“Interesting.” “Is it?” Layla runs her soapy fingers beneath the water. “Very.” “How so?” “That stupid smile on your face, for one.” She shuts off the water and grabs a dish towel in the shape of a Christmas tree, drying her hands as she considers me, her mouth set in a firm line. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that.” “What? Stupid?” “No,” she says. “Happy.” I feel it like a hand pressed flat to the middle of my chest, shoving me back. “I am happy,” I manage around a throat that feels too tight. I don’t know why that word bothers me so much. “I’m usually a happy guy, Layla.” I’m
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