Chapter 10

I have a text from Mila waiting for me when I get out of practice later.

Mila: Is there any chance you have any of the sugar cookies left and you didn't throw them all away? One of Landon's friends at the school is a professor in the forensic science department, and Landon talked him into testing the cookies for me so I can know exactly what caused it.

I chuckle. That sounds just like Landon to jump in and make sure he does whatever he can to help Mila out.

Lincoln:I'll call my friend and ask.

Normally I do keep a cookie for myself when I get Mila's sugar cookies. Like she mentioned this morning, they're popular and I love them just as much as everyone, but I forgot to grab one for myself before I dropped the box off because I was in a hurry. Mrs. Van Buren didn't eat hers, of course, so hopefully she hasn't thrown it away yet. I'm headed over to see her now, and then after that I'm going to help move Layla's stuff to her new apartment, so I can give Landon the cookie then.

"Oh, I'm so glad you came by." Mrs. Van Buren reaches up and puts a hand on my cheek, which she can barely reach. I bend over so she can kiss my cheek, and then I follow her inside.

"Mrs. Van Buren, is there any chance you kept your cookie?" I ask.

She turns to me just as she's stepping into the living area of her small apartment. She furrows her brows. "No. I threw it away this morning."

I blow out a breath. "Mila's fiancé has a friend who can test it to see what's wrong. That way she knows which supplier to talk to."

Mrs. Van Buren's eyes light up. "It's like one of those TV shows," she exclaims. She switches directions, bustling toward the kitchen. She reaches under her sink and pulls out a pair of yellow gloves used for cleaning. "It was still in the box. I bet it'll be easy to find," she declares, heading over to the trash can.

I intercept her in a couple strides. "Let me do that for you."

She doesn't argue and hands me the gloves. Once, shortly after I started visiting her regularly, I stepped in to take out her garbage, and then put the new liner in the trash can when I got inside. It's second nature for me to do things for the people I care about, so I hadn't thought anything about it. She smiled at me softly and told me how much I reminded her of Grandpa. I'd been so inside my head the rest of the visit, awkward and unsure and judging myself for showing off with my good deeds. After finding out about Mrs. Van Buren, I couldn't stop thinking about how I'd thought he was a good man and how I'd learned to look out for ways to serve others from him. Not just his words, but his actions. The way he helped everyone. The way he'd always been there for me.

But was that all about penance?

Mrs. Van Buren hasn't said I remind her of Grandpa since that day. I still can't help doing the little things for her. I tell myself it's because that's what my mom would want me to do, even though she and Dad don't know about my relationship with Mrs. Van Buren.

I slip the gloves on and head for her garbage can. Thankfully, Mrs. Van Buren isn't the type to create a lot of trash, and the box is easy to find and lift out of the garbage.

Mrs. Van Buren hands me a large Ziploc bag to put it inside. "To keep the germs off you," she says, holding it open for me. But it does feel a little bit like CSI. I share a grin with her and put the bag on the counter to take with me later, then shed the gloves, wash my hands, and join Mrs. Van Buren in her small living room area.

"I saw on Facebook that Mila's bakery truck has been closed all day today," she says when she settles into an armchair.

I lean back on her oversized loveseat. There's another armchair in the room and a 30-inch TV on a stand, but that's all that will fit into the space. The assisted living facility Mrs. Van Buren lives in is clean and the employees all seem kind when I'm around, but it's not spacious. The amount I anonymously donated to her account for the next ten years told me it"s a budget place, but she's happy here. Otherwise I'd convince her to move and let me pay.

I shove away thoughts about why I take care of her like she's my own grandmother when I wish she hadn't been part of my grandpa's life at all. I just know I'd miss her if she wasn't part of mine. Is it enough not to have worked it all out? Maybe I've done enough overthinking about this situation that I've worn myself out on it.

"She didn't want to risk using the ingredients when she didn't know what it was."

"Smart girl," Mrs. Van Buren praises her. "Hopefully someday you'll bring her by to meet me."

"Next time there's a barbecue, I'll come pick you up," I promise. The guys I hang out with on the football team and Landon and Mila would all love Mrs. Van Buren. They know about her anyway, but they all think I just latched on after the adopt-a-grandparent event. "You know she's engaged, right? You're not trying to set me up?"

"My memory is sharp, Lincoln," she says briskly. "I know you have a crush on that woman who works with her, Layla."

Heat pools into my cheeks, mostly because I don't remember telling Mrs. Van Buren that, but that doesn't mean I haven't talked about her. Probably a lot. "Maybe," I say, but Mrs. Van Buren chuckles. My red cheeks are giving me away.

We chat about her niece, the only family she has, who's coming to town to do Disneyland and is bringing her three kids—two teenage boys who are twins and their younger sister. She beams with pride as she tells me about their latest accomplishments, and I see the wistfulness that she doesn't have grandchildren of her own to brag about.

Our time together goes quickly, and the longing in Mrs. Van Buren's eyes tempts me to stay. If it was anyone but Layla, I might beg off just to keep Mrs. Van Buren company a little longer.

I have the Ziploc bag with the offending cookie in hand when I knock on the door of Landon's apartment. Eli pulls the door open, holding a rectangle-shaped bag with a handle and another duffel bag under one arm.

"Right on time," he says with a twinkle in his eye. He tilts his head to the back of the apartment, where I can see Layla coming out of a room with a big box.

If we were in high school, I'd punch Eli and make him drop the boxes just for being so obvious, but I keep my reaction to rolling my eyes and stepping into the apartment.

"What's that?" Eli asks, looking now to the storage bag I'm carrying with the offending cookie in it.

"Evidence," I say, holding it out to Landon.

He takes it. "Perfect. I'm going to run this over to Dillon as soon as we're done taking Layla's stuff to the new place."

Behind him, Mila bites her lip.

"You going to be open tomorrow?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Not until I know what caused the food poisoning. Hopefully Dillon can figure it out quickly." She glances worriedly toward Layla. She must be thinking about how her friend pays the bills. I cross my fingers that Nick and his director will reach out to Layla soon, then she and Mila can worry a little less about how long the food truck might be closed.

"Let me know if you need help with anything," I say.

She pats me on the arm. "Thanks, Linc. I will." But we both know that her brother will handle any financial woes that might come up because of this—if he can convince Mila to let him. Between him and Landon, she's well taken care of.

"Hey, Lincoln!" Layla grins at me as she comes into the living room, and I take the box from her.

Her smile makes warmth strike through my chest. There's something bright about it, like she's my sun and that smile is the Vitamin D I need.

"Let me take this," I say. "You go and direct all the volunteers." I grin back, hoping that I can somehow convey how much she means to me. Words aren't the easiest for me, but even coming up with an awkward confession would be better than holding all this in and just somehow hoping she'll see my feelings and know they're genuine.

"There's not enough stuff to warrant this many people," she says, gesturing to Court, who comes out of the room with another box.

"We'll get it done quickly, then," I say, following Court out the door. We figured between my Bronco, Eli's SUV, and Landon and Court's cars, we didn't need to rent a truck for Layla's belongings. Mark is coming over later this week with his truck to deliver the big rocker recliner that we can't fit into any of our vehicles. He wanted to come help tonight, but his kids had a program he didn't want to miss.

I've already folded down the seats in the back of my Bronco, so I put the box inside and push it up against the back of the front seats, then head back in for more.

As Layla said, there's not a lot, and within an hour, we have it all distributed between the various vehicles and ready to drive over to the new apartment, which is less than a mile away. Sadly, because I filled my Bronco and my seats are down, there's no room for Margot's car seat, and Layla ends up riding in Court's car with her, leading the way on the five-minute drive.

We have everything unloaded even quicker than the loading went, and despite the fact that the only furniture Layla has right now in the small studio apartment is her bed (we tied the mattress to the top of Eli's SUV for the ride over), we all make ourselves comfortable on the floor, on Layla's desk chair, and on boxes while we wait for the pizza Eli ordered. Except for Landon, who heads over to his colleague's house to drop off the cookie.

Mila is, of course, holding Margot, so I settle on the floor next to Layla. "Ready for our date tomorrow night?" I ask, and I wiggle my eyebrows in an over-the-top way so she knows I'm teasing.

She laughs. "Definitely. The restaurant you suggested looks really good."

"Dinner's on me," I say, just to make sure Layla doesn't feel any stress about that.

She shakes her head. "No. I'm the one who asked you to set them up. Dinner should be on me."

I nudge her with my elbow. "Then Dalton might make Astrid pay. We wouldn't want that."

She bursts into laughter. "He wouldn't do that."

I shrug. The sound of her laughter relaxes everything in me, making it easier to tease her a little and not think so much about my words. "Which one of us has a multimillion-dollar contract?"

"How do you know it's not me?" she asks with a saucy raise of her eyebrows.

"I should have known you'd get the part for that biopic about Trixie Sage. You look just like her." I nod wisely, as though this is obvious to me.

She laughs again, shoving me in the shoulder. "I do not." The pop star does have bright auburn hair, a completely different shade from Layla's almost black hair. "But I did want to audition for that part. They just started casting a couple weeks ago."

"Why didn't you?" I ask.

"I'm not doing the acting hustle thing anymore. And that's okay." She looks down at her hands, and it doesn't feel like it's okay. If Bruno Rattan reaches out to Layla, I know it will be her choice if she pursues that job. I would never try to force something on her. She just looks like she misses it.

"It would be okay if you wanted to try for a few jobs, you know. There are actresses who are moms." I keep my tone light and teasing so she doesn't feel any pressure. Conversation with her is surprisingly easy right now, even if it's a little embarrassing that I can read her mood so well because of how much I pay attention to her.

"A lot of the successful ones had the luxury of being already established when they had kids." She lifts her shoulders, and the move, I think, is to make me believe that it's not a big deal to her, but the sadness is still in her eyes.

"Maybe. But if you ever want to go on an audition, call me up. I'll babysit."

She chuckles. "Do you know how to babysit babies? Like what to do with an eight-month-old?"

"I'm sure YouTube would help."

"I'm never allowing you to watch my daughter." She chuckles as she shakes her head. There's a moment of silence between us, and she looks down into her lap again. "Sometimes I do miss it." She glances around the room and then lowers her voice more. "I have a side job that I do at night when Margot is sleeping," she says. I don't know why she doesn't want to tell the others about this. It wouldn't surprise anyone that she works a second job. She already told me about it at Eli's house after their girls' night. "Mila and Landon think I do data entry, but I actually create video ads—you know the kind that pop up when you're playing dumb free games?"

"I think that's cool, Layla." Mila and Landon wouldn't think anything of this. They might not even be surprised, but the thought that she confided in me? It's like getting ten extra yards when I thought I was tackled. This is a sign of the trust I'm trying to build with her, and it's a big win.

Her cheeks are a little pink, and she doesn't quite meet my eye. "Thanks. The thing is, it does make me miss acting a little."

"I bet." I want to put my arm around her, but I resist. I need to build more trust before I can start making those moves. "I can't even imagine having to give up football. You're pretty amazing."

She gives a small shake of her head and then pulls out her phone, pulling up the photos app. I watch as she clicks into her favorites album, since she doesn't seem to be trying to hide what she's doing from me.

She pulls up a picture that is obviously from right after Margot was born. She's tiny, even tinier than the cute baby she is now, and she's resting on Layla's chest. Layla's beaming. Her dark hair spills out everywhere from the bun on top of her head and she isn't wearing makeup, but she's radiant. Her eyes shine with tears and there are bags under them, but she is still the most stunning woman I have ever seen. It takes my breath away.

And the longing I've felt for Layla since first starting to get to know her builds inside of me. I imagine being there with her for a moment like this, and my heart almost stops.

"When Margot was born," Layla says, dragging me out of my thoughts with reluctance, "everything changed. Every. Thing. It's not amazing, because I just couldn't do anything different than throw my whole life into taking care of her." She sighs and turns her attention to the picture. "I didn't mean for her to happen in my life, but I can't imagine if she hadn't. Even after only eight months." She laughs again, but this sounds self-conscious and not genuine. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drop all of that on you."

I wait until she meets my gaze again and then hold it. "I'm glad you did."

It's such a small thing, what she just confessed to me, and I'm probably the only one of us feeling the intimacy of it. I want to take her hand and hold it and reassure her somehow that she can still live her dreams. I don't even know if that's true. I don't know anything about acting and the time it takes and if it's feasible that Layla could do it while taking care of a baby.

The way Layla is willing to change everything in her life for Margot? I know I'd do the same for Layla. For both of them.

"If you could have any role you wanted, no audition needed, what would it be?" I ask. The light in her eyes when she talks about acting is addicting, and I want her to live in this moment, small as it is, where the career she dreamed of is still possible.

She answers quickly. "A kick-butt superhero that's even better than Phantom Hex, to show everyone I'm just as good as he is. Better." She lets out a self-conscious laugh. "Oh my gosh, that sounded so petty, didn't it?" She shakes her head. "That's not the media-friendly response."

"I like this one better." I nudge her with my shoulder, because that's the closest I can get to taking her hand like I want to. "I can't tell you the number of times I've had to bite back what I really want to say when some sports reporter asks a dumb question."

"Do you hate having to do that kind of thing? Talk to reporters all the time?" she asks. She still has that light, and I think she wouldn't mind it. Would be great at it. I can so easily imagine being on her arm at some awards show, reporters throwing questions at her, and her handling them with charming smiles and bright eyes, winning them all over. I'd just have to stand next to her and look pretty.

"I do," I say and then give a short laugh. "But that's because I'm me and talking with most people is difficult."

She leans into the shoulder I nudged her with a second ago. "You're doing pretty good right now."

"You make it easy."

Our gazes hold for a second, and it gets so heated, at least for me, that I blurt, "And you? You don't hate the reporters, do you?"

She smiles, so easily I can't believe she felt the heat from a moment ago. "If I'm lucky enough to get to a point in my career when reporters want to hound me with questions … no. I don't think I'll hate it."

A knock breaks into the bubble, and I remember Layla and I aren't the only ones here. She pushes herself up to answer since we're the closest. It's the pizza guy. I hop up to help her with the small stack of pizza Eli ordered.

She beams up at me as she transfers the boxes to my hands. I will never get enough of that smile, of her light and her presence. It might be weeks, even months, before I can tell her how I feel, but I will be here no matter what.