PMU Boxset 2

by MacMillan, Jerica

  Layla let out a loud groan. “No.” She pointed at Alyssa. “No, Alyssa. You are not setting me up with one of your husband’s friends.”

  “Why not? I’m not saying you should start a new relationship or anything. Just some dates. Give you something to take your mind off Evan. Have a good time. Help you move on. We could even go on a double date. It could be fun!”

  “Absolutely not.” Layla shook her head emphatically. “Not even a maybe. I’m still getting over Evan. I don’t want to start dating someone else. Not even for fun to help me get over him.”

  Alyssa’s face turned sad. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you all alone here with only books to keep you company.”

  “I like my books. They’re good company. They don’t ever let me down, and they don’t try to set me up on blind dates.” She gave Alyssa a pointed look.

  Holding up her hands in surrender, Alyssa looked around. “At least tell me you’re doing more than holing up in here and moping all the time.”

  Layla rolled her eyes. “I’m not moping. Yes, I’m sad. But I still go to work. I went to a movie last night with some people from my poetry workshop. And I’m helping organize the poetry slam, so that, on top of homework, is keeping me busy. I promise I’m not sitting here alone, crying into my cereal.”

  “Okay, good.” Alyssa paused, then asked, “So how’re the poems for the slam coming? Do you have your pieces picked out yet?”

  Shifting in her seat again, Layla looked down at her pizza, picking a mushroom off and popping it in her mouth. “Um, yeah. Dr. Moore is having me read one of the things I turned in last week.”

  “Oh? What’s it about? Is it part of the series you were planning on doing about your grandmother?”

  Layla picked at her pizza some more. “Um, no. It’s about, just, y’know. Stuff that’s been going on. My feelings about life. Like that.”

  Alyssa’s face had morphed from polite interest to unconcealed horror. “He’s making you read something you wrote about Evan?”

  Layla nodded.

  “About the breakup?”

  Layla nodded again, still not lifting her eyes from her plate.

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’d even turn that stuff in.”

  “I have to turn in poems on a weekly basis. That was all I could write about last week, so it was all I had.” Layla covered her face with her hands, letting out a groan as she contemplated her fate. “Dr. Moore said it’s some of my best work. When I told him I’d rather read something else, he wouldn’t hear of it. Participating in the poetry reading is a huge part of my grade. I don’t have a choice.”

  Alyssa was all sympathy again. “I’ll be there for moral support.” She paused, thinking something over, then spoke slowly. “You don’t think Evan might show up, do you?”

  “Oh God, I hope not.” Layla let out another groan. How awful would that be? Just skirting around the edges of contemplating him being in the audience made her stomach turn and her pizza threaten to make a reappearance.

  She knew she’d mentioned it to him at some point, but that was in the planning stages. Had she told him the date? Maybe. She shook her head again. “I don’t think he’ll come. Yeah, he’s an English major, but …” She bit her lip and pushed the rest of her pizza away. She couldn’t eat another bite right now.

  Shaking her head, she decided not to think about it. It’s not like she could do anything anyway. And the odds of him showing up seemed small. “I don’t think he’ll come,” she repeated. “It’s not really his thing. It’ll be fine.” Right? Right. It would be fine.

  Alyssa seemed to pick up on her desire not to talk about it anymore. Thank God. “So, you’ll never believe what happened at work yesterday,” and she launched into a hilarious story that sufficiently distracted Layla from worrying about Evan coming to the poetry reading.

  When they moved onto the brownies and ice cream, Alyssa moved on from work to discussing married life. Hearing about her friend’s wedded bliss—even if she complained about living with Darren as much as she talked about how wonderful he was to her—made Layla wistful. She’d started to believe that she and Evan had something real, had started to think in terms of a future together. And now that was all gone. Would she find that someday with someone else?

  Except thinking about having that with someone else, even some unknown, faceless man, made her even more sad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “No. No no no no no.” Layla stood behind the temporary stage that had been set up in the student art gallery for the poetry slam, watching as the space filled with people. Including Evan.

  What was he doing here?

  She watched him take a program from the student stationed at the table by the door, glance at it, and make his way to a seat. Turning, she slipped behind some taller students so he wouldn’t see her.

  This was bad. So bad.

  Her poem on the program was about him. About their breakup. And he would know. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t—

  Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat, she searched the space for Dr. Moore. She’d talk to him, explain that she couldn’t possibly recite her poem. He’d understand, right? He couldn’t be so cruel as to force her to expose herself like that with the subject of her poem in the room. Could he?

  She twisted her fingers together, finally spotting him in the opposite corner talking with a group of students. When she reached them she cleared her throat, but the noise in the room overwhelmed her attempt to get his attention. So she tapped his arm.

  Smiling down at her, he put his hands in his pockets. “What can I do for you, Layla?”

  “Dr. Moore, I need to change my poem. I can’t do the one you want me to do.”

  He placed his hands on her arms and squeezed a little, his brown eyes meeting hers. “Layla. I know you had reservations about this poem, but we already talked about this. This is your best work. It’s already in the program. You can do it. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  She shook her head frantically, her eyes widening with her need to convince him. “No, I can’t. I really, really can’t. You don’t understand. It’s—the poem—it’s about—”

  “Deep breaths, Layla.” He cut her off, gesturing with his hand as he took a deep breath and let it out. “Come on. Take a deep breath. It’ll help you calm down.”

  Breathing in through her nose, she expelled the air through pursed lips. She did feel calmer, even though that wasn’t quite what she’d been looking for. “Thanks. Okay. As I was saying, I need to switch poems. What about the one—”

  With a shake of his head, he cut her off again, putting his hands back in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Layla. We’ve already agreed on the poem. No one’s changing at the last second.” His serious voice turned cajoling. “Besides, you need to give the world your barbaric yawp! This is it. You can do it.” He gave her arm one more bracing squeeze and left her standing there gaping after him.

  Her barbaric yawp. Dear God in heaven, the man thought he was Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society. If she wasn’t freaking out so much, she’d roll her eyes. But she didn’t appear to have a choice. She’d just have to make sure she didn’t look at Evan. At all.

  She resumed her place cowering behind the stage to wait for her turn. Dr. Moore had put her about halfway through the scheduled program, which would last about an hour. After that they’d have an open mic for another hour, depending on how many people signed up. They were supposed to stay for the whole thing and be available to schmooze afterward, but no way was she doing that. She’d stay for the scheduled program, then say she was feeling sick and bail.

  It wouldn’t be a lie. Her stomach roiled and her breath came fast, like she should start breathing into a paper bag. Vomiting and hyperventilating at the same time seemed like a really bad combo. But oh God, Evan is here.

  The minutes dragged until it was time to start. Dr. Moore stood on the stage and gave a little speech about how much he loved teaching the poetry class a
nd encouraged everyone to sign up for it the next semester. “We’ll have an intermission once we get through the scheduled program, and then the open mic set. So be sure to sign up at the back table. If we have more people sign up than we have time for, we’ll draw names. I hope you all came prepared to share your own beautiful words in this place of beauty.” He gestured around at the paintings and sculptures lining the space.

  Did Megan have anything on display tonight? She’d have to glance around at intermission before she bailed. The first girl took the stage to a smattering of applause, her hands shaking a little with her nerves. She cleared her throat a few times before beginning to recite her poem.

  Dr. Moore insisted they have their work memorized. A couple of her classmates had notecards, and she knew their professor wouldn’t be happy about that, but this was nerve-racking.

  Maybe she could pretend that she got stage fright and forgot everything. That would solve all her problems.

  Except for the problem of her grade. It’d be better to get docked for having a notecard than getting a zero for not reciting the poem. No, that wasn’t an option.

  All too soon, the guy before her finished his poem and the audience clapped politely. One of her classmates nudged her as he got off the stage. “Your turn.”

  Layla’s legs carried her up and onto the stage, feeling like she was in a dream. She didn’t remember deciding to go to the microphone, yet here she stood, with a sea of faces looking at her expectantly. Turning her face away from the mic, she cleared her throat, swallowing convulsively and wiping her trembling hands on the black skirt she’d paired with her sleeveless turquoise blouse and black ballet flats.

  When she looked up, her eyes caught on Evan’s face. He waited, like the rest of them, his blue eyes focused on hers. She traced the contours of his cheekbones and strong jaw with her eyes, his full lips and heavy brows, his thick brown hair that felt like silk between her fingers. But no. She couldn’t do this if she was staring at him.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and began reciting her poem. “You saw me. When I tried to hide, you looked past my walls, nudging your way inside until you were firmly entrenched.

  “But you turned into a noxious weed instead of the beautiful rose I’d expected. And now I must uproot you. Dig deep inside my own soul to cut you out.”

  Reciting the entire poem, she bared her soul to everyone, never faltering. When she finished, she opened her eyes, barely noticing the applause that filled the room as she hurried off the stage, almost stumbling in her haste. She’d kept her eyes closed through her entire poem, unable to look at anyone for fear of her eyes being drawn to Evan again. It was too much. This was all way, way too much.

  Hands patted her shoulders and her classmates complimented her on her poem and delivery. Dr. Moore met her as she made her way to the side door, his eyes dancing with happiness. “See? I told you that you could do it. It was beautiful. Moving. Everything you could’ve wanted.”

  She nodded, not feeling like arguing. Beautiful was good, but moving, not so much. Not with the subject matter. Not in front of all these people. She needed to get away now. To hide.

  Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she gave a quick smile. “Thanks, Dr. Moore. Can you excuse me? I need to use the restroom.”

  “Of course, of course. Be sure to come back. I’ll see you after.” He moved back to the main area to listen to the next student, and Layla left as quickly as she could without running.

  Once in the hall she stopped, sinking to the floor next to the door with her face in her hands. Well, now Evan knew exactly how she felt after their breakup. The big question was would that stop him from trying to talk to her? Or make him try harder? With a shake of her head, she dropped her hands, let her head fall back against the wall, and stretched her legs out straight, making sure her skirt was in place.

  Maybe she could stay here until it was all over. Dr. Moore would be looking for her by intermission, though. But if she stayed out until then, it might make her excuse that she didn’t feel well more plausible. He’d never let her tell him the reason she didn’t want to do her poem tonight, meaning he wouldn’t know she was bailing to avoid talking to her ex-boyfriend.

  So she’d stay here until intermission. That seemed like a good plan, despite the cold from the tiles seeping through her skirt. She was cold and uncomfortable, but it was still better than being in that stifling room.

  After a few minutes she started to feel bad for missing her classmates’ poems. But it wasn’t like she’d been paying attention to the ones before her. If anyone said anything about it, she’d apologize and explain.

  The door next to her opened, making her head jerk to the side to see who’d come barging in on her solitude. Elena let the door close behind her, looking first one way, then the other before her eyes found Layla sitting on the floor.

  Layla started to scramble up in surprise. She hadn’t noticed Elena in the audience. Of course, once she’d seen Evan, he’d kind of captured all her attention. And then she’d closed her eyes.

  Motioning for her to stay put, Elena came around on her other side, sinking to the floor with her legs crossed. She had on jeans and a flowy pink top, so she could sit that way without a problem. And here Layla was, stuck in a skirt. She didn’t like skirts very much. But Dr. Moore had told them they needed to dress nicely.

  Elena’s gaze was frank and appraising. “Your poem was beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” Layla stared at the wall across from her. God, was it going to be this hard to talk to everyone about her poem? Probably not everyone. With people who didn’t know her and Evan as a couple it wouldn’t be as awful. Evan would be worse. That was something. At least it wasn’t as awful as it could be.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  Elena stayed silent long enough that Layla glanced at her. “That’s it? You’re not going to push?”

  Shaking her head, Elena offered a small smile. “Do you want me to push? Because I don’t think you do. I like you, but I don’t know you that well. Plus, you probably think I’m more loyal to Evan since you met me through him.” She gave a little shrug. “If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen. But I know that people don’t always want to discuss their pain, so I’ll just keep you company.”

  Layla examined her face, taking in her warm brown eyes, her open expression. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Elena glanced at the door. “Just so you know, though, I heard your professor asking about you. You might need to go in and make an appearance soon.”

  Layla groaned, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the wall again.

  “I’ll hang with you if you need. For moral support.”

  “Thank you. My friend Alyssa is here somewhere for the same reason.”

  Elena stood and brushed off her backside before offering Layla a hand. “Well, come on. Let’s go find her and grab a seat. We can watch the open mic part together.”

  Accepting Elena’s hand, Layla stood too, pushing her skirt down and brushing off any dust she may have picked up from the floor. “Okay. But since you’re being my moral support, you’ll have to help Alyssa run interference if Evan tries to talk to me.”

  When Elena bit her lower lip, looking uncertain, Layla’s eyes narrowed. “Elena.” She put every ounce of warning into her tone of voice. “I do not want to speak to Evan. Especially after my poem.”

  Elena held up her hands, palms out. “I promise not to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Her eyes still narrowed, Layla studied Elena for a second, but accepted what she said. It wasn’t like she’d change her mind. Having another person for backup made her more confident she could get through whatever the rest of the night might hold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Evan Coopman.”

  Dr. Moore called Evan’s name from the mic on stage to read his poem next.

  Standing from his seat on the aisle, Evan made his
way to the stage, shaking Dr. Moore’s hand and clearing his throat before stepping in front of the microphone. Wrapping his usual swagger around him, he gave the audience a smile, but inside, his guts were clenching with nerves.

  Layla was here. This was his chance. Elena and Carter had come with him tonight, much to his dismay. But when Elena had coaxed his plan out of him, she’d clapped her hands and giggled, saying, “Oh, cariño, of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” And wherever she went, Carter went too. She’d said something about inviting her friend Hannah, which would probably mean Hannah’s boyfriend Matt Schwartz coming as well. But either Hannah had been busy or Carter had talked Elena out of it. Whichever it was, Evan was grateful. Doing this in front of all these people would be bad enough without more of his teammates witnessing him baring his soul and begging for forgiveness publicly in an attempt to win his girlfriend back. If any of them were here, he’d never live it down, regardless of the outcome. But if it worked—and Christ, he hoped it worked—it’d be worth any amount of shit from his friends.

  Despite his initial misgivings about Elena and Carter coming, he was glad they were here. After Layla had performed her piece—which had hit him like a kick in the gut, the raw pain in her words so powerful and so clearly about him—he’d seen her dart out the side door. When she hadn’t come back in by intermission, he’d been ready to go find her, but Elena had stopped him. “Let me. She’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want to talk to you. I’ll get her to come back in to hear you up there, and maybe after that she’ll be willing to hear you out.”

  It had killed him to agree with her, but he had, watching the door the whole time until Elena and Layla came back in. Elena had given him a discreet thumbs up as she found a seat with Layla far away from him.

  Now he was on stage, ready to read his—well, “poem” seemed a bit generous. But while he was trying to write it, he’d watched some videos of slam poetry on YouTube. It seemed more like rhythmic storytelling than the traditional poetry forms he’d learned about in school. He could tell stories. Maybe not as good as the people on the videos, or even some of the people who’d read tonight, both in the first half or in the open mic part. But he wasn’t trying to win any awards. He was only trying to win back Layla. Even if his poem wasn’t very sophisticated, it contained the important things he wanted to say.