Page 17 of Layla Meets Her Match

She laughs again, shoving me in the shoulder. “I do not.” The pop star does have bright auburn hair, a completely different shade from Layla’s almost black hair. “But I did want to audition for that part. They just started casting a couple weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask.

“I’m not doing the acting hustle thing anymore. And that’s okay.” She looks down at her hands, and it doesn’t feel like it’s okay. If Bruno Rattan reaches out to Layla, I know it will be her choice if she pursues that job. I would never try to force something on her. She just looks like she misses it.

“It would be okay if you wanted to try for a few jobs, you know. There are actresses who are moms.” I keep my tone light and teasing so she doesn’t feel any pressure. Conversation with her is surprisingly easy right now, even if it’s a little embarrassing that I can read her mood so well because of how much I pay attention to her.

“A lot of the successful ones had the luxury of being already established when they had kids.” She lifts her shoulders, and the move, I think, is to make me believe that it’s not a big deal to her, but the sadness is still in her eyes.

“Maybe. But if you ever want to go on an audition, call me up. I’ll babysit.”

She chuckles. “Do you know how to babysit babies? Like what to do with an eight-month-old?”

“I’m sure YouTube would help.”

“I’m never allowing you to watch my daughter.” She chuckles as she shakes her head. There’s a moment of silence between us, and she looks down into her lap again. “Sometimes I do miss it.” She glances around the room and then lowers her voice more. “I have a side job that I do at night when Margot is sleeping,” she says. I don’t know why she doesn’t want to tell the others about this. It wouldn’t surprise anyone that she works a second job. She already told me about it at Eli’s house after their girls’ night. “Mila and Landon think I do data entry, but I actually create video ads—you know the kind that pop up when you’re playing dumb free games?”

“I think that’s cool, Layla.” Mila and Landon wouldn’t think anything of this. They might not even be surprised, but the thought that she confided in me? It’s like getting ten extra yards when I thought I was tackled. This is a sign of the trust I’m trying to build with her, and it’s a big win.

Her cheeks are a little pink, and she doesn’t quite meet my eye. “Thanks. The thing is, it does make me miss acting a little.”

“I bet.” I want to put my arm around her, but I resist. I need to build more trust before I can start making those moves. “I can’t even imagine having to give up football. You’re pretty amazing.”

She gives a small shake of her head and then pulls out her phone, pulling up the photos app. I watch as she clicks into her favorites album, since she doesn’t seem to be trying to hide what she’s doing from me.

She pulls up a picture that is obviously from right after Margot was born. She’s tiny, even tinier than the cute baby she is now, and she’s resting on Layla’s chest. Layla’s beaming. Her dark hair spills out everywhere from the bun on top of her head and she isn’t wearing makeup, but she’s radiant. Her eyes shine with tears and there are bags under them, but she is still the most stunning woman I have ever seen. It takes my breath away.

And the longing I’ve felt for Layla since first starting to get to know her builds inside of me. I imagine being there with her for a moment like this, and my heart almost stops.

“When Margot was born,” Layla says, dragging me out of my thoughts with reluctance, “everything changed. Every. Thing. It’s not amazing, because I just couldn’t do anything different than throw my whole life into taking care of her.” She sighs and turns her attention to the picture. “I didn’t mean for her to happen in my life, but I can’t imagine if she hadn’t. Even after only eight months.” She laughs again, but this sounds self-conscious and not genuine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop all of that on you.”

I wait until she meets my gaze again and then hold it. “I’m glad you did.”

It’s such a small thing, what she just confessed to me, and I’m probably the only one of us feeling the intimacy of it. I want to take her hand and hold it and reassure her somehow that she can still live her dreams. I don’t even know if that’s true. I don’t know anything about acting and the time it takes and if it’s feasible that Layla could do it while taking care of a baby.

The way Layla is willing to change everything in her life for Margot? I know I’d do the same for Layla. For both of them.

“If you could have any role you wanted, no audition needed, what would it be?” I ask. The light in her eyes when she talks about acting is addicting, and I want her to live in this moment, small as it is, where the career she dreamed of is still possible.

She answers quickly. “A kick-butt superhero that’s even better than Phantom Hex, to show everyone I’m just as good as he is. Better.” She lets out a self-conscious laugh. “Oh my gosh, that sounded so petty, didn’t it?” She shakes her head. “That’s not the media-friendly response.”

“I like this one better.” I nudge her with my shoulder, because that’s the closest I can get to taking her hand like I want to. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to bite back what I really want to say when some sports reporter asks a dumb question.”

“Do you hate having to do that kind of thing? Talk to reporters all the time?” she asks. She still has that light, and I think she wouldn’t mind it. Would be great at it. I can so easily imagine being on her arm at some awards show, reporters throwing questions at her, and her handling them with charming smiles and bright eyes, winning them all over. I’d just have to stand next to her and look pretty.

“I do,” I say and then give a short laugh. “But that’s because I’m me and talking with most people is difficult.”

She leans into the shoulder I nudged her with a second ago. “You’re doing pretty good right now.”

“You make it easy.”

Our gazes hold for a second, and it gets so heated, at least for me, that I blurt, “And you? You don’t hate the reporters, do you?”

She smiles, so easily I can’t believe she felt the heat from a moment ago. “If I’m lucky enough to get to a point in my career when reporters want to hound me with questions … no. I don’t think I’ll hate it.”

A knock breaks into the bubble, and I remember Layla and I aren’t the only ones here. She pushes herself up to answer since we’re the closest. It’s the pizza guy. I hop up to help her with the small stack of pizza Eli ordered.

She beams up at me as she transfers the boxes to my hands. I will never get enough of that smile, of her light and her presence. It might be weeks, even months, before I can tell her how I feel, but I will be here no matter what.

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