by Shari Ryan
“Well, I asked him while we were catching our breath,” Lexi continues.
“That was the one question you decided to ask him in-between kisses?”
“If I could only ever ask someone one question, it would be about their astrology sign. Do you have any clue how much you can learn about a person with just a one-word answer?”
“I guess I didn’t consider the importance,” I tell her, wishing I understood the inner workings of her mind.
“Libras are most compatible sexually and lovingly with Leos. It’s a proven theory among astrologers.”
“Well, I guess it’s meant to be then,” I tell her, spotting a monster truck style Jeep Wrangler spraying dirt from the tires as it whips into a parking spot out front. I can’t see who is inside of that thing, but I’m confident it’s the band.
“Oh my God, it’s them,” Lexi says, placing her fork down and running a napkin across every inch of her face. I want to sound like a seasoned older woman that tells her she won’t care much about having a crumb of chocolate on her face after she has a child. All sense of care for my appearance went out the door with my perfect figure. I might try less than the average mom, but I also don’t worry about what I look like, which is nice. “You have chocolate on your face.” Lexi is pointing at me, her big green eyes bulging against her dark lashes. “Use a napkin, quick.” She lifts a napkin and throws it at me. I’m almost in a state of shock while watching her freak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lexi act like this. It’s comical. Therefore, I do what any good friend would do and leave the chocolate icing on my face.
“Ladies,” Layne says, walking into the pastry shop first, followed by the other three.
“Layne Hensen,” Marcy calls out from behind the counter.
“Hey, Aunt Marcy,” Layne says, holding his hand up and giving her a wave. Marcy is Layne’s aunt? How have I not known this? I guess I don’t have in-depth conversations with Marcy about her family, but I kind of thought she didn’t have much of a family. I guess I had no real reason to think that.
Layne holds his finger up to us, gesturing to hang on a minute as he walks up to the counter. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” Marcy whispers quietly, reaching for Layne, then gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’m okay,” he tells her.
“How’s Mom today?”
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I’m drawn to the conversation as if I was a part of it. Layne shrugs his shoulders. “Same.”
“I figured. I’m coming over in the morning with a few things. Will you be home?”
“Yeah, I should be there,” Layne replies.
“Okay, go have fun with your friends,” Marcy mutters.
Layne swivels around on his heels, and I quickly switch my focus to Lexi and Johnny who are already making out again. We’re sitting like ten inches away from each other. This is uncomfortable, and worse to be staring at them right now like a freak.
“Want some popcorn to go along with your cake?” Layne asks me.
“At first thought, it sounds gross, but on second thought, that might taste pretty good. Plus, the Lexi and Johnny show in front of us is definitely chocolate and popcorn worthy,” I respond. Sal and Devin have taken another table, both of them busy with their phones. Layne sits on the other side of me and pulls my chair a few inches away from Lexi’s, which I appreciate at the moment.
“Is this your go-to cake?” Layne asks me.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl and I have this chocolate Bomba cake on my birthday every year or whenever there’s a good reason to have cake.”
“You have impeccable taste,” he says.
“Would you like some?”
“I won’t say no to Bomba cake.” He takes a fork out of the tin can in the middle of the table and isn’t shy about digging into the center where the liquid chocolate is hiding. “You haven’t even touched the best part yet. What kind of Bomba cake eater are you?”
“That’s the dessert part of the dessert,” I explain.
“Oh, shit, I just ruined your cake,” Layne says, dropping his fork down in defeat. “I’m sorry.”
I laugh because he’s acting as ridiculous as I do about cake. No one really saves the center of a cake for last. Only I do that. “I’m sure there are many ways to eat Bomba cake. I won’t pretend like I know everything there is to know about eating cake, okay?”
“But the site of the broken cake is making you a little crazy, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice is a little softer this time.
“Yes, of course, it is! How could you do something so inhumane to this poor beautiful cake?”
Layne laughs and shakes his head. “Here, I’ll show you why you shouldn’t save the middle for last. There’s no frosting on the inside, you know.”
“I know. That’s the dinner portion,” I tell him.
Layne cuts his fork into a piece of the cake, dips the bite into the frosting from the side, then drowns the cake covered fork into the chocolate liquid center. When his fork emerges, the prongs are covered in dripping chocolate.
“This isn’t fondue,” I remind him.
“Open your mouth,” he says sternly. I do as he says because if I don’t open my mouth, the poor piece of cake is going to end up on the ground, wasted. The bite is almost too big for my mouth, but he manages to shove the entire piece inside. “Need a napkin? I mean you already had chocolate on your face, so I figured you didn’t care if there was more.”
“Nope, no napkin,” I tell him with a mouthful, hoping Lexi hears this embarrassing display of cake-eating.
It takes me a minute to break the bite down enough to swallow, but once it’s down, I refocus on Layne who is a light shade of pink, laughing hysterically. “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been around anyone who has eaten that much cake in one bite. You need an award or something.”
“I need water,” I try to tell him, feeling dehydrated from the spongy texture. My hand flies to my mouth, knowing I must have cake bits stuck between each of my teeth, but I can’t control the laughter bucking out of me.
Layne pushes his chair away from the table and meets Marcy at the counter who is holding two glasses of water in her hands, laughing at the scene. I take a moment to chug some water and grab a few napkins from the table to clean my face.
“You really like cake, huh?” Layne asks, seemingly pleased with my display of cake-eating etiquette.
“It’s my thing.”
“What else is your thing?” he asks. His questions are simple, and I can tell he doesn’t mean to bring the mood down with such an open-ended question, but the first thought that comes to mind is Aly and the fact that I’m not spending this time with her on my birthday. If I admit this to him, this little spark between us, if that’s what I’m feeling, will vanish into the night. He can’t be much older than I am, and I’m almost positive the mention of a child in my life would send any guy running. On the other hand, he has a booming career ahead of him, so even if I didn’t have a child, I don’t see Layne or the band sticking around the area for very long. Therefore, the need to hide my life isn’t necessary.
“My daughter,” I choke out, vomiting information that will kill the vibe. I still can’t manage to say the word daughter without sounding like an imposter, claiming to be a mother. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel normal referring to Aly as my child. Even when I’m older, people will quickly be able to figure out how old I was when I gave birth to her, so I’ll be forever wearing the label of a teenage mom, and I’m still ashamed of the fact.
“Your daughter?” Layne asks, covering his mouth after taking a large bite of cake. I realize how easy it must be to choke on food when hearing this statement.
I press my lips into a straight line and force a smile. “Yup, my daughter, Alyson, she’s a year-and-a-half-old.”
Layne swallows the bite in his mouth and takes his glass of water, pushes the straw to the side and gulps a few mouthfuls. “Where is she? Why is
n’t she here?”
That was not what I was expecting him to ask. “Oh, it’s late, and she goes to bed early. My mom is watching her.”
I look away from Layne because I can’t figure out the expression on his face. It isn’t one I’ve seen before when telling people, I have a daughter.
“I’m sure it’s hard being a young mom, but she’ll be your best friend for life, I’m sure.” In less than a matter of two seconds, one comment on being a young mother has made me feel completely different from the way I’ve felt since Aly was born. I’ve yet to look at the positive side to struggling, but here it is, spoken as if it’s the first thought that comes to mind when digesting a different kind of reality.
“I never thought of it like that,” I tell him. He’s right. I’ll still be young when Aly’s old enough to be a friend rather than just a child I have to raise.
“My mom had my sister when she was seventeen,” Layne says. “It doesn’t matter though. My sister and I both think she’s the best mother in the world. So, as a child of a former teenage mother, I still call myself luckier than some of my friends, who have moms that were of a ‘normal’ age when they had their first child.”
Our conversation is so quiet that I’m completely zoned in on his face, watching his lips move in case I don’t hear one of his words, and wondering how I can hear him so perfectly over the bellowing laughter coming from Sal and Devin’s table. Even Johnny and Lexi have taken a break from their tongue wars to talk a bit, but I can only focus on Layne. “This has been one of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had in longer than I can remember,” I admit.
Layne reaches around the back of his neck and squeezes his shoulder while glancing down at his pen-covered hands. It appears he needs a break from the conversation whereas it would usually be me who needs breaks from talking about my abnormal life. For each second of silence following his last remark, the words Marcy said to Layne as he walked in pop back into my head. She asked him how his mother was doing today. I wonder if she’s sick. She must be if Marcy is stopping by to visit her. Maybe she’s hurt. It’s none of my business though, and I don’t want him to think I was listening in on their conversation.
“So, when’s your next performance?” Maybe if I change the topic, he’ll perk up again.
He lifts his head and takes a deep breath as if there isn’t a simple answer to my question. Layne leans back in his chair and folds both hands behind his neck. “It’s actually up in the air right now. We have a couple of details to iron out before anything is a solid plan.” It sounds like he can’t give me any details, especially after the comment about a record label slipped when we were behind the stage.
“That sounds exciting, in any case.”
“Yeah, we have some crazy decisions to make, but it’s all good, for sure.” I grab my glass of water, needing to wet my mouth. The conversation is turning onto its side, and I don’t cope well with awkwardness. “Oh, here, I have a question for you. I can’t give you many details on why I’m asking it, but it’s for research.”
I place the glass of water back down onto the table and recenter my focus on Layne’s face. “Okay, go. I can help with this.”
“What are your top three fears?”
I’m not sure if this question is designed to be easy or hard, but I can probably give him a list of my top fifteen fears in a matter of four seconds. I don’t need to think very hard about my answer. “Roller coasters, heights, and having the wind knocked out of me to the point where I can’t breathe.”
“Wow, okay, that was super-fast and thought out for a spur-of-the-moment answer. Do you focus on your fears?” He laughs because my fears are somewhat common but probably aren’t at the top of anyone’s fear lists. I can avoid my fears for the most part, unlike someone who might be afraid of spiders or the dark.
“I have nightmares about massive roller coasters, being at the top, and free falling. I’ve researched dream analysis websites to see what’s wrong with me, but all I can find is an irrational fear of letting go of control.”
Layne’s interest seems piqued as he leans his head into his hands and twists his lips to the side. “Wow. That’s incredibly intuitive of you. I love it.”
“You love my fears?” I question, teasing him for what I’m sure was an unthought out response.
“No, I mean, I love that you were able to figure out what causes your fears. Most people can’t do that.”
“I guess that makes me amazing; what can I say?” I playfully tussle my hair over my shoulders, giving off the impression that I’m cocky and sure of myself. I couldn’t be more different from that type of person, but I’ll take his compliments and let them go to my head for a moment.
“You just gave me the best idea,” he says, grabbing a pen from his pocket, then jots a few notes down on a napkin.
“What’s that?” I question. “Did you run out of room on your hand?”
“These are lyrics, smarty-pants,” he says with a wink that makes my heart flutter. “Dani, can I see you again?”
Me? He wants to see me again? “Um, yeah, I—we—”
“I want to take you out, and you can bring Alyson.”
“You want to go out with my one-year-old daughter and me?”
* * *
“Why wouldn’t I?” Layne seems confused by my question, and I can’t tell if it’s an act or genuine wonder, but it’s sweet, in any case. I just hope it isn’t out of pity.
Eight
Current Day
Guilt fills my chest as I approach the Cherokee, preparing for how I can casually let Layne know I “remember” his name. I’m still at odds with my mind, angry that it could fail me after nearly thirty short years. I stayed out of trouble, away from drugs and alcohol. I’ve maintained a healthy diet and exercised a lot before this stupid diagnosis. Now, I’m just trying to fight off depression and the thought of losing my mind.
“Ready?” Layne asks as I secure my seatbelt.
“Yup,” I respond. “Oh, Aly, how was your algebra test today?” See, I can remember that.
“It was okay,” she responds, staring down at her iPhone, tuning me out like she has been doing more and more often.
“Do you think you did well?” I press.
“I don’t know, Mom,” she snaps.
I twist around in my seat, grabbing the headrest to hold my awkward position. “What is your problem?” I ask her. Lately, my mom voice has sounded far too natural.
Aly glances up from her phone and stares into my eyes for a moment. When I blur the rest of her out and focus on her baby blue eyes, I see the little girl who would cry when I put her to bed because she wanted to stay in my arms longer. I see the child who begged me not to tell her she would have to grow up, or she would want to move out someday. It feels like we had those conversations yesterday, but here we are. She would do just about anything to get her own apartment and live without rules, never mind sitting with me on a couch and watching I Love Lucy reruns like we used to do. I didn’t know when we turned into this chapter. She’s still so young.
“I don’t have a problem,” she says without as much mirth compared to her previous responses.
“Well, I don’t like the way you’ve been speaking to us so knock it off already.”
“Sorry,” she mutters. With the age difference between Aly and me being only sixteen years, we seem to have done a lot of growing up together throughout life. Thankfully, she was a good kid and hasn’t gotten into much trouble. Things have only been different between us for the past couple of months, but I’ve attributed most of her attitude to teenage hormones. I’ve asked her countless times if she’s upset about my health, but she assures me we’ll all be okay, and I let her hold on to that hope.
It doesn’t take long for us to arrive at Sage. We would never admit this out loud to anyone, but we took the distance and proximity of Sage into account when we were house-shopping years ago. A week doesn’t go by when we aren’t here at least once or twice. Plus, Layne’s f
amily run’s the shop, which makes it easier to stay in the habit of being frequent patrons.
We all step out of the car in silence and tread toward the front door. None of the other guys are here yet, but that’s most often the case. They don’t live as close as we do.
Aly is the first to walk inside. She isn’t a stranger to Sage. In fact, she’s probably been here more than she’s been at Mom’s since we moved out of her house. I don’t think Mom would appreciate hearing that though. The shop smells as it always does: sugar, honey, and vanilla—or heaven if there is such a smell. The quiet elevator music is at a low hum, and the tables are shining with a clear gloss. There is never a smudge on a window or a crumb to be seen. Marcy likes to keep this place cleaner than a surgical room.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite niece,” Marcy says from behind the counter. Aly greets her pleasantly as she always does. Watching Aly offer an adult common courtesy provides me with hope that my sweet little girl is still inside of that teenage body somewhere.
“Hi, Aunt Marcy! Please tell me you have my favorite tiramisu.” Aly claps her hands together, pressing them against her chest in prayer that her beloved dessert hasn’t sold out for the day.
“As a matter-of-fact, I have three slices left,” Marcy tells her while slipping on a pair of plastic serving gloves.
“Good, I’ll have two,” Aly responds.
“Two?” I question.
“This is my dinner tonight,” Aly declares. If cake can be dinner, it means I don’t have to cook, and this whole adulting thing is supposed to come with the ability to have cake at any point of the day. Aly may not be an adult, but I may agree with her plan.
“You can’t have cake for dinner,” Layne tells her. “That’s not healthy.”
I nudge Layne in the arm. “Just let her have it tonight. One night won’t hurt her,” I tell him.
“Layne Hensen, when did you become such a stick in the mud. Are you entering into old-manhood now?” Marcy calls out from behind the counter.