Faking with Benefits : Chapter 29

Two hours later, we’re both sitting in a booth at the back of a London pub. It’s packed tonight; there’s a football match on, so the place is full of fans watching the game. Layla and I have both had to squeeze onto one tiny bench, pressed close together. Layla has a mojito in front of her, and is looking a lot happier. The colour is back in her cheeks, and she’s finally smiling again.

“I still can’t believe you don’t remember me from high school,” she shouts over the clamour of the pub, kicking her heeled feet as she sips at her straw. “I was such a good student.”

“I’m sure.” I swig at my own beer and try to ignore the feeling of her thigh pressed against mine. After she showered, Layla changed into little black shorts and a skimpy green top. She looks lovely, of course — but it’s an awful lot of bare skin to have pressed up against you. I can’t help myself glancing down the long stretch of white leg as she shuffles closer, making room for a guy to squeeze into the booth on her other side.

“I was!” She insists. “I wrote an essay on the use of light in A Streetcar Named Desire. You said it was the best in the class.”

“I’m sure it was brilliant,” I agree. “Unfortunately, I think I’ve read about four hundred essays on that topic, so nothing is springing to mind.”

She kicks me under the table, her eyes crinkling. “You were everyone’s favourite teacher, you know. I was so excited to move into your class.”

I look down at my hands, my smile fading. “Hopefully I wasn’t too much of a disappointment. I probably wasn’t at my best when I was teaching you.”

She nods. “It was when your divorce was going through, right?”

I wince. “The students knew about that?”

“We knew. Mrs Martins—” she frowns, thinking. “Um…”

“Amy,” I supply.

“Right. She’d talk about you in class, sometimes. A lot of the girls were happy that you were back on the market.”

I grimace, and she laughs. “You were, what, sixteen at the time?” She nods. “You must have the reunion coming up soon, right?”

Layla’s face shutters. “Yeah. I got an email about it a few days ago.”

“Are you going to go?”

She taps her straw against the rim of her glass. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well. I might be there as well. I got my invite just this morning.” Amy emailed it to me specifically. I’m not sure if it’s just part of her role as headmistress, or she was trying to dig at me.

Her eyes flash to mine. “Really?” She considers. “That’s convenient. Maybe you should just come with me, then.”

I sputter on my beer. “Like, as your…”

“Date, yeah.” She leans against me, amusement glinting in her eyes. “I’m really big on reducing carbon emissions. It would save petrol.”

“My car’s electric,” I manage.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s the nerdiest way I’ve ever been turned down. And I’ve been turned down a lot, as you well know.”

I clear my throat, setting down my beer. “Layla—”

“I know, I know. You wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole. I’m just kidding.” She sighs, turning back to her drink. “Do you seriously go to the reunion every year? Why would you want to go back to that hellhole?”

My eyebrows raise. “You didn’t like Emery High? I thought it was a wonderful school.”

She almost chokes on her mouthful. “Oh?”

“Yes. There was plenty of funding. The area was nice. And the students were some of the loveliest I’ve ever worked with.”

She snorts at that. “Sure they were.”

“Emery High has some of the lowest rates of student exclusion and suspension in the country,” I tell her proudly. “I never remember seeing a child get expelled for bullying or fighting. It was a lovely atmosphere.”

Layla is silent for a moment. “I hated almost every second of it,” she says eventually.

I’m taken aback. “Why?”

Her mouth twists. “Guess I’m not that academic.” She looks down at her glass. The noise in the room seems to just get louder as she lets the conversation trail into silence.

I frown. The happiness has drained out of her again. “Layla.” She doesn’t respond, so I touch her hand lightly. “Hey. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she says, stirring ice around her glass. “You did nothing.” We’re silent for a moment. Layla studies the table, running her fingertips slowly over the glossy grain.

I clear my throat. “So. How is the experiment with Josh and Zack going? Honestly.”

She smiles slightly. “I didn’t lie on the podcast. It really is going great. I’m already a lot better at flirting, I think. And I’m getting more natural on my practice dates.” She grins suddenly. “And now I can come in bed, too. If you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” I say firmly. She just laughs. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding it helpful. Just remember that if you ever feel like you need to stop, you can change your mind.”

She narrows her eyes, taking another sip of her mojito. “Why are you so against it? Is it just because you think it’ll ruin my friendship with Zack and Josh?”

I shake my head. “I just don’t think they’re going about it the right way. Your issues aren’t social, or…” the word sticks in my throat.

She smirks. “Sexual?”

I nod. “Right. There’s nothing wrong with you. I think you’re just finding the wrong men.”

“Oh?”

I nod. “I think finding a partner is less about attraction, and more about logic. If you can find a person that’s compatible with you, you can avoid facing troubles down the line when the honeymoon phase is over.” I smile at her grimly. “And you won’t make the same mistake as me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus. You got divorced once, Luke. It’s not like you’re doomed to be alone forever because one relationship didn’t work out.”

My mouth falls open. “I don’t think I’m doomed forever—”

“No? I’ve never even seen you bring a girl home. There must be some reason for that.”

“Well… I…” I bluster. Honestly, I haven’t thought about finding a partner in forever. I’m perfectly happy with my life the way it is. I’m coming up to forty, after all. It feels a little late in life to be swiping through Tinder.

Layla leans forward, raising her voice over the noise. The movement puts our faces very close together. I can see all of the individual lashes framing her eyes, and the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. “It’s your whole schtick on the show. The ‘resident divorcee’. And I get it; it’s your speciality. But how come you aren’t even trying to date?”

I can’t look away from her. There’s a smudge of dark makeup under her eye, and without thinking, I reach up to thumb it away. “I… suppose I haven’t found the right woman.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “You dated Monica, didn’t you? Zack said you guys broke up because he couldn’t commit. Did you want to stay with her?”

My mood drops. I really wish Zack would stop talking about that. “That’s not quite what happened,” I admit. “I actually instigated the breakup. I wasn’t prepared for anything serious. Zack agreed that it was time, so we split.”

She frowns. “What about Josh?”

“Josh wanted to stay with her. He liked her a lot.”

“And his feelings were just ignored? That seems unfair.”

For the first time, I let myself really study her. She looks so unbelievably kissable right now. Her eyes are dark and dilated. Her pretty pink lips are wet and parted. My hand is still on her face, and without thinking, I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. “I suppose it was,” I murmur.

Her gaze flickers to mine, and she smiles slowly. “You know,” she says. “That was a long time ago. You should start dating again. Before you get old and lose all your hair.”

“Charming, Layla.”

My heart thuds as she laughs, sliding a little closer. My eyes widen as she tilts her face towards me.

She’s going to kiss me.

I thought I was making up all of the little flickers of attraction I saw in her, but maybe I wasn’t, after all. She’s actually going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let her.

Suddenly, a shout goes through the bar. I look up to see a footballer on one of the TV screens lift up his shirt and do a victory lap on the field, bellowing in triumph after shooting a goal. Layla swears as the guy next to her throws up his pint, sloshing beer down her front. “Jesus!” She shouts, turning to face him. “What is wrong with you?”

He turns to her, grinning sloppily. “Whas’ the matter, honey?” He slurs.

She scowls at her wet shirt. “You’ve soaked me, you utter moron.”

“Oooh, have I?” He throws his head back and laughs. “Smile, princess. S’just a shirt.”

Layla opens her mouth to argue, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder, yanking her into my side. She immediately goes quiet. “Go,” I tell the man.

His face creases. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he says.

“Go,” I repeat. “You’re a public nuisance. Get out of our way.”

Even after all these years, I am very good at getting people to do what I tell them to. Zack says it’s a leftover from my time as a teacher; whenever I raise my voice at someone, they automatically feel like they’re about to get into trouble. The man wavers, and I arch an eyebrow. “Now, please.”

“Whatever,” the guy mutters, standing and shuffling out of the booth.

I wait until he’s out of sight, then turn to Layla. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” I pick up a napkin and start trying to wipe off the front of her thin shirt.

She looks up at me with huge, dilated eyes. Her cheeks are pink. She swallows and nods, slipping out from under my arm and standing. “I… I’m gonna dry off in the bathroom. You want another drink?” She looks flustered.

I frown. “Layla, I can get it. It’s no bother.”

She fixes me with a look. “Why? Are you trying to impress me, Mr Martins?”

“Of course not,” I say. “But—”

She smiles. “Then I’ll buy the next round. Gimme ten minutes.” She turns on her heel and heads to the toilets without another word.