Page 83 of The Tryst

“Who knows?” I say as I shuffle. “I’ll see him at the auction next weekend. And probably this week, too, to finish up some prep, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see him alone again.”

Though, I do know. I probably won’t see him by himself. That’s what we agreed to on Friday night. I haven’t heard from him all weekend. He hasn’t called or texted, and I haven’t either. Nor has DistractibleGuy left any comments on my videos.

I know why he hasn’t. Truly, I do. But I wish he had.

I hold up my glass. Camden refills it. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she says, sympathetically.

There’s a collective nod.

“Maybe it is,” I say reluctantly. Only, I’m not certain anymore. I’ve let Nick in more than anyone except my friends, and I can’t help but think he’s worth it.

But we’re just not in the cards.

I deal the next hand and go on to lose the game. I try not to view it as a metaphor.

* * *

Two days later, I meet with Mia and Storm at a pool hall. The fashionista loves to play, and she’s been teaching Storm, she tells me.

Storm taps her shoulder with the pool cue. “She’s the pool mentor I never knew I needed. Do you know how hot guys think it is when you can play pool?” He brandishes the stick with a wicked smile.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Mia deadpans, staring pointedly at the stick.

“You said it, hun,” he says in playful accusation. He has pet names for everyone. It’s delightful.

“Hmm. What about pool hall makeup,” she muses, changing topics on a dime. She looks to me, her gray eyes twinkling.

“We need a how-to on that,” we say in unison.

“Yes! And we need events, and sessions, and so many things,” she declares.

As the three of us play, we brainstorm our next collaborations. At the end of the game, Mia sets her palms on the edge of the table, her loose curls flowing around her like she’s an ethereal dark angel. “I want to integrate your app into my brand, Lola,” she says, going starkly serious again. “With you running it still. With your vids. I think it could take us both to new levels.”

I’m a little giddy with hope. Especially since it sounds too good to be true. Still, when we leave, I say, “By the way, my real name is Layla, as you may know. You can call me Layla if you want.”

“What would you like me to call you?” she asks.

“I’m good with both,” I say.

“Then Lola works for me.”

“You’re my Lola girl,” Storm chimes in.

I smile, then I take a mental picture of the three of us. I imagine we look as hopeful as I feel.

Then, Mia’s phone trills. She emits a squeak when she sees who’s calling. “Oh! That’s my honey in California. Ciao!”

In a heartbeat, she’s off, turning the other way, tra-la-la-ing down the block like the fashionista the media has made her out to be. Flighty and whimsical.

I like her. A lot. I want to believe she’s not simply Mia Jane, that she’s also the Mia I’ve come to know in these brief interactions—a smart businesswoman. Someone who makes things happen, opening up flagship stores in a heartbeat. Someone trustworthy. But what if she’s not?

After all, hopes can be dashed in the blink of an eye, so I try to temper mine.

* * *

When I leave, I meet David at a coffee shop in Chelsea, and I feel like a liar once again just by breathing.

He wraps his arms around me in a hug. “Dude, I have good news!”