Back when they’d first met, he’d thought Layla was the most authentic girl he’d ever known, and her brutal honesty was one of the things he’d loved most about her. Turned out she’d lied about more than just kissing Tommy. She’d also lied about interviewing for the job at Unrivaled, and her plan to go to journalism school in New York without him.
In the end, she wasn’t really all that different from anyone else. She lied when it suited her, in order to spare another’s feelings, or when the lie made her seem like a better person than she actually was.
And yet, the sting in Layla’s eyes was not an image he could easily shake. It wasn’t until much later that he saw the text that she’d sent, and by then, the damage was done and it was too late to reply.
He ran a hand through his hair, took another halfhearted bite of his eggs, then got up from the table and dumped the rest down the drain. His appetite was gone, he had a list of things to do, and yet he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any of it until he somehow made amends with the girl who’d once meant the entire world to him.
Can we talk?
He pushed Send before he could overthink it, then busied himself with washing the dishes to distract himself from the gnawing fear that she wouldn’t respond.
When the reply did finally come, it read:
Not necessary.
“Shit,” he mumbled, at the same time his mother walked in.
“Watch your language.” She patted his shoulder and ruffled his hair before retrieving a clean dish towel from the drawer and drying the stack of plates he’d left to drain on the rack.
“Leave it. I’ll get it,” he told her, debating whether he should text Layla back and try to convince her.
“I thought you had to work today.” His mother glanced at him from over her shoulder. She looked tired, worn. Her gray roots were beginning to show, and there was a fresh set of lines etched across her brow, along with a sad tilt to her brown eyes. She’d faced more grief than any mother rightfully should, and it made Mateo’s heart ache, wishing he could somehow erase all her pain and set the world right once again.
“Mom, please.” He swiped the dish towel out of her hands and gently pushed her aside. “Go on, say hello to Father Gregorio. I’m going to swing by the hospital to visit Valentina.”
“He always asks about you. Wonders when you’ll come back to church.”
“I know, I know,” Mateo mumbled, watching as his mother grabbed her purse and keys and wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. Life without an air condi
tioner was taking a toll, and the unrelenting summer heat showed absolutely no signs of abating.
She’d reached the door when she turned back to say, “It was just on the news that they found that poor girl’s car.”
Mateo squinted. He had no idea what she was getting at.
“The actress,” she said, reading his face.
“Where?” Mateo dutifully asked. His mother never showed any interest in Hollywood, but then again, the Madison story had transcended the tabloids and taken on a life of its own. He waited, not entirely interested in the answer. His mind was still caught on Layla, trying to decipher whether she’d responded in anger or if she really had meant what she’d said.
“Some office park burned down and they found her car parked outside. They’re investigating for arson. Apparently, a male and female were seen running from the scene.”
Suddenly she had Mateo’s full attention. “Were they able to identify them?”
His mother shook her head, made the sign of the cross, and kissed her son on the forehead. “You’re eighteen now, so I can’t tell you what to do, not that I ever could.” The smile she flashed him was fleeting. “That’s a crazy world you’re getting involved in. Please be careful,” she said. “I’ve already lost one son. I won’t lose another.”
Her words took Mateo by surprise, though in retrospect he realized they shouldn’t have. Despite his continued assurances that everything he was doing, he was doing to help the family, she couldn’t keep from worrying about him.
“Mamá, please.” He cupped a hand to each cheek, startled by just how small and fragile she seemed. “I’m here and I’ll continue to be here. I have no interest in playing a bigger part in that world than I already am. I can be in it, but not of it, you know.”
His words seemed to appease her, and once she was gone, he finished putting away the dishes, then grabbed his own set of keys. It was Sunday morning, which meant there were a myriad of places Layla might be, but he decided to start at the top of the list, and he headed for her favorite coffee haunt on Abbot Kinney Boulevard.
He caught her leaving just as he arrived, an extra-large coffee cup clutched in one hand, car keys fisted in the other.
“Am I really that predictable?” Layla stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to move around her, as she tilted her chin toward him.
Her hair was tousled, her face makeup free, she wore a tight white tank top, a pair of faded old cutoffs with a red plaid flannel shirt tied at her waist, and black rubber flip-flops, and at that moment she looked so insanely beautiful it took all his will not to pull her into his arms, hit rewind, and pick up where they’d left off before Ira Redman’s contest upended their lives.
Instead, he settled for saying, “Sorry for the ambush. I just really had to see you.”