was the day Ira was sending their first list of celebrity gets, which Layla assumed would arrive by email. It never occurred to her he’d opt for home delivery. And now her phone was chiming with incoming texts—most likely from her team wanting to strategize.
“You gonna get that?” Mateo struggled to keep his face neutral as he nodded toward her phone.
She shook her head, reached for her towel, and quickly covered herself.
“What if Ira needs you?” he said when her phone chimed again.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, searching for just the right words to explain, only those words didn’t really exist.
“When were you going to tell me? Or were you ever going to tell me?”
“Tonight.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, needing him to believe it.
“And how long have you known?”
She hung her head, if for no other reason than to avoid the hurt look on his face. He’d always been so open and honest with her. Layla was the shady one—the dealer of secrets and lies.
“Couple days,” she said, voice barely audible.
He exhaled long and deep. If disappointment had a sound, Mateo’s sigh would be it. He willingly forfeited the envelope. Her fingers reluctantly seized it. As much as she’d wanted the job, in the face of betraying Mateo, it no longer seemed worth it.
“You already know how I feel about that scene. But if this is what you want, it’s not my place to stop you,” he said.
“But it’s not like that!” Layla gripped the envelope so tightly it crinkled in protest. “I’m doing it to honor Carlos, to shine a light on that dark, murky world, and so I—” She stalled. Finishing the thought meant revealing another secret, and she absolutely was not ready for that.
Though she’d had no problem revealing that secret to Ira. As soon as he’d asked why she wanted to win, she blurted out the truth about needing to find a way to pay for journalism school. The interview ended shortly after, and out of all the questions he’d asked, and there’d been quite a few, she knew that was the answer that clinched it.
But this was Mateo, and there was no good way to say: Oh, and by the way, I have my heart set on journalism school in New York, and I’m hoping this job will cough up enough cash so I can move far away. And just so you know—you’re not invited.
How could she convey that to Mateo, of all people?
But from the length of her silence, she already had. Or at least she’d alarmed him enough to prompt him to ask, “So you can what, Layla?” His voice carried an edge, but his shoulders sank in defeat. “Is this about the prize money? Because you know I’d gladly give you whatever I have.”
She gazed around her room, taking in the dark wood floors and white beach-board walls that matched the rest of the remodeled Venice Beach bungalow, the jumble of freshly laundered clothes in need of sorting, the stack of books she’d been meaning to get to as soon as she found some free time. She paused on the portrait her father had painted of her at age five. Her head thrown back, eyes shut tight, mouth stretched wide as she laughed at something she could no longer remember. It was probably the last time her life felt so uncomplicated, the last time she’d felt like a kid. Within a year her mom would be gone, and she and her dad would take the first tentative steps toward forging a new life without her.
Maybe her mom’s abandonment had affected her more than she’d thought. Maybe a therapist would say it had something to do with her becoming the sort of perfectionist who couldn’t bear to disappoint anyone, lest they leave. All she knew for sure was she never wanted to disappoint Mateo—and yet, she knew she eventually would.
She gnawed her bottom lip, pulled the towel tighter around her. A quick glimpse of his face told her anything she said would be met with suspicion.
“The only reason I didn’t tell you is because I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I can’t stand to upset you….”
“I’m not upset.” He shook his head, started again. “Okay, I’m upset that you hid it. But mostly I’m worried about you getting involved in that scene.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“Of course I do. I love you.” He spoke as though it was really that simple—like there was no other way to reply. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, causing his jeans to slip enticingly low. “And when will we see each other? You’ll be working every night of the week.”
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