She immediately perks up and flashes a smile. “My favorite,” she says. And she means it. She listens to my songs so often I’m starting to get sick of my own voice.
Layla slides out of the chair and begins swaying flirtatiously to the music. She spins around, lifting her arms in the air as she dances in front of me. “Alexa,” she says. “Volume max.”
The song gets louder, and Layla closes her eyes and continues dancing. She’s out of sync and not at all graceful.
She’s still a terrible dancer. It was the first thing I noticed about her . . . and it’s the absolute last thing I would ever want to change.