tension radiating off her like heat.
“This looks amazing,” Alexis said, her voice bright and warm. “Thank you so much.”
Layla didn’t respond.
Just walked back to the kitchen.
Alexis picked up her fork and took a bite, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
“Oh my God,” she said. “This is incredible.”
Syx was already halfway through his plate, grinning like a man who’d stumbled into free entertainment and good food on the same night.
I ate slowly, methodically, trying to focus on the food instead of the disaster unfolding around me.
“So,” Alexis said, setting her fork down and dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I was thinking we could talk about something interesting tonight. Something cultural.”
I looked at her.
“Like what?”
“African American culture in New Orleans,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “The history, the traditions, the way it’s shaped the city. I teach a course on it at Loyola, and I just think it’s so fascinating how?—”
“You teach African American studies?” Layla’s voice cut through from the doorway.
She was standing there, her expression unreadable.
“I do,” Alexis said, turning to face her with a smile. “It’s one of my passions. The intersection of race, culture, and identity in the South—it’s such rich material.”
Layla walked over and took her seat.
