Page 123 of The Tryst

“It’s nice,” I add, softly.

“It sure is,” he says. “She sounds good for you.”

“Yeah, she is. Really good for me,” I say.

“If she’s good for you, then you fight for that too. We fight for the good things in our lives.”

After we finish our drinks, then say goodbye, his words echo in my mind. Layla is worth fighting for. Sometimes that means showing someone you’re thinking of them.

As I walk back to work, I pass a makeup store. I stop, peer inside the window at a tube on the display shelf. Something called face primer, whatever the fuck that is. I take a picture and send her a text.

Nick: This is what you use before you paint a house, right?

Layla: Yes, just use this kind of brush.

She attaches a photo of a makeup brush. But it’s strategically shot, since the makeup brush is resting on her vanity on top of something black and lacy that I want to strip off her. My temperature shoots higher.

Nick: By the way, what are you doing Friday night?

Layla: Wearing this sexy number somewhere :)

Nick: Correct. I’m taking you out Friday night, and after, I want to see the rest of that.

Layla: You’re on my calendar.

* * *

When I return to my office, there’s a sticky note on my desk.

I’m sorry for what I said yesterday at the hospital. Thank you for visiting Cynthia.

Sunlight floods my whole body. I take the note and tuck it away in my wallet. I’m not a sentimental guy. I don’t hang onto things. But this? I’ll keep it.

* * *

At the end of the day, I stop by his cube.

He’s not here. He must have left. I’m disappointed, but not as much as I was yesterday. There will be time. When he’s ready, I’ll be here.

I take some comfort in the certainty that he knows that.

As I head home, listening to a podcast on cybersecurity, I run through my evening. I’ll go for a swim, do some work, cook some honey mustard chicken since I found a new recipe.

But I throw those plans out the window when I find David waiting in the lobby.

42

GOOD TASTE

Nick

I take the temperature quickly. His hair’s not a wild mess, like it is when he’s stressed. His eyes aren’t icy either.

I hold my breath as we head upstairs to my home, then go inside. He drops his messenger bag by the door, then says, “Sooooo.”

I tuck thatsoooooin my pocket as I sweep out an arm toward the kitchen counter. “Want a drink? Water? LaCroix?” That seems as safe a conversation starter as any.

“I’m good,” he says, then beelines for a stool.

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