Layla

The ripples from the disturbance at my end of the pool eventually reach her, but she doesn’t look up to see who has joined her in the water. She just keeps staring up at the sky, as quiet and still as a log floating on top of the water. Such a contrast to the ridiculous display she put on earlier.

After a few minutes of me watching her, the water envelops her entire body, and she’s gone. When her hands push up and part the water and her head breaks through the surface, she’s looking right at me, as if she knew I was here all along.

She keeps herself afloat with small movements of her feet and waves of her arms on top of the water. She slowly closes the gap between us until she’s directly in front of my legs, staring up at me. The moon is behind me, her eyes reflecting its glow like two tiny light bulbs.

From the stage, I thought she was pretty. But from one foot in front of her, I see she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Puffy pink lips, a delicate jawline I’m hoping I might get to run my hand across at some point. Her eyes are as green as the grass that surrounds the pool. I want to slide into the water with her, but my cell phone is in my pocket, and there’s a half-full can of beer in my hand.

“Do you ever watch those YouTube videos of people dying inside?” she asks.

I have no idea why she asks that question, but anything could have come out of her mouth just now and it would have moved through me with the same strength those words just did. Her voice is wispy and light, like it floats effortlessly out of her throat.

“No,” I respond.

She’s a little out of breath as she works to keep herself afloat. “They’re compilations of embarrassing things that happen to people. The camera always zooms in on people’s faces at the worst moment. Their expressions make it look like they’re dying inside.” She wipes water from her eyes with both hands. “That’s what you looked like up there tonight. Like you were dying inside.”

I don’t even remember her looking up at the stage, much less eyeing me long enough to accurately assess how it feels every time I’m forced to play those shitty songs onstage.

“I’m already dead inside. Died the first night I started playing for the band.”

“I thought so. Did you like my dancing? I was trying to cheer you up.”

I nod and take a sip of the beer. “It worked.”

She grins and slinks underwater for a few seconds. When she comes back up again, she wipes all her hair out of her face and says, “You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Wife?”

I shake my head.

“Do you have friends, at least?”

“Not really,” I admit.

“Siblings?”

“Only child.”

“Shit. You’re lonely.”

Another accurate assessment. Although in my case, lonely is a choice.

“Who is the most important person in your life?” she asks. “Parents don’t count.”

“Right now?”

She nods. “Yes. Right now. Who is the most important person in your life?”

I reflect on her question for a moment and realize there’s no one I’d take a bullet for other than my mom. I’m indifferent toward the guys in the band. They’re more like coworkers I have nothing in common with. And since parents don’t count, this girl is literally the only person on my mind right now.

“I guess you,” I say.

She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “That’s kinda sad.” She lifts her feet and kicks the wall between my legs, pushing away from me. “I better make this a good night for you, then.” Her smile is flirtatious. An invite.

I accept her invite by placing my phone on the concrete next to the now-empty beer. I take off my shirt and watch her eye me as I slip the rest of the way into the pool.

We’re at the same level now, and dammit if she didn’t just get prettier somehow.

We swim around each other in a slow circle, careful not to touch, even though it’s obvious we both want to.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“The bass player.”

She laughs at that, and her laughter is the opposite of her wispy voice. It’s deliberate and abrupt, and I might even like it more than her voice. “What’s your name?” she clarifies.

“Leeds Gabriel.” We’re still swimming around each other in circles. She tilts her head and gives my name some thought.

“Leeds Gabriel is a front man kind of name. Why are you playing in someone else’s band?” She keeps talking, apparently not really wanting an answer to that question. “Were you named after the town in England?”

“Yep. What’s your name?”

“Layla.” She whispers it like it’s a secret.

It’s the perfect name. The only name she could have said that would fit her—I’m convinced of that.