Page 93 of The Tryst

“I think so too,” I say, then impulsively I blurt out, “I donated a bench for him.”

“You did?” he asks, with new emotion in his eyes. A deeper affection perhaps.

“I did,” I say, and I’m still a little surprised I’ve told Nick. “I’ve never told anyone that. I’ve always sort of felt like it’s just mine, the bench. My little public secret.”

“Do you go there a lot?”

“Not as much as I thought I would. I used to go a lot though. After therapy. Or before,” I say.

“That’s understandable. You’d want someplace to process or to prep.”

“Exactly. Now I just go there when I need to…talk to myself,” I admit.

“It’s good that you have it.” Everything Nick says is like a warm invitation to keep sharing.

Or maybe he’s the invitation to share.

My mind rushes forward to teenage memories of my dad. “Anyway, later, when I was in high school, he was strict, and he set strict curfews and bedtimes, but he also encouraged me to pursue my dreams. We did this thing where I’d say he was my favorite dad, and he’d say I was his favorite daughter.” I stop to take a breath, but emotions crawl up my chest, lodging themselves there. “I miss him so much.”

“Of course you do, Layla,” he says, tenderly, emotions leaking into his tone too. “Is that why you started The Makeover? To help you handle the loss?”

“Yes,” I say, then I take the last swallow of my wine. But it’s not for liquid courage. It’s functional. I’m going to say something that will scrape my throat down to my soul. “But I also started it because of what happened to me.” I meet his gaze, then face the past head-on. “The man who killed him tried to kill me too.”

30

THAT NIGHT

Layla

After slapping down some bills on the table, then tucking the box of wine under his arm, Nick hustles me out of the restaurant.

With his jaw set and his gaze intensely serious, he walks me to my nearby building. He stays glued to my side the whole time, like he’s my bodyguard and his goal is to steer me out of the public eye for the rest of the story, even though no one at the restaurant seemed to be listening.

But I’m grateful he sensed a restaurant was not the place for this conversation. I’m grateful, too, for the way he tries to shield me from the city. An impossible mission, but I appreciate it nonetheless and in a way I couldn’t earlier tonight.

When we reach my building, Sylvester holds the brass door open. “Good evening, Layla.”

“Hi, Sylvester. Thanks for the door.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nick echoes.

Soon, we’re on the sixth floor at my apartment. I punch in the code, then we go inside. By muscle memory, I conduct my normal checks, taking off rings and deadbolting the lock. I flick on the light in the living room, then turn toward the kitchen and do the same there. “I, um, always turn on all the lights,” I say stupidly, lest he question what I’m doing.

“Let me do it,” he says, but it’s more like a plea.

He doesn’t know the layout of my place or where the switches are. But I say yes since he wants to help. Soon, my one-bedroom is lit up, and he returns to me in the living room, then holds my face, his big hands so warm, so safe.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and that’s new. I’msweetheartnow. It’s like a romantic upgrade from beautiful. He’s gone from a compliment to a term of endearment.

A terribly tender one that I love.

“What happened?” He bites out the question.

Nick’s no longer patient. He’s desperate.

“I’ll tell you,” I say, taking his hand from my cheek then guiding him to my purple couch.

We sit. My hands are clammy, and my heart is speeding uncomfortably fast.

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