“Layla, honey, we are so sorry,” Zack says. “So sorry. We miss you.”
“And we’d like to apologise to all of our listeners, too.” Josh adds. “We’ve been telling you to open up, and be vulnerable and brave in your love life — all while the three of us were too scared to deal with our own issues. Trust me. After losing her, we’ve definitely learned our lesson.” There’s a brief pause, then he clears his throat. “Okay. We’re going to be taking some tweets.” He clicks his tongue, and I imagine him frowning behind his reading glasses as he scrolls down his feed. “From @sweetheartbaby23. ‘I still think she cheated on you. If all three of you fell in love with her, she obviously led you all on’。”
Zack snorts. “Layla doesn’t lead people on. She’s usually trying to make people leave her alone.”
Josh sounds less amused. “I know our listeners are accepting enough to not find a relationship involving more than two people strange,” he says icily. “Monogamy is a social construct. It’s not wrong, but it’s also no more ‘right’ than multiple people choosing to be together. All three of us were openly dating Layla, so I don’t see how on earth it could be construed as cheating.”
“Shame on you,” Zack admonishes, “We raised you kids better than that.”
“From @ellabaloney17.” Josh continues. “Did you guys ever sleep together?”
“It’s none of your business,” Luke answers crisply. “Next.”
I sit numbly in my seat as they answer question after question, defending me, cutting down people who are rude to me, reassuring listeners over and over that this is their fault, that they screwed up, that I did nothing wrong. My heart is thudding. I can barely believe what I’m hearing.
They love me? More than that, they love me enough to openly admit they were wrong in front of tens of thousands of people?
I don’t think anyone has ever loved me that much. I look down at the phone in my sweaty hand. Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap out a quick tweet and hit send.
@threesingleguys I’m listening
Immediately, my notifications go crazy. Likes and retweets start pouring in. I blink in shock, watching the numbers skyrocket to one hundred, two hundred, three hundred…
I suddenly notice that the guys have stopped talking. There’s a few seconds of completely dead air. Then:
“Layla. Please come home,” Josh says, his voice soft as he talks directly into the mic. “Please.”
I don’t know what to say. My phone feels too heavy in my hands. I lay it down carefully on the bar and flip my napkin over, picking up the pen to write a new list. I carefully catalogue what I know about the situation.
1. The guys are in love with me. They weren’t pretending.
2. They’re not using me as a tool to bolster their own popularity. They’re taking responsibility. They’re defending me, and people are believing them.
3. They’re in love with me. They have been all this time.
My throat burns. I don’t know what to do. I want to forgive the men, but I’m scared. They hurt me so bad.
“Please,” Josh says again, and he sounds so sad that I’m standing and grabbing my suitcase before I even know what I’m doing.
I need to get a taxi.
SEVENTY-FIVE
LAYLA
When I get back to the apartment, the reception is dark. The porter has gone home for the evening, and the lift, as per usual, is broken, so I trudge up the six flights of stairs to our floor. When I reach the boys’ apartment door, I see that it’s been left ajar. I can hear the low murmur of voices. Pushing it open gently, I peer inside.
The guys are still streaming. Luke is hunched over his laptop with a massive pair of headphones over his ears and his head in his hands. Josh is frowning at his phone, and Zack is slumped in his armchair, looking absolutely exhausted as he speaks into the microphone set up on the coffee table. My heart aches as I look at them, emotion flooding through me. I’ve missed them so much.
I shift my weight, and all three of them look up. Zack stops talking immediately, his eyes going wide. He stands, and his massive knees knock his mic off the table with a clatter. He doesn’t even seem to notice, staring at me like I’m a ghost.
He looks… destroyed. His eyes are swollen, and his thick beard is tangled. There’s a coffee stain on his shirt.
In short, he looks like a man who’s spent the last few hours recounting the biggest trauma of his life live on air. And for what? For me?