PART 2: THE PARTY WHERE SHE STOPPED SHRINKING
Saturday evening, my tragic suit looked less tragic than I remembered.
It was charcoal, a little tight in the shoulders, and still carried the emotional residue of the last wedding I had almost attended as the groom. I stood in front of my mirror trying to decide whether my tie said dependable man or substitute math teacher when my phone buzzed.
LAYA: Are you dressed?
ME: That depends whether you’re asking as my date or my parole officer.
LAYA: Both. Window.
I crossed to the kitchen.
Across the alley, Laya stood at her open window in the green dress, her hair pinned up with a few loose curls at her neck. She looked elegant, nervous, and unfairly beautiful.
She lifted a hand.
“Turn around.”
“What?”
“Let me see the suit, Morris.”
I obeyed, slowly rotating like a department store mannequin with anxiety.
Her eyes traveled over me with enough appreciation to make my collar feel too tight.
“Well?” I asked.
“The suit is not tragic.”
“No?”
“No. It’s quietly devastating.”
I looked down to hide a smile.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” She leaned on the sill. “You clean up well.”
“So do you.”
“I was already clean.”
“You know what I mean.”
Her mouth softened.
For a second, the alley disappeared.
No rain tonight. No accidental embarrassment. No awkward arrangement.
Just her looking at me like she was glad I existed in a suit across from her.
Then she said, “Meet me downstairs in ten before I lose my nerve.”
I got there in seven.
Laya was waiting outside her building beneath the awning, clutching a small black purse. Up close, I noticed the tiny gold earrings shaped like stars and the faint pulse at the base of her throat.
“You came early,” she said.
“I didn’t want you waiting alone.”
“That’s either sweet or a sign you’re punctual in an alarming way.”
“Both can be true.”
She laughed, and the tension in her shoulders eased.
Then she held out her hand.
Not her arm.
Her hand.
I looked at it, then at her.
“We should practice,” she said.
“For the witnesses?”
“Right. Practice.”
Her fingers slid between mine, warm and certain.
Whatever clever thing I had planned to say dissolved.
Holding her hand should not have felt like a line crossed.
But it did.
A quiet one.
A chosen one.
The engagement party was at a restaurant with exposed brick, low lights, and appetizers that made people use words like “reduction.” Laya’s sister, Tessa, greeted us with a hug that nearly knocked Laya sideways.
“You brought someone?” Tessa whispered loudly.
“I did.”
Tessa looked me up and down, then smiled.
“Good. You have kind eyes.”
“I’ve been practicing in the mirror,” I said.
Laya squeezed my hand. “Don’t encourage him.”
Her parents were next.
Her father, Martin, shook my hand like he was grateful for any man who arrived without drama. Her mother, Celeste, wore pearls and an expression sharp enough to slice citrus.
“Caleb,” she said. “And how long have you and Laya known each other?”
“Long enough for him to fix my window,” Laya answered.
Celeste blinked. “Your window?”
“It was sticking,” I added. “Old buildings need patience.”
Laya’s thumb brushed mine under the cover of our joined hands.
A thank you, maybe.
Or steady yourself.
It worked either way.
For twenty minutes, we were almost normal. We drank champagne. We admired Tessa’s ring. Laya told me which cousins were safe and which ones treated family gatherings like competitive sport.
Then Adrien arrived.
I knew it was him before Laya said a word.
Charming in public, exhausting in private.
He moved through the room like applause was expected and merely delayed. Tall, polished, expensive watch, smile arranged perfectly. He kissed Celeste on both cheeks and made her laugh.
Laya’s hand tightened around mine.
I leaned close.
“Want backup?”
She looked at me, and I saw the decision pass through her eyes.
“No,” she said softly. “But don’t let go.”
“I won’t.”
Adrien reached us with a smile already prepared.
“Laya,” he said. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
He waited, perhaps expecting more. Perhaps expecting her to soften. She did not.
“And this is Caleb,” she said. “My date.”
Date.
Not neighbor.
Not cover story.
Not emotional support anything.
My chest warmed.
Adrien offered his hand.
“Good to meet you.”
I shook it.
“Likewise.”
His grip was firm in the way of men who believed every greeting was a contest.
“So,” Adrien said, “how did you two meet?”
Laya’s mouth twitched.
“Through a window.”
I coughed into my champagne.
Adrien looked between us.
“Interesting.”
“It was,” she said.
The way she said it did something to me.
Not because it was suggestive, though it was a little. But because she did not shrink. She did not explain herself into something smaller for his comfort.
Adrien’s smile thinned.
“Well, I hope he knows how lucky he is.”
I turned to Laya before answering.
“I’m aware.”
Her eyes flicked to mine.
There was no performance there.