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“Yes.” I extend a hand to a diminutive brunette, her eyes clear and curious. “Layla Garcia?”
“Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She waves a hand toward the restaurant. “Shall we?”
The restaurant is poorly lit, with candles sending flickering light up the walls. No overhead lighting. I bump into a waiter on our way to the table, and damn it, my peripheral vision is shit in situations like this.
Layla’s voice is pleasant enough and had I been another man, or in another time in my life, she might have charmed me. But all I can focus on is the tiny fucking print on the menu that might as well be Greek for the sense I can make of it.
I’d need a flashlight to see in here.
“What are you having?” she asks. “I can’t decide.”
“I’m not sure yet,” I say, and likely never will be.
When the waiter comes, I tell him to give me tonight’s special.
Layla’s eyebrows rise. “You’re adventurous,” she says.
Fuck. Have I ordered frog legs or snails or something? Should’ve asked, but no, I just had to take my chances. Sometimes I’m not sure what I hate more. My failing eyesight or my pride.
Layla’s a psychologist with a degree from an Ivy League school and parents who summer in the Hamptons. She asks the right questions. Doesn’t comment on the fact that I apparently ordered couscous salad with candied goat cheese.
For each passing minute, I feel worse.
For wasting her time. For not engaging in the conversation she’s trying to draw me into. And for my mind’s constant path back to Summer and her potential date.
“You’re a psychologist,” I say.
Layla smiles, pushing her plate away. “Oh no.”
“I’m not asking you to diagnose me.”
“Good,” she says. “I’m not allowed to outside of hours.”
“But would you tell me why you find it interesting? Isn’t it depressing to listen to people’s problems all day?”
The look she gives me is one far too knowing for my liking. She cocks her head and reaches for her glass of wine. “It can be,” she admits. “But most of the time, it’s very rewarding. Most often, people just need to speak their thoughts aloud and know that someone is listening. What I say matters only half as much as letting them hear themselves speak out loud. People are beautiful and problematic and if I can be a part, in however small a way, in someone turning their life around… well. That’s worth listening to difficult things once in a while.”
“It’s admirable,” I say, and I mean it. But so is skydiving, and I have about as much of an inclination to do either, which is zero.
By dessert, the headache behind my eyes has erupted into a blinding pain. She notices too, which means I have to explain myself.
I ask for the check. “I’m sorry, Layla. This has been great—”
“No, you don’t think it has,” she says. “You can be honest.”
Is that the tone she takes with one of her patients? Fuck me, but I find myself sighing. “I’m not in the best state right now. I thought I was, thought I could do this, but I don’t think I can.”
She’s not angry with me. Instead, she reaches out and puts her hand on mine with professional courtesy. “I understand. It’s good that you tried, though. Thank you for tonight.”
The grace humbles me. I leave the restaurant on foot, walking the streets of New York aimlessly, thinking of her words. My mother’s words. Summer’s. A couple in love walks past me, their hands intertwined and their step quick. Laughter hangs in the air behind them.
With a sigh, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Layla will call Summer soon and give a report, and I know the conclusions Summer will draw. That I sabotaged this night. That I would never admit she’d done a good job.
Better to get there first.
I dial her number and hold the phone up to my ear. Cross the street and glare at a cab that brakes too late.
“Anthony?” Her voice is high. “I don’t know what to do. God, I don’t know what to do.”
