I wait patiently. She stares at the bunch of flowers in her arms for a few seconds, then sets them carefully down on the floor.
Jesus Christ.
I shake my head. “Okay. Give me them back.”
She frowns. “But they’re mine!”
“Nope. They were a test. You failed. Hand them over.” Begrudgingly, she picks the flowers back up, and I take them back. “We’re going to try this again, and you’re going to act like a regular human person, okay?”
“You’re giving out strong alien vibes,” Zack agrees.
She shakes her head. “What am I supposed to do with flowers?!” She bursts out. “I don’t just carry vases around with me to restaurants. Do I just leave them on the table and let them wilt? Do I pretend to smell them, or something? Do I just… look at them?”
“Calm down,” I tell her, trying not to laugh. “This is not as hard as you’re making it. Repeat after me. ‘Thank you. They’re beautiful’。”
“Thank you,” she parrots sullenly. “They’re beautiful.”
“Great. Now put them on the table next to you and forget about them. They’ll be fine.”
She does as I say, laying them awkwardly by her plate.
I can’t help but smile. “You really are useless.”
“Shut up.” She looks around the room uncomfortably. Her shoulders hunch slightly, like she wants to hide away. “You didn’t have to do all of this for me,” she says, as I go to plate the food. “The candles, and cooking, and everything. I would’ve been fine with a pizza in front of the telly.”
“I wanted to simulate a dinner date,” I tell her, setting her lasagne in front of her. “You didn’t want to go out.”
She frowns. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I just didn’t want to be seen with two guys in a fancy restaurant. God knows what all the posh pricks would think.”
Zack snorts, immediately digging into his food. I study Layla as she fiddles with her salad. She’s such an enigma. She’ll post pictures of herself in a thong online, but stresses over what a bunch of middle-aged diners will think if we eat dinner together. It’s odd.
Layla notices me looking at her and blushes. “The podcast must be doing well,” she says awkwardly, as I slip back into my seat. “I’ve got a ton more followers.”
I nod. “We’re getting more listeners every day. Numbers haven’t been this high in over a year, and it just looks like they’re going to get better.”
“High engagement. You must be happy.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just happy I get to mack on my gorgeous best mate,” Zack announces loudly, leaning forward to nuzzle her cheek.
Layla gives him a soft look, tugging on his bun. “I’m enjoying that aspect, too.”
I watch them, my lungs aching. She thinks the podcast is all that matters to me, doesn’t she? Everyone does. They think all I care about is engagement and numbers.
Of course I care about the podcast. I created it. I’ve worked for years to make it what it is. I’ll always want more listeners. But if I’m honest, that’s not why I suggested the segment.
What matters to me is helping her. The image of her, teary-eyed and red-faced in our lounge, flashes into my head again. It makes my chest hurt.
“Why don’t you want to be seen with us both in public?” I blurt out.
She looks taken aback. “What?”
Zack frowns. “Leave her alone, man. If she don’t want to, she don’t want to.”
I close my eyes. I’ve been told a lot that when I get too intense, I come across as harsh. I never mean to.
“Of course,” I say, softening my voice. “And we’d never make you. I just want to know why. You were fine with us both taking you to the bar, weren’t you?”
She squirms in her seat. “It was dark. And a bar isn’t the same as a five-star restaurant. All the posh people would be looking at me thinking I’m a whore.”
“Ain’t nowt wrong wi’ bein’ a whore,” Zack opines through a mouthful of cheese.
I stare at her. “You worry about this a lot, don’t you?”
“What?”
“What other people think of you. You’re very self-conscious about how you come across.”
She glances up at me. “Well. Yeah. It’s okay for you guys. No one ever criticises you. Zack’s nickname is Zack Hard-On, for God’s sake. He’s celebrated for being a slag. You’ve seen what people have been saying about me online already, haven’t you?”