At the sound of footsteps, I glance over to find an attractive man walking into the kitchen, wearing a crisp button-down shirt, an unreadable expression on his face.
Grant, I’m assuming.
He gives me a quick once-over, almost like he’s sizing me up, deciding if I’m an acceptable guest in his home.
“Hey,” he says finally, nodding once. “You’re Layla’s new friend, Iris?”
I nod. “Nice to meet you.”
He offers a brief handshake, and I get the feeling he would’ve rather not, while Layla crosses the kitchen and slides herself between us with ease.
“Grant, baby, can you check the drinks in the cooler? Make sure there’s enough ice, please.” He holds her gaze for a beat too long, then heads for the back door without a word.
I watch after him. “Did I do something weird?”
“No way!” Layla exclaims, going over to a stack of napkins and setting them out. “He’s not really a party person, but he humors me.”
I offer her a sympathetic smile, and she waves it off like it’s nothing, but I catch the tightness in her face.
“You wanna help me slice strawberries for the sangria?” She says, changing the subject, and I join her, but part of me is still watching the door Grant disappeared through.
Layla wouldn’t be with him if he were like that all the time, right?
The backyard glows under string lights hung around the entire yard. Music plays from a speaker by the glass door that people spill out from, drinks in hand and plates piled high.
Layla seems to know everyone, greeting them with smiles and hugs. But she never forgets about me.
She stays by my side, and every time someone passes, she gestures them over with a bright, “Have you met Iris? She’s new in town!”
It’s easier than I thought it’d be.
Fun, even.
I’ve never had a best friend before. The closest I’ve ever had was my younger sister, back when I was still Kavi, and she’d followed me around like a little shadow.
I haven’t seen her in eight years.
She’s twenty-three now, she could be anywhere, living any life. I don’t even know if she would recognize me if she saw me.
I take a long sip of sangria, letting the burn of the wine settle the ache in my chest.
That’s a door best left closed.
Across the yard, I spot Layla laughing with a group of her friends. Grant is standing behind her, arms around her waist.
I watch him lean in and whisper something in her ear, and kiss her temple, making her smile up at him.
It’s sweet. Maybe I was wrong about him.
I’m still watching them when a voice cuts in at my side, low and grumbling. “Ugh. I hate that guy.”
I turn my head to find Nate, beer in hand, watching Grant like his existence offends him. “Wow. No hello, just straight to the hostility?”
He lifts his bottle in a half-hearted toast. “Hello. I hate that guy.”
I let myself laugh even though I shouldn’t, glancing back at Layla and Grant. “Why? He seems okay.”
“Wow, convincing,” he says dryly, then adds, “Dude’s the kind of guy who makes you take your shoes off at the front door. I bet he color coordinates his underwear drawer.”
