Page 15 of Layla Meets Her Match

I imagine myself in Monica’s role. I’m not quite right for that over-organized type, but I practice her lines anyway. Saying them the way she does, then putting my own spins on them.

There’s an ache in my heart for the part of me that had to take a back seat when Margot was born, the woman who dreamed of a show or a movie perfect for her. The woman who bowed out gracefully when I told her that I had to be both mother and father to the perfect little girl who came into my life. That woman thrives in those small moments I’m acting again for the game ads that I do, or even this, reciting lines along with an old TV show and imagining myself being a part of something that successful.

Maybe that’s why even though I’ve seen this episode dozens of times, and even though there’s a sweet baby in my arms right now, I sniffle along with Monica when she and Chandler apologize to each other and hug.

“That’s why this scene works,” I whisper in a watery voice. “We all know what it’s like to want something we can’t have.”

CHAPTER 10

LINCOLN

I have a text from Mila waiting for me when I get out of practice later.

Mila: Is there any chance you have any of the sugar cookies left and you didn’t throw them all away? One of Landon’s friends at the school is a professor in the forensic science department, and Landon talked him into testing the cookies for me so I can know exactly what caused it.

I chuckle. That sounds just like Landon to jump in and make sure he does whatever he can to help Mila out.

Lincoln: I’ll call my friend and ask.

Normally I do keep a cookie for myself when I get Mila’s sugar cookies. Like she mentioned this morning, they’re popular and I love them just as much as everyone, but I forgot to grab one for myself before I dropped the box off because I was in a hurry. Mrs. Van Buren didn’t eat hers, of course, so hopefully she hasn’t thrown it away yet. I’m headed over to see her now, and then after that I’m going to help move Layla’s stuff to her new apartment, so I can give Landon the cookie then.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came by.” Mrs. Van Buren reaches up and puts a hand on my cheek, which she can barely reach. I bend over so she can kiss my cheek, and then I follow her inside.

“Mrs. Van Buren, is there any chance you kept your cookie?” I ask.

She turns to me just as she’s stepping into the living area of her small apartment. She furrows her brows. “No. I threw it away this morning.”

I blow out a breath. “Mila’s fiancé has a friend who can test it to see what’s wrong. That way she knows which supplier to talk to.”

Mrs. Van Buren’s eyes light up. “It’s like one of those TV shows,” she exclaims. She switches directions, bustling toward the kitchen. She reaches under her sink and pulls out a pair of yellow gloves used for cleaning. “It was still in the box. I bet it’ll be easy to find,” she declares, heading over to the trash can.

I intercept her in a couple strides. “Let me do that for you.”

She doesn’t argue and hands me the gloves. Once, shortly after I started visiting her regularly, I stepped in to take out her garbage, and then put the new liner in the trash can when I got inside. It’s second nature for me to do things for the people I care about, so I hadn’t thought anything about it. She smiled at me softly and told me how much I reminded her of Grandpa. I’d been so inside my head the rest of the visit, awkward and unsure and judging myself for showing off with my good deeds. After finding out about Mrs. Van Buren, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d thought he was a good man and how I’d learned to look out for ways to serve others from him. Not just his words, but his actions. The way he helped everyone. The way he’d always been there for me.

But was that all about penance?

Mrs. Van Buren hasn’t said I remind her of Grandpa since that day. I still can’t help doing the little things for her. I tell myself it’s because that’s what my mom would want me to do, even though she and Dad don’t know about my relationship with Mrs. Van Buren.

I slip the gloves on and head for her garbage can. Thankfully, Mrs. Van Buren isn’t the type to create a lot of trash, and the box is easy to find and lift out of the garbage.

Mrs. Van Buren hands me a large Ziploc bag to put it inside. “To keep the germs off you,” she says, holding it open for me. But it does feel a little bit like CSI. I share a grin with her and put the bag on the counter to take with me later, then shed the gloves, wash my hands, and join Mrs. Van Buren in her small living room area.

“I saw on Facebook that Mila’s bakery truck has been closed all day today,” she says when she settles into an armchair.

I lean back on her oversized loveseat. There’s another armchair in the room and a 30-inch TV on a stand, but that’s all that will fit into the space. The assisted living facility Mrs. Van Buren lives in is clean and the employees all seem kind when I’m around, but it’s not spacious. The amount I anonymously donated to her account for the next ten years told me it's a budget place, but she’s happy here. Otherwise I’d convince her to move and let me pay.

I shove away thoughts about why I take care of her like she’s my own grandmother when I wish she hadn’t been part of my grandpa’s life at all. I just know I’d miss her if she wasn’t part of mine. Is it enough not to have worked it all out? Maybe I’ve done enough overthinking about this situation that I’ve worn myself out on it.

“She didn’t want to risk using the ingredients when she didn’t know what it was.”

“Smart girl,” Mrs. Van Buren praises her. “Hopefully someday you’ll bring her by to meet me.”

“Next time there’s a barbecue, I’ll come pick you up,” I promise. The guys I hang out with on the football team and Landon and Mila would all love Mrs. Van Buren. They know about her anyway, but they all think I just latched on after the adopt-a-grandparent event. “You know she’s engaged, right? You’re not trying to set me up?”

“My memory is sharp, Lincoln,” she says briskly. “I know you have a crush on that woman who works with her, Layla.”

Heat pools into my cheeks, mostly because I don’t remember telling Mrs. Van Buren that, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t talked about her. Probably a lot. “Maybe,” I say, but Mrs. Van Buren chuckles. My red cheeks are giving me away.

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