Page 95 of Layla

As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I know it perfectly describes me with John. I let him in. I let him see me. Hell, I took him to meet Dee, which is about the most personal thing I can imagine. I was real with John, maybe for the first time in my life.

And it still hadn’t worked.

Lance reaches over to rub my back. “So, what was the problem?”

I shrug, feeling something like despair slip through me. “I guess he wasn’t ready to be brave back.”

They all look at me for a long moment. Finally, Dylan grabs my hand. “His loss, then.”

I snort out a laugh. “I don’t know that—”

“No, Layla,” he says firmly. “If you found a guy you wanted to be with, really be with, and he couldn’t handle it, then he’s a fucking idiot.” I’m pretty sure there’s regret in his eyes. Maybe even sadness. And I can’t help but wonder how much of his infamous crush on me was just silly Dylan being flirty—and how much of it might have been real.

But there’s also acceptance in his gaze when he looks at me. And a hell of a lot of encouragement. “You’re a prize, baby girl. Any guy who can’t see that…” he shakes his head. “I just feel sorry for him.”

I feel sorry for him, too, I realize. And not because I agree with Dylan that I’m anything like a prize. No, I feel sorry for John because I’m pretty sure he’s never had the realization that I just had—that certainty that he was brave. Sure, he might have felt brave fighting in a war, or standing up to corruption in the police force, or a million other times in his bad-ass life. But had he ever felt brave with his heart? I really don’t think so.

And that makes me indescribably sad. Because if anyone in the world deserves a big, brave, bold love, it’s John Whitmore.

I blow out a long sigh. “Thank you,” I tell Dylan sincerely. “I guess it’s out of my hands, huh? Not much I can do.”

“You want to get drunk?” he asks, and I crack up at his tone of voice. He sounds like someone trying to appease a tantrum throwing toddler—with booze.

“No,” I tell him, pushing my plate away. “But I do want to go get ice cream. And maybe a few donuts.”

“Cookies?” Lance suggests. “I know a great place nearby.”

“Do they have cupcakes?” James asks, sounding glum. When I shoot him a questioning glance, he shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, I puked in front of my rock idols a few days ago. I could use a little comfort food.”

That has us all laughing as we stand, Lance throwing down some bills to cover our half-eaten meal.

“Comfort food it is, then,” he says, slipping an arm around my shoulder. Haylee falls into step next to me, Dylan and James behind us, and I know in that moment that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. With these people, in this city, going to enjoy some damn good junk food.

Would it be nice if John was here too? Hell yes. But I can’t take that leap for him. He’ll have to work his way through his own shit. Just like Haylee did. Just like I’m trying to do.

In the meantime, it’s a beautiful day and I’m surrounded by family. And I refuse to cry anymore.