Page 30 of How to Date a Younger Man
“That was the whole point of this trip! To bring you back to the real you,” Wren says with a moan.
Now that annoys me.
“Maybe I’m all over the place, but I feel more like myself than I have in months,” I say calmly. It always bothers me when Wren thinks she knows me better than I do.
“I don’t disagree with you,” she says with an exasperated sigh, probably inspecting her nails like she does whenever she knows she’s in the wrong but won’t admit it.
Tired of this conversation, I say, “Look, I’ll make it up to you, okay? We can do brunch next week.”
“Brunch? Really, Griffin? Brunch is the go-to for when you don’t want to hang out with someone.”
“Not for me. Brunch is a marathon with me. We start with mimosas and end up at the corner bar six hours later.”
Wren laughs. I think I’ve saved my ass, for now.
We say our good-byes, and I toss the phone on my couch. I need to shake off the whole unnecessary thing this friendship has become.
Why is talking to Wren such work sometimes?
It’s not like that with Layne. With her, it can be a challenge, sure. But it’s exciting and always new. Even after all these years we’re constantly discovering new things about each other, for the better. There isn’t any of this weird circular bullshit.
Thinking of Layne, I start packing. Sunbathing on the beach, roasting our dinner over a fire, sipping on margaritas as the sun sets over the crystal waters . . . I have a perfect vision for how I want this night to go.
Now I’ve just got to make it happen.
I hadn’t forgotten what Layne’s half-naked body looks like, but I appreciate the refresher.
Her hair falls in long, messy waves across one shoulder while the other is bare, enjoying its moment in the sun. Her bathing suit is fucking phenomenal—a navy-blue number, high waisted and cheeky, with a halter top that cups her breasts so perfectly, it’s hard to keep my eyes where they belong.
Jesus, Griff. You need to get laid. But these aren’t just any woman’s tits . . . these are the tits of a woman who’s placed me squarely in the friend zone.
“Hello? Eyes up here?” Layne waves in my face.
We’re in our swimsuits on a surprisingly vacant beach, towels and cooler at the ready. I’ve been lying on my side, my head propped up on one hand, unabashedly staring at her gorgeous body. The sun is beating down on us, apparently frying my brain.
I protest, tapping her sunglasses with one finger. “What eyes? I don’t see them.”
Layne snorts, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. Her piercing green eyes meet mine, and awareness jolts through me.
Fucking hell.
“Better?” she asks.
“It’ll do.” I sigh, feigning nonchalance. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she says with a smile. “I always forget how much sunshine can actually improve one’s mood.”
“Exactly. You just needed some vitamin D.”
“Gross.”
“Believe it or not,” I say with a chuckle, “I wasn’t making a dick joke.”
“Not.” She smirks and throws herself back on her towel, her breasts bouncing with the effort.
I can’t tear my eyes away. I’m such a perv.
“It’s so hot,” she murmurs, placing her sunglasses back over her eyes, then trails her fingers across her collarbone, discovering the moisture there.
I almost offer to take care of that with my tongue, but think better of it. Now’s not the time, dude. “So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been so depressed?”
She sighs dramatically. “People don’t need a reason to be depressed, Griffin. You really need to catch up on your mental health awareness.”
“Maybe,” I reply, my brow furrowed, “but I know you. And I know that you usually have a reason for feeling down.”
Layne turns her head toward me, biting her lip. It’s clear she’s deciding whether she wants to share what’s on her mind.
I’m careful not to change my expression. My impulse is to try to make her laugh, to erase those worry lines from her face. But I need her to know that I’m serious, and that I legitimately care about what she’s going through.
“It’s nothing new,” she finally says with a soft sigh. “I just found out that one of my close friends from school is pregnant. I didn’t even know she wanted kids. She was one of the only ones left that hasn’t already had them. And now . . . well, now it’s just me.”
Her voice cracks on those last words, and I see a tear race down her cheek from under her lenses, too fast for her to catch. I reach over, using the back of my fingers to wipe it away. She smiles at me, but her expression is still sad.
“I should just be happy for her,” she says, trying to lighten the mood with a choked laugh.
