“Oh, yeah.” Sydney blushes so darkly that her cheeks match her pink earrings. “We’re kissing now, but not putting a label on it just yet.”
“To be clear, Syd is the one who doesn’t want a label yet. But you know, whatever.” Willa pulls Sydney to her by the belt loop and kisses her hard on the neck. I clap and grab their shoulders and say, “Yay, yay, yay!”
A few other people, not kids from school, go up onstage next. And I’m feeling really good about everything. There’s a juggler, and another person who tells a personal story like I did. There’s someone who does a really bad slam poem, but I try not to be too judgmental. A guy even asks Miss Dolly about one of the paintings on the walls, the one of Ella Fitzgerald. They haggle a bit, and he ends up buying it. Dom disappears into the kitchen again to cook, and Sydney, Willa, and I grab a table when one finally opens up.
About thirty minutes before close, Layla steps up to the mic, and I watch her dark eyes as they scan the crowded dining room. I wonder if she’s nervous being in front of so many strangers, but she’ll have to get used to it before she gets to London. Willa and Sydney are kissing again, but when Layla’s eyes land on me I poke them, and at the sight of Layla, they look over at me. “You good?” Willa asks, and Sydney says, “If she does anything even remotely bitchy I’ll murder her.”
“How long’s that murder list now?” Willa asks jokingly, and Sydney glares at her.
“Guys, shhhh,” I say.
When the music starts, my heart swells at the familiar melody. And while I know that Layla is lost to me, maybe this is her goodbye to our friendship the same way my story was mine.
She sings the first line of my favorite song—the song that was playing the day we met—beautifully.
She watches me and no one else.