Chapter Sixteen — What Layla Saw
The next morning, Layla found herself sitting across from Zara at the kitchen table, coffee in hand and that unmistakable directness she always brought to serious talks.
"Come on, spill it. What are you not saying?" she prompted.
Zara stared into her coffee. "I'm saying everything."
"You're laying out the facts," Layla replied. "The Boston plan, the timeline of the case, the situation with Claire, the resolution with Natalie. You're being very thorough with the details." She held Zara's gaze steady. "But I want to know what's beneath those facts."
Zara fell silent for a moment, her mind racing. She thought about the monitoring stopping, the lamp, the tea she made while lost in her music, and the drawing with five figures that she hadn't shared with Layla yet because it felt too fresh and too closely tied to Claire.
"I think," she said slowly, "I didn't really know what this was supposed to feel like."
"Love," Layla interjected.
"The real kind," Zara clarified. "Not the version I had before. The genuine one." She glanced down at her coffee. "I used to think that if something was tough, it meant it was important. But with Daniel, it's not hard. It's — easy. Not that it doesn't take effort, but that effort feels worthwhile without any second-guessing. No need to convince myself."
Layla listened quietly.
"Your mum would have called that the right fit," she said softly.
Zara felt a lump in her throat.
"Yes," she replied. "She would have."
Layla reached across the table, giving Zara's hand a brief, firm squeeze that said everything without words.
Then she picked up her coffee.
"Alright," she said. "Now tell me about that plant. Ten leaves? That's impressive for a windowsill with a brick wall view."
Zara laughed, a genuine, helpless kind of laugh.
Everything felt just right.
Daniel strolled in that afternoon, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. He had his key, and without a second thought, he let himself in. There they were at the kitchen table—Layla sketching away and Zara glued to her laptop. It was just another day; nothing special about it.
He made himself some tea, poured three cups, and joined them at the table. Layla glanced at him, then at the tea, and finally at Zara, her eyes saying everything—this is what I meant. Zara met her gaze with a knowing look, as if to say, I get it.
They had mastered the art of silent communication over six years of friendship. Daniel, however, seemed blissfully unaware of their unspoken exchange. He was busy pulling out his legal pad, ready to tackle some work on a Saturday afternoon. He knew Layla was here for Zara, and he didn't want to take over the whole day.
Layla observed him, mentally tucking this moment away in her mind, the way she did with things that truly mattered.
At four o'clock, she turned to Daniel, diving straight in without any lead-up. "What does Zara need that she doesn't always ask for?"
He looked up, not caught off guard by her question. He took a moment to think it over. "She needs to hear that what she's created is good," he replied. "Not just that it's well-received, but genuinely good. She knows her process and trusts her instincts, but she needs someone to say it out loud. She doesn't ask because she thinks she should have outgrown that need."
Layla turned to Zara. "He's right," she said.
"I know," Zara replied softly.
"I've been paying attention," Daniel added, before returning to his legal pad.