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“I’ll be sure to do that. If he’s still talking to me, that is.”
“No loss if he’s not. He’s an asshole.”
While Layla is programming the carb count of her meal into her device, I pay our bill. Then we leave the restaurant. It’s only eight-thirty, still pretty early. We linger on the sidewalk out in front of the restaurant, neither of us seeming in a big hurry to go home.
“Since we’re out, is there anything else you want to do?” I ask her. “We might as well make an evening of it. You don’t have school tomorrow.”
She grins. “How about some dessert? There’s an ice cream shop just a block over that sells really good low-carb ice cream.”
“Sounds good to me. Lead the way.”
As we walk along the crowded sidewalk, she drifts closer and closer to me until we’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder. Her boot catches on a crack in the pavement and she stumbles. I grab her hand to steady her, linking our fingers together.
As we continue walking, neither one of us seems in a hurry to let go. So, we walk hand-in-hand, like any other couple out on the street. I know this isn’t a great idea, but is it really going to kill anyone if we hold hands? Friends hold hands, right? And we’re definitely friends.
When we reach the ice cream shop, we climb the steps to the entrance. I open the door for her and hold it as she steps inside and gets in line behind another couple. We each order two scoops of low-carb ice cream. Chocolate for me, and strawberry for her.
“Let’s walk down to the bridge to look at the river,” she says me when we step outside to eat our ice cream. “It’s so pretty at night when the lights flicker on the surface of the water.”
We stroll down N. Michigan Avenue, eating our ice cream, until we get to the bridge over the Chicago River. We stop at the railing and look out over the water and at the little strip of restaurants that line both banks of the river. A leisurely parade of tourist boats, small powerboats, and kayakers pass underneath the bridge. The intersection is crowded with pedestrians. An older African-American man playing a jazz saxophone has gathered quite a crowd in the square.
It’s not long before I notice the group of girls standing not more than ten feet away from us who are staring at Layla, whispering among themselves. A couple of them try to be subtle about taking pictures. I don’t think Layla has noticed. I hate that her privacy is constantly being trampled upon by curious strangers. They may not mean her harm, but they’re causing harm by imposing on her life.
I shift casually so that I’m standing behind Layla. I stretch my arms out, one on each side of her, and grasp the railing in front of us. I’ve essentially boxed her in so she’s not so visible to passers-by.
When she tilts her head back and smiles up at me, my breath catches and I find myself fighting a powerful urge to lean down and kiss her. And I can tell from the glint in her eyes that she’s thinking the same thing.
Instead, I give her an apologetic smile. “It’s getting late. We should probably start walking back to the car.”
Her smile falls. “But it’s only ten.”
“How about we watch a movie when we get home? You can pick.”
“Deal.”
Layla’s pretty quiet on the way back to the house. She seems lost in her own thoughts. I wish I could ask what’s on her mind, but I feel like I’d be prying too much. And it’s hardly fair if I ask her what she’s thinking about when I can’t give her the same courtesy.
When we arrive back at the house, Ruth and Martin are seated at the kitchen table with Margaret. The three of them look up at us expectantly.
“Well?” Ruth says with a smile. “How did it go?”
Layla beams. “I had a wonderful evening. The dinner was amazing, and then we got ice cream and walked down to the river to watch the boats.” She stops to hug her mom. “If you’ll excuse me, I'm going to change. Jason and I are going to watch a movie.” And then she races out of the room.
I move to follow her, but Ruth stops me. “How did it go, really? It sounds like she had a good time.”
I hate to be the bearer of bad news. “Reese acted like an ass and humiliated Layla in the restaurant. I ran him off.”
Ruth frowns. “But I don’t understand. She was in such a good mood just now. She seemed happy.”
Oh, shit.Now it’s confession time. “We couldn’t let two great meals go to waste, so we stayed and ate dinner together. Then we got ice cream and went for a walk. It was the least I could do to try to salvage her evening.”
“I see,” Ruth says. Her smile falls as she glances at her husband.
Martin looks me in the eye, but he doesn’t say anything.
Shit.The last thing I need is for the parents to think I did something inappropriate with their daughter. I protected her, damn it. I’ll always do that.
Ruth nods to me. “Thank you, Jason.”
