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 and 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 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 ha
rd 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.
He stood from his aisle seat and 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 talk to you.”
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.
He smiled again. “Hi, everyone. I’m Evan, but most of my friends call me Coop. Um, I haven’t ever done this before, so I didn’t know I was supposed to memorize it.” He held up the paper in his hand. “So I’ll be going off my notes if that’s okay.”
A few people laughed, and there was a smattering of applause. That was good, right? Sure. Okay. He found Elena and Layla, but Layla had her head down, and he couldn’t see her face. Elena gave him an encouraging smile.
Deep breath.
“Two weeks ago on a Saturday, she blazed into my house and burned everything to the ground, leaving me sitting in ashes, the acrid taste of smoke in my mouth.
“Two weeks ago on a Saturday, she left me. Slammed a picture into my chest like a knife and walked out the door.
“That Saturday, she called me a cheater and a whore and told me to lose her number. As though I could forget her so easily.
“Well, if your girl thinks you cheated on her, I guess you can’t blame her for thinking that. But I didn’t.
“But she left me, with no chance to explain, no chance to show her the video of me turning away in disgust from the staged tableau in the photo. No chance to apologize for having jerks as friends.”
He found Layla again, and this time she was watching him. With his eyes locked on hers, he read the last line.
“Two weeks ago on a Saturday, life as I knew it ended. And I have no hope of starting it over again.”
There was a beat of silence when he finished, then the audience erupted in applause. He nodded once and stepped back from the mic, moving to step off the stage.
Dr. Moore shook his hand again. “Very nice. Well done. Powerful stuff. Raw and real. Thank you for sharing that with all of us.”
Evan gave another nod, not sure what to say to that, and not wanting to prolong this exchange. But Dr. Moore dropped his hand and moved to the stage to announce the next person. Evan moved to the wall so he could make his way around the back to where Elena and Layla were sitting without disturbing everyone.
He needed to see her. To talk to her. The last two weeks had been hell, his only saving grace was that she’d hear his poem and realize that he’d never cheated. That he’d been devastated since she left. And hope she’d talk to him afterward.
But when he got to where Elena and Layla had been sitting, Layla wasn’t there anymore. Elena met him at the aisle, and he bent his head so he could hear her.
“She went outside. Go now. You have to catch her. Go!” She pushed at his arm as she hissed in his ear.
When her words penetrated his brain, he didn’t waste another second, his long strides eating up the distance to the door. She couldn’t have gotten far in the last few minutes. This was his chance. He wasn’t going to fuck it up.
The door behind her slammed open, and Layla turned, startled. With the open mic still going on, she hadn’t expected anyone to follow her out or to make so much noise if they did.
But she should’ve expected Evan. After that poem, of course he’d come find her. And here she was, just standing in the courtyard outside the student gallery, waiting for him.
She could run away again. But no. That seemed … juvenil
e. And unfair. And even though she told herself she didn’t want to talk to him, the truth was that she did. With a sigh, she turned to face him.
“Layla.” Urgency infused his voice. When he got in front of her, he gripped her arms, holding her in place. “Layla, you have to talk to me. Please. Let me talk to you for five minutes. If you still don’t want anything to do with me after that, then I’ll leave you alone. But you owe me a chance to explain what happened at least.”
“Okay.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue some more, but closed it when he realized what she’d said. “Okay?” His voice sounded hopeful.
She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s talk. I’ll even give you more than five minutes. Do you want to talk here, or go somewhere else?”
Shaking his head, he looked her over. “Um, here’s fine.” He gestured to a bench. “Sit with me?”
She led the way to the bench he’d indicated, grateful that he put almost a foot between them when he sat next to her. He sat at an angle so he could face her, but he kept his eyes on the concrete at her feet. His hands ran through his hair and over his face, and he shook his head like he was sorting and discarding a variety of openers.
Finally, he dropped his hands in his lap and met her eyes. “I’m sorry, Layla. For everything. For not fighting harder when you came over. For not texting you right away when that happened.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even know anyone had taken pictures. I didn’t want any of those girls. I didn’t want them to flash their tits at me. I left the room as soon as it happened and found some of the other guys to hang with for a while. Nothing happened.” He stressed those two words, giving them equal weight. “You have to believe me.”
His face was a picture of sincerity and desperation. She knew that feeling, that overpowering desire to be understood. She’d felt it herself too many times to count. But she dropped her gaze to her hands and smoothed down her skirt, crossing her legs.
False Assumptions (Players of Marycliff University Book 6) Page 17