I roll my eyes, lighting the last candle on the table and setting the matchbox down. My hands are sweating with nerves, and I slip them into my trouser pockets.
Tonight, it’s my turn to pick a date. I figured, since we’ve already done a bar, a dinner date would be the next best thing. Ideally, I would’ve taken Layla to an actual restaurant, but when I asked her, she said she didn’t want to go out. So I did my best to set up a dinner date in our flat. The dining room table we never use has been covered in a white cloth. I’ve lit tapered candles and put some classical music on the record player. There’s salad in the fridge and a dish of homemade lasagne in the oven. The bouquet of roses I picked out this morning is sitting on the breakfast bar.
I thought I was fully prepared, but now Layla is standing in front of us, I’m ridiculously nervous. She looks gorgeous, dressed in a short little red coat with matching red lipstick.
I’ve barely seen her this week. All of us have been so busy with work. The segment has been crazily popular. Our last episode had six times as many downloads as usual, and we’re getting more listeners every day. Paul is over the moon. He’s already trying to make merch with The Love Experiment emblazoned all over it. Our royalties are way up, and we’re getting interest from a bunch more sponsors. It’s great news; the only downside is, we’ve been so busy handling the influx of attention that we haven’t had time to hang out. The only time I got to spend with Layla was on Sunday, when we recorded.
Sunday, when Zack brought her coffee to the studio, pulled her into his lap, and proceeded to record most of the segment with her sitting on his knee, completely ignoring how it was screwing with the mic quality.
I can’t even say that it was the mic thing that was bothering me. I was just jealous. It’s so easy for him. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to be casually affectionate. If I could, I’d always be holding Layla. Instead, I have to come up with entire podcast segments as an excuse to get close to her.
I still remember the kiss we shared after our last date. I can practically feel it imprinted into my lips. It’s the best kiss I’ve had in a long, long time.
I really want tonight to go well.
“Hi,” I say, when the silence stretches on for too long. “Come in. Dinner’s ready.”
Layla shakes herself out of her daze, marches up to me, and grabs ahold of my tie. I freeze, my heart thumping in my chest as she yanks me closer and kisses me hard. It takes a few seconds for me to remember to kiss her back. She tastes sweet — like strawberry lip salve.
“What’s this?” I sputter, as she turns to Zack and does the same to him. He’s slightly more prepared, sweeping her up in his arms and bending her back at the waist as he returns the kiss.
She pulls back, her eyes bright. “Oh. Am I not allowed to still do that? I thought—”
“You definitely can,” I say quickly, cutting her off. “We’re your boyfriends. You can kiss us whenever you like.”
She relaxes. “Good.” She looks around the flat. “Wow. You did all this?”
“Yeah,” I say, then go silent again. Suddenly, I can’t think of anything to say.
Zack tosses me an amused look. “Talk about the blind leadin’ the blind,” he says cheerfully. “Why exactly did we think you could teach L about social skills, again?”
I clear my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a dinner date. I’ve obviously gotten rusty. “You look beautiful, Layla. Can I take your coat?”
She frowns down at her bright red peacoat. “I mean, I can take it off myself…” she trails off as I slip it off her shoulders, folding it over my arm. “Thanks. I guess?”
I nod, pulling out her seat at the table. She stares dumbly at the chair. “This is weird.”
“This is supposed to be a dinner date.” I remind her. “Imagine that we’re in a nice restaurant. The guy will almost certainly pull out your chair for you.”
“Makes me feel like a kid,” she mumbles under her breath, sitting on the chair. I push her in, then hang her coat and pick up the bouquet of roses.
“Here,” I offer it to her. “I got these for you.”
“Oh.” She takes them awkwardly. “Um. Yeah. You shouldn’t have.”
I wait patiently. She stares at the bunch of flowers in her arms for a few seconds, then sets them carefully down on the floor.
Jesus Christ.
I shake my head. “Okay. Give me them back.”
She frowns. “But they’re mine!”
“Nope. They were a test. You failed. Hand them over.” Begrudgingly, she picks the flowers back up, and I take them back. “We’re going to try this again, and you’re going to act like a regular human person, okay?”
“You’re giving out strong alien vibes,” Zack agrees.
She shakes her head. “What am I supposed to do with flowers?!” She bursts out. “I don’t just carry vases around with me to restaurants. Do I just leave them on the table and let them wilt? Do I pretend to smell them, or something? Do I just… look at them?”
“Calm down,” I tell her, trying not to laugh. “This is not as hard as you’re making it. Repeat after me. ‘Thank you. They’re beautiful’.”
“Thank you,” she parrots sullenly. “They’re beautiful.”
“Great. Now put them on the table next to you and forget about them. They’ll be fine.”
She does as I say, laying them awkwardly by her plate.
I can’t help but smile. “You really are useless.”
“Shut up.” She looks around the room uncomfortably. Her shoulders hunch slightly, like she wants to hide away. “You didn’t have to do all of this for me,” she says, as I go to plate the food. “The candles, and cooking, and everything. I would’ve been fine with a pizza in front of the telly.”
“I wanted to simulate a dinner date,” I tell her, setting her lasagne in front of her. “You didn’t want to go out.”
She frowns. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I just didn’t want to be seen with two guys in a fancy restaurant. God knows what all the posh pricks would think.”
Zack snorts, immediately digging into his food. I study Layla as she fiddles with her salad. She’s such an enigma. She’ll post pictures of herself in a thong online, but stresses over what a bunch of middle-aged diners will think if we eat dinner together. It’s odd.
Layla notices me looking at her and blushes. “The podcast must be doing well,” she says awkwardly, as I slip back into my seat. “I’ve got a ton more followers.”
I nod. “We’re getting more listeners every day. Numbers haven’t been this high in over a year, and it just looks like they’re going to get better.”
“High engagement. You must be happy.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just happy I get to mack on my gorgeous best mate,” Zack announces loudly, leaning forward to nuzzle her cheek.
Layla gives him a soft look, tugging on his bun. “I’m enjoying that aspect, too.”
I watch them, my lungs aching. She thinks the podcast is all that matters to me, doesn’t she? Everyone does. They think all I care about is engagement and numbers.
Of course I care about the podcast. I created it. I’ve worked for years to make it what it is. I’ll always want more listeners. But if I’m honest, that’s not why I suggested the segment.
What matters to me is helping her. The image of her, teary-eyed and red-faced in our lounge, flashes into my head again. It makes my chest hurt.
“Why don’t you want to be seen with us both in public?” I blurt out.
She looks taken aback. “What?”
Zack frowns. “Leave her alone, man. If she don’t want to, she don’t want to.”
I close my eyes. I’ve been told a lot that when I get too intense, I come across as harsh. I never mean to.
“Of course,” I say, softening my voice. “And we’d never make you. I just want to know why. You were fine with us both taking you to the bar, weren’t you?”
She squirms in her seat. “It was dark. And a bar isn’t the same as a five-star restaurant. All the posh people would be looking at me thinking I’m a whore.”
“Ain’t nowt wrong wi’ bein’ a whore,” Zack opines through a mouthful of cheese.
I stare at her. “You worry about this a lot, don’t you?”