“You’re sad?” Josh repeats, like it’s completely unbelievable. Luke doesn’t say anything, studying the side of her face. I roll my eyes, stirring the pan of pasta. They’re both so dramatic.
“I do have emotions,” Layla says, looking annoyed.
“Yes,” Luke says quietly. “And in the three years we’ve known you, you’ve never, not once, admitted to being sad.”
“Leave her alone, she’s had a bad night,” I say, turning off the hob. “She tried to get a man to shag her, and he climbed out of a bathroom window and wriggled down the drainpipe to get away from her.” I start dishing up a huge pile of steaming macaroni. “And then she had to eat a plate of vegetarian roadkill. If she were anyone else, she’d probably be crying. Thank God she’s so brave.”
“I didn’t want him to shag me,” Layla argues, fiddling with the hem of her little silver dress. “It’s not hard to get a man to sleep with you.”
“Aye,” I agree, reaching for a fork in the cutlery drawer. “Not when you’re dressed like that, it’s not.” I glance sideways at her, running my eyes up her toned thighs. Dunno what was wrong with the guy she asked out. Layla’s a knockout. Tall and leggy, with high cheekbones and pale green eyes, and this sharp, shoulder-length hair that she bleaches white-blonde. It’s really hot.
“Zack,” Luke chides. “Don’t say that.”
“What? She’s in a short dress and heels. She could go to any club in the city right now and the guys would be on her like flies.”
Hilariously, Layla nods. “Yeah. But I don’t want that.”
Josh takes a seat in the armchair. “If you didn’t want your date to sleep with you, what did you want?”
Layla hesitates. “I just… wanted him to like me,” she says eventually. “I want a guy to have dinner with me, and like me enough to want to see me again. I want an actual relationship.”
I raise an eyebrow. There’s a thread of vulnerability in her voice that I’ve never heard from Layla before. She’s usually the dictionary definition of a boss bitch. I consider, then go to the fridge, pull out a huge block of cheese, and grate some extra on top of the pasta to cheer her up.
“Rejection hurts,” Luke says softly. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not the rejection that bothers me. I just don’t like that I’m so behind.”
“Behind on what?” Josh asks. “Dating?” He jerks his head at me. “We’re all older than you, and none of us are in relationships.”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to be,” she points out. “I do. It’s in my plan.”
“Plan?” I ask, making my way back to the sofa and handing her the bowl. “Is this another one of your weird lists? Because I don’t think you can schedule falling in love, babe.” I plop down at her side.
Layla is a real freak about schedules. She schedules every second of her life, from the moment she wakes up at the crack-ass of dawn, to the exact time she’s meant to go to sleep. I get that the girl is busy with running her own business, but no one needs to be that organised. Sometimes I’ll drop by her flat, and she’ll say some shit like, ‘hang on, I’ve got four more minutes of washing the dishes before I can talk’。 Little weirdo.
“I can schedule everything,” Layla argues, scooping up a huge amount of melted cheese. “And yes, I have got a list. It’s a ten-year plan. I made it when I graduated high school, to map out my twenties. And I’m already on the extended timeline. Originally, I was aiming to find my husband at twenty-five.” She frowns and shoves the food in her mouth.
Josh makes a choking sound behind his hand.
Layla glares at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” He swallows hard. “Um, why twenty-five?”
She shrugs. “It seemed like a good age. Gave me long enough to sort out my career, but didn’t leave it so late that my fertility started to decrease, or all the good men were taken.” Josh starts coughing again, even harder. Layla fumbles in her bag. “Hang on, I’ll just show you.”
Luke’s eyebrows shoot up as she passes him a crumpled bit of paper. “This plan is an actual list? That you’ve written down?”
She stares at him. “Of course. How else would I remember to do everything on it?”
“Of course.” He clears his throat, studying the list. I peer over his shoulder to get a better look. The paper is worn and water-stained, like she’s been carrying it around in her bag for a while. At the top, the words Ten Year Plan have been scrawled in loopy, teen-girl handwriting. A long, neat list is bulleted underneath, with items like ‘Finish business degree （21yo）’， ‘start a fashion web boutique （23yo）’， and ‘Make first international sales （24yo）’。