I pull a face. “I’m not a hooker, lass.” Jesus, I know I sleep around, but seriously?
“Just this once? I really want your help.” I don’t say anything, so she turns to Josh. “Josh? Seriously, I have the money. I bet you’d be a great teacher—”
“We’re not taking you on fake dates for money,” Josh snaps. “You’ve drunk too much. You don’t know what you’re saying. Finish your food and go to bed.” Standing, he stalks over to the kitchen, turning away from us.
No one says anything for a few seconds. Layla carefully sets her bowl down on the coffee table and joins him, wobbling slightly.
“Josh,” she says quietly. When he doesn’t respond, she reaches up and pats his cheek clumsily. “Look at me,” she orders. He turns his head, meeting her gaze. “Have I hurt your feelings?”
“No,” he clips out.
“No?” Her hand is still on his face. She rubs her fingers over his stubble. “I like this. You usually shave.”
I wince.
Josh closes his eyes for a second, then wraps his hand around her wrist, gently pulling her away from him. “Don’t do that, Layla.” His voice is lower than usual. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
It’s like the reality of the situation suddenly hits her all at once. Layla jerks away, stumbling back and looking around the room with horrified eyes. “You’re right,” she says slowly. “Oh God. I’m sorry.”
“S’all good,” I tell her, patting the sofa next to me. “What’s some drunk propositioning between friends, eh? Come eat, honey.”
She blinks hard. “No, I… you guys were having a nice evening. And I came in, ate your food, offered you money to take me out, and then…” she turns to Josh, “rubbed your face like a total creep. I’m sorry.” Her cheeks are burning with embarrassment. “I think I should go,” she mumbles, bending to pick up her bag. “Thanks for the food.”
Josh frowns. “Hey. No. What’s wrong?”
“At least finish your dinner,” Luke says.
“You can have it. I’m fine.” She picks up her jacket, yanking her keys out of the pocket. Her breath hitches, but she tries to hide it with a cough. As she turns to the door, I see the tears streaking silently down her face.
My heart stops. I’ve never seen Layla cry. I never even imagined she could. I stand. “Layla—”
“L, come back,” Josh says, rubbing his eyes. “Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shakes her head. “‘M not upset,” she mutters. “I, um… just… Sorry.”
Without another word, she steps out into the hall and lets the door swing shut behind her. Swearing under his breath, Josh strides after her, but Luke stops him.
“Let her go,” he says. “She’s embarrassed enough. Let her sleep it off.”
“I made her cry,” Josh says, looking anguished.
I sigh, slumping back on the sofa and picking up her bowl. “She’s gonna bloody hate herself in the morning,” I mutter, scooping up some more pasta. “Absolutely hate herself.”
FIVE
LAYLA
My first thought when I crack my eyes open the next morning is: shit, it’s bright.
I don’t usually wake up to daylight. I’m normally up and out the door on my morning run well before the sun has risen.
I groan and roll over. I feel like crap. My eyes are sandy and gritty. My head is pounding. My mouth feels like it’s had all the spit sucked out of it by one of those saliva hoovers they use at the dentist. All I want to do is go back to sleep, but judging by the light spilling in from my half-open blinds, it’s time for me to get up. Patting around my bedside table, I yank my phone off the charger and squint at the time.
Then I blink. Rub my eyes. Squint some more.
It’s eleven forty-five.
“Shit,” I mumble, rolling out of bed. My foot gets tangled in my phone charger, and I trip, catching myself on my dresser right before I fall. I feel fuzzy and uncoordinated, but I ignore it, stumbling over to my desk and thumbing frantically through my agenda. My eyes run over the neatly colour-coded appointments, my heart pounding in my chest as I read each one. Finally, my shoulders slump with relief.
Thank God. I have the morning off. The rest of my day is packed, though. I have a call with a supplier at one; at two, I have a two-hour meeting with my manufacturers to check that everything is going to plan with my upcoming summer line. After that, I have three hours of paperwork scheduled, a quick dinner break, then a seven o’clock call with an online influencer to discuss her rates for a sponsored post.
But for now, I’m fine.
I check the time on my phone again — then frown. I have a ton of message notifications. I scroll through them with sweaty fingers. They’re all from the guys.
ZACK: Hey, L, are you up?
ZACK: are u ignoring us now
ZACK: angry emoji
ZACK: I know ur probably freaking out because of last night, but don’t make it weird, babe. You don’t have 2 b embarrassed
JOSH: I left some painkillers in your bathroom cabinet last time I was over. Come over if you want juice or anything
LUKE: I hope you feel better today, sweetheart. Drink a lot of water and try to take it easy. Our door is always open if you need to talk.
I stare at the messages in horror. What are they talking about? Why would I need to talk to them?
And then the memory of last night slams into me like a freight truck.
Suddenly, I remember it all. I remember the terrible date with Mike. I remember Zack finding me at the restaurant, comforting me, plying me with mojitos. I remember staggering into the guys’ apartment, eating a huge plate of cheesy pasta, and sobbing all over them.
Oh God. I told them about all the failed dates. I showed them my stupid ten-year-plan.
I think I offered them money to date me.
“Crap,” I groan, tossing my phone back onto my bed and stumbling to my little ensuite. I assess the damage in the bathroom mirror.
I’m a hot mess. My bleached-platinum hair is messy, falling down to my chin in jagged spikes, and I’m still wearing the silvery dress and fishnet tights I wore to my date last night. My pale green eyes are puffy and rimmed with smeared mascara, and there’s lipstick smudged on my cheek.
Swearing, I turn on the cold tap, scooping up two handfuls of water and splashing it onto my face, methodically scrubbing the dried tears and makeup off my skin. Embarrassment is burning through me. What the Hell is wrong with me? Why did I drink so much last night? Why didn’t I just come home, watch some TV, and go to bed, instead of wallowing in self-pity like a total loser?
And now I’m running late. Normally, by now, I’ve worked out, answered my emails, taken calls, scheduled my day, made and eaten breakfast, run a few errands —
Anxiety squeezes my insides and nausea rises in my throat. I grip the porcelain edges of the sink and force myself to take a few deep breaths.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I haven’t missed any appointments. I’m not going to be late for anything. The day isn’t going to plan, but that’s okay.
It is.
This is why I don’t like to drink. It messes with my routines too much. And without my routines, my life turns into a hot, steaming mess.
Pulling myself together, I brush my teeth, spit, and then stagger back to my bedroom and stare longingly at my rumpled bed. I just want to crawl back into the sheets, order some breakfast, and spend the rest of the day watching Project Runway reruns and nursing my hangover.
Or maybe call my landlord, cancel my lease, and find a new place to live far, far away from my neighbours.
But I do neither of these things. Instead, I strip off last night’s slept-in clothes, change into some workout gear, and grab a hair tie off my dresser, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I need to get this morning back under control.