Whiskey Makes Everything Worse (2/3)

"Watch this. I'm going to shock them all to hell by acting like I want to be here and socializing and shit." Layla climbed from her stool, surprised to find the floor already tilting under her feet.

"Whoa. Take it easy there, beautiful." Jace put a hand on her forearm from across the bar to steady her.

Layla waited to see if his warm fingers would make her tingle all over in a way that indicated forgetting Derek was a possibility, but they didn't. They weren't long enough, and the shape of his hand was all wrong. Plus they didn't look like they'd be any good at Chopin at all.

"Don't make me yell at you, Jace. Because I will." She slapped his hand away. "I will yell at you so hard...and then I'll make you run laps. Around the bar." Maybe if she flirted enough, Jace's hands would miraculously look like they could play Chopin.

"I think I'd like that." He grinned.

Layla made her way to the back table, trying not to notice how Derek's backing vocals complimented the lead singer. Did the man really have to be so talented? It was sickening. What other skills did he possess? Besides the music and the ability to kiss in a way that should be illegal.

Poor Jace didn't stand a chance.

She didn't think anyone would ever stand a chance.

Layla plastered on a smile as she sunk onto an empty chair at the end of the table. Derek's skills didn't matter, because he'd either already left or he was getting ready to, and she was pretty sure after the way he'd slammed the door on her yesterday he wouldn't be popping in to ask if they could be pen pals.

A chorus of "Laylas" and "You made its" greeted her, and she hoped her smile would stay in place until she could convince them all she was actually happy to be there. Amelia squeezed a chair in next to her and plunked herself down.

"Yup. I made it." Layla waved awkwardly to Peter, her very former and very occasional hook-up. Thankfully he was sweet and always acted totally normal around her. He smiled and waved back.

Yeah right. No weirdness, there.

"Is it true that you met that guy from Morphium?" Becky, one of the math teachers, sipped her pink drink through her stirrer.

Everyone had something to say about that. They were all so busy talking, Layla thought they might not notice if she didn't answer.

"What's he doing around here?"

"Are we even sure it's him?"

"It is...I saw him the other day leaving Chucks and then looked up his picture online to be sure."

"Who cares. He puts his pants on like the rest of us." Mike, a social studies teacher, finished off his beer and pushed back his chair. "Anyone else need a refill?"

Damn it. Why did he have to mention pants? Layla raised her hand. "I'll have what your having, please."

Carol, a social studies teacher and obvious music connoisseur, wrinkled her nose as the drums played a thundering solo over the speakers. "I think their music's terrible."

The statement rankled her, and she had no clue why. Luckily, the three drinks she'd so expertly consumed worked miracles for freeing thoughts that Layla normally would have kept to herself. "Their music is fantastic. You obviously don't know the genre."

Well, that sounded...how did Amelia describe it? Oh yeah, testy. And they didn't need to know that although she'd listened to them in passing before this week, she still had no clue who Derek was when she first saw him. You'd think from the way she just bit their heads off she was a superfan.

As the song on the juke box built into the final chorus, she tried not to picture the way Derek's lips curled into a perfect, sinful smile. Yeah. Given a little time, she could definitely become a superfan.

The chatter died away, and all eyes focused on her. Great. Just the way she liked it.

Amelia's laughter cut through the silence. She slapped Layla on the arm. "You're so funny..."

Layla was pretty sure Amelia knew she was not trying to be funny, and this was just Amelia's way of trying to save her from slow death by social awkwardness.

Amelia laughed harder, earning a few chuckles from those around her. She shook her head and spoke to the group. "We were just talking at the bar about how this is the most exciting thing to happen to Maybe. Layla made a joke about how we were all going to suddenly become pretentious music critics."

That earned a few more chuckles, though Layla had no idea why. Probably because Amelia was so damn pretty, and her laughter was contagious.

Amelia tilted her head at Layla and smiled encouragingly.

Layla cleared her throat and forced out a laugh. "Yeah. Funny, isn't it? Everyone's a critic."

Amelia nodded and patted her on the shoulder. The tension dissipated and conversation turned to other things, all things Derek-related momentarily forgotten. Layla smiled a real smile at Amelia making a mental note to consider upgrading her to "real friend" status. Friends were good to have.

Mike slid a beer in front of her, and Layla thanked him, wondering if it would be possible to spend the rest of the evening listening to everyone else talk, but not having to contribute to the conversation. As she sipped on her beer, glad to be sitting next to the most talkative person in Maybe, she thought the night might not turn out to be total shit after all.

Thoughts of Derek didn't disappear--especially since Amelia had apparently spent her paycheck playing almost every song she could find by Morphium on the digital jukebox--but those thoughts had transformed from an uncomfortable lump in her chest into a dull yearning which would have irritated her if it weren't for all the booze serving as an anesthetic.

So, yeah. The night wasn't total shit.

Then Brody decided to ruin everything.

She heard him before she saw him, his deep voice calling out a drink order to Jace with overly macho bravado. That was him. A man's man, by god, and everyone was going to know it. Her teenage self had been too inexperienced to know better than to crush on him, but even without the devastation of the fire, she would have realized what a tool he was by now.

He lived and breathed sports, football in particular, so it was a good thing he was the football coach so he could shove his love of the game in everyone else's faces. Not that there was anything wrong with loving sports.

On the contrary, she normally would have found that kind of passion attractive. But when you combine it with a belittlement of anything "worthless"--like band or orchestra, in his oh so manly opinion--with a constantly puffed out chest and an over-enthusiasm for muscle shirts, it was enough to make a woman gag.

A woman like her, anyway. Lots of other women liked him.

Even she might have liked him for nostalgia's sake if it weren't for him constantly finding little ways to remind her how she was alive and Marissa was dead.

As if her own guilt weren't enough.

Brody sat down at the far end of the table, next to a couple of the single, male teachers. Layla was surprised he found them manly enough. Doug wore a tie--Layla imagined he even wore ties to bed--and two of Pete's arms together wouldn't make up one of Brody's.

Brody nodded a greeting to everyone at the table. Everyone except her.

He took special care to pretend like she was invisible though she was directly across the table from him. Layla choked down the rest of her beer as he said something to make a few of the ladies laugh.

Then he turned to Emma, the art teacher who had just had a baby over the summer. "How is Gus doing? I couldn't believe how big he is already when I saw him last week. Still kicking of his right shoe every chance he gets?"

She smiled. "We're going to give up on shoes altogether."

"Ahh." Brody nodded. "He's got good, strong legs. Gonna make a football player out of him one day."

Well, shit. Layla knew Emma well enough to know she'd rather see her son with a paint brush in his hand than a football, but that was not what she expected. Brody hadn't used that tone of voice with her since...before. Warm and teasing.

Not a tool.

Not cold and calculated to remind her how he would have preferred if she was the one who'd died after seventy-eight hours and sixteen minutes in a coma, the insides of her lungs scorched beyond repair and ninety percent of her body covered in burns.

She'd forgotten warm and teasing Brody existed.

"Hey." Amelia leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Breathe. I think you're starting to turn blue."