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What matters to me is helping her. The image of her, teary-eyed and red-faced in our lounge, flashes into my head again. It makes my chest hurt.
“Why don’t you want to be seen with us both in public?” I blurt out.
She looks taken aback. “What?”
Zack frowns. “Leave her alone, man. If she don’t want to, she don’t want to.”
I close my eyes. I’ve been told a lot that when I get too intense, I come across as harsh. I never mean to.
“Of course,” I say, softening my voice. “And we’d never make you. I just want to know why. You were fine with us both taking you to the bar, weren’t you?”
She squirms in her seat. “It was dark. And a bar isn’t the same as a five-star restaurant. All the posh people would be looking at me thinking I’m a whore.”
“Ain’t nowt wrong wi’ bein’ a whore,” Zack opines through a mouthful of cheese.
I stare at her. “You worry about this a lot, don’t you?”
“What?”
“What other people think of you. You’re very self-conscious about how you come across.”
She glances up at me. “Well. Yeah. It’s okay for you guys. No one ever criticises you. Zack’s nickname is Zack Hard-On, for God’s sake. He’s celebrated for being a slag. You’ve seen what people have been saying about me online already, haven’t you?”
I frown. “Does it bother you?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” she huffs. “But I don’t exactly want them to do it more.” She stabs a piece of lettuce with her fork. “When I was a teenager…” she pulls a face. “I wasn’t the most popular kid. I dealt with some shit. And I guess it got in my head.”
It suddenly hits me how little we know about Layla. We’ve known the girl for three years, but she’s still so damn secretive.
As I watch, she cuts her lasagne, crossing her legs and looking around the table uncomfortably. On our last date, she completely relaxed around us; but now she’s locked up again.
I’ve overdone it. The flowers and the candles, me taking her coat and pulling out her chair — she hates all of it. I screwed up.
“You know what? Let’s make this easier.” I stand and pick up both of our plates, carrying them to the sofa. Zack catches on and brings over the drinks, laying them on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?” Layla asks, standing.
“Making you more comfortable. I thought it would be a good idea to simulate a dinner date at a restaurant, but clearly you’re not enjoying that.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it!” She says quickly. “I just… it seems so…”
“Fake?” Zack says cheerfully. “Stiff? Forced?”
Layla dithers. “Unnatural,” she says eventually. “It’s hard for me to relax when you’re being so formal. Makes me feel like I’m getting judged. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop.”
“Anyone who doesn’t care about whether or not you’re comfortable is a shitty date,” I tell her, sitting down on the sofa and patting the spot next to me. “It’s fine. C’mon. Sit and eat.”
Her shoulders slump in relief. “Thanks,” she mutters, slipping onto the sofa between me and Zack. I pass over her drink, and Zack pulls her into his side. I can feel her tense body relaxing between us as she snuggles down.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “What now?”
***
EIGHTEEN
***
LAYLA
