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Layla watches Marc cook, as he peels potatoes with a practiced, steady hand.
“Have you thought about what your father said?”
He sighs. “Maybe.”
“Maybe like you don’t know, or maybe like you don’t want to tell me?”
“Maybe like maybe.” Marc puts down the paring knife, washing his hands clean of starch. He doesn’t like the sticky residue it leaves, and even though Layla offered to do the potatoes for him, he insisted. “What’s it matter to you?”
“I want to know if I should be stalking the airlines for cheap tickets, that’s all.”
Marc scowls. “No, you shouldn’t.”
“So you don’t want to see him?”
“So if I want to see him, I’ll take care of it!”
“Are you planning on just running off without telling me again?”
“I don’t know, Layla! I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I don’t need you to figure it out for me.” His knife comes down hard against the cutting board. “Can you just drop it? I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Layla sighs. “I’m going to shower. You better be here when I get back.”
“I’m cooking dinner. Where else would I be?”
It’s a simple response, missing the subtext of her comment, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or shout.
Marc pulls her against him at night. “I don’t know how I fell asleep without you,” he murmurs against her head.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t. When I ran into you, you had bags under your eyes so large I thought you were moving house.”
Marc laughs, his hands quivering against her, quiet motions that match his mood. “Fine, fine. I guess I didn’t. I must not’ve known what I was missing at night.”
Something flits across Layla’s mind — not Steven — but she dismisses it. Marc isn’t a puzzle to be solved.
Layla wakes up in an empty bed, with Marc’s space cold. He’s probably left for work, but she suspects that he woke long before he had to.
Still, when she shambles into the kitchen, still stretching the sleep out of her, there’s a bowl of apple slices on the counter, with lemon juice squeezed over them to keep them fresh. A sticky note rests next to it. Be safe. Lunch in fridge.
“I got dinner,” Layla says, kicking off her shoes. There’s a pile at the door, and it’s not quite her home but it’s not somewhere she doesn’t live, and she’s soaked from the rain and her rain jacket is at her place, but she said they’d do dinner here tonight, so here she is. “You ready to eat?”
“You were getting dinner?” Marc calls from wherever he is. “Fuck.”
“Did you cook something?”
“I – what time is it?”
“Seven.”
Marc steps into the center of the flat. “I thought — well, I guess it’s good you were getting dinner.”
Layla tries to put on a smile, and he takes the bags from her, kissing her on the cheek. “That’s me,” she says. “Always saving you.”
If her voice is flat, Marc either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t comment.
“It’s from that Indian place we were meaning to try,” she says. “I got you samosas, so there’s no meat.”
Marc starts to unpack things, and Layla accepts today is a day of few words from him. She should ask if things are wrong, or if it’s just a quiet day, but she’s tired. If things are wrong, she’s not sure she knows how to continue the conversation.
“Layla? I thought you didn’t like saag paneer.”
“I don’t.” She closes her eyes, because she knows what that means, and she hasn’t eaten since breakfast and her feet hurt, but Marc doesn’t like it either, and he’s the pickier eater. “They must’ve gotten the order wrong, it was packed when I went there.”
“I can call them?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll survive.”
She grabs cutlery from the drawer, and watches Marc contemplate this, his mouth drawn together.
“No,” he decides. “It’s not fine. I can go back, or I can make you something. But you’re going to have something you like for dinner.”
“Marc, really, it’s not a big deal.”
“It is.” He pulls out a chair, and she sits down. “We have leftovers from a few nights ago, or I can pull together a stir fry…that wouldn’t take too long, if you don’t mind that I don’t have any meat.”
“Marc, I’ve had a horrible day, and I just want to eat dinner with you. I don’t care, I’ll eat what they gave me.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” He’s already pulled out a bell pepper, scanning the fridge. “Why don’t you change into something comfortable? Take a shower, even. By the time you’re done I should have something you’ll actually enjoy.”
Layla sighs. “Fine.”
She has a drawer of clothes here — they really should just move back together — and as she pulls her hair back into a bun so she can shower, Marc turns on a playlist she doesn’t recognize. She wonders if he’s experimenting or if it’s someone she’s not familiar with.
“You took your time,” Marc says, holding out a plate. “I could’ve defrosted chicken if I knew you were going to linger.”
“Not all of us think we have to be out of the shower within five minutes,” she says. “And you bought a better soap.”
“It’s the one you have,” he says. “So.”
Layla sits down at the table, understanding, and Marc sits across from her.
“I left a bad review,” he says. “On Yelp.”
“Did you even try it? What if it was the best you’d ever had?”
“Impossible. They fucked up your order; they clearly don’t care about what they’re doing.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Stop arguing with me and eat.”
Layla smiles.
“Besides,” Marc says, “they messed up my order. Filled with lamb. So that’s two for two.” He stabs a piece of zucchini. “Next time you want Indian, I’ll get it from the good place.”
“The place that you always say is too far to bother with?”
“My priorities have changed.”
When they finish, Marc sends Layla to the couch before she can help with dishes.
“You cooked, I should clean.”
“It was your night to get dinner, so I’m supposed to clean up. Pick out a movie, you can fall asleep on me.”
She’d protest, but that’s what’s likely to happen. Instead, she hunts down the next entry in Planet Earth. They’ve been making their way through, and although she doesn’t think Marc in his current mood will enjoy it, he told her to pick, and an episode is shorter than a movie.
“Hurry up,” she says. “I’ve got it ready to play.”
“What’s got you all demanding?” Marc teases. She’s not watching him, but she hears the fridge open and close, and beneath the water he’s left running, a knife on a cutting board. “If you really care, just start it, and I can listen to the beginning.”
“That’s not as much fun.”
“Your decision.”
Layla rolls her finger over play, but Marc doesn’t take long. He brings with him a bowl of strawberries, sliced neatly into halves.
“I thought you would’ve started it,” he comments, sitting next to her, not quite touching, and passing her the bowl.
“I was waiting for you.”
Marc rolls his eyes, pulling the remote from her hand and pressing play. Layla offers him a strawberry, and he takes it.