Chapter 21
ROMEO.JULIET
The next morning, I bolted downstairs to find my parents in the kitchen. I was in a pretty good goddamned mood, not gonna lie. So, it was easy to forget how I’d had to sneak by my father last night as he was passed out in the den. It was easy to smile and say, “Good morning,” when I saw him. I’d just had the most incredible night of my life and I wasn’t going to let anything ruin my good spirits. Not even him.
“There’s our thespian! Good morning, Tru.”
He greeted me without the slightest hint of sarcasm. And Jesus. He called me Tru. It was the nickname he’d given me when I was born. How many times had I heard that I looked just like my mom’s brother, my Uncle Tory. Tory Truesdale. Better known to everyone as Tru. He was apparently the only light-haired guy in his family, too.
My father was originally planning to name his first hotel The Madeline in homage to my mother. But my uncle died while it was still under construction, so my mother talked my father into changing it to TRU instead. I was born a year later, and the nickname was passed down to me.
Dad hadn’t called me that since I was a kid.
Mom took a sip of her coffee before saying, “Your sister wanted me to pass along her congratulations.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. I called her once we got home last night. She said she’s sorry she missed your big performance.”
“Ha! More like my only performance!”
Mom chuckled as she took a sip from her coffee. “Your father and I are heading out in a few minutes to go to church. Do you want to come with us?”
Us? I couldn’t remember the last time Dad attended mass with my mother outside of holidays. “No, I’ve got somewhere to be. Thanks, though.”
I threw on the Beasties for the short ride over to Layla’s, trying to psych myself up for the day ahead. I wasn’t going to screw this up again.
I rang the bell and was met with Mr. Warren’s pleasantly-surprised greeting. “Trip! How are ya? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah,” I hemmed. “I’ve been busy with hockey and the play.” I didn’t know how much Layla had told him about our falling out. Hopefully, she hadn’t said anything at all.
He ushered me into the house and closed the door behind me. “Everything went well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey, can I get you a drink? Coffee’s on.”
He started to head up the stairs, so I followed, explaining, “Um, no thanks, actually. I’m not staying. I was kind of hoping to kidnap your daughter.”
He stopped on the landing outside of the kitchen. “Hmmm. Last I checked, she was still sleeping.”
As if on cue, we both distinctly heard singing coming from the bathroom upstairs. Barry Manilow, if I wasn’t mistaken. Mr. Warren and I met each other’s eyes and cracked up.
Just then, Layla emerged from the bathroom clad only in a fluffy white towel. Her eyes met mine, and she froze in place for a solid second until her jaw dropped and she ran into her bedroom.
Her father and I were still laughing as she slammed her door closed.
“Oh Layla, Trip’s here,” he sing-songed, stating the obvious. “Please make sure to put some clothes on before coming down.”
“Or don’t!” I added, nudging an elbow toward Mr. Warren.
I went to catch his eye but he wasn’t smiling anymore. Shit. I guessed my jab didn’t go over too well. I made a mental note not to make sex jokes to a guy about his daughter.
He put a firm arm around me and asked if I’d like to join him in the kitchen, but I got the impression he was using the invitation as an excuse to give a warning squeeze to the back of my neck. Mr. Warren wasn’t a huge man, but I didn’t doubt that he could crush me when it came to his precious princess.
“What do you say we have that drink after all?” he asked, giving a last, menacing massage to my shoulder before removing his hands from my person.
I was on my best behavior after that.
We chatted hockey for a few until Layla sauntered in casually—fully dressed—and poured herself a cup of coffee. While her back was turned, Mr. W gave me a conspiratorial wink and said, “I think I have some work to do in the garage... See you two later.”
He shook my hand, kissed Layla on the top of her head, and left the room.
“So,” I asked once he was out of earshot. “How’s the hangover?”
All pretense of normalcy dropped as her posture deflated. “Oh God. Was I a completely wasted mess last night?’
“Nah,” I laughed. “But you were definitely in rare form.”
She sat down at the table to drink her coffee, but we didn’t have time to loaf around. “Hey slam that thing down. We’ve got somewhere to be at twelve.”
She lowered her mug just enough to shoot a skeptical glare over its rim. She looked so adorable it made me want to grab her wet hair in my fists and crush my mouth to hers. “Where we going?”
I lowered an eyebrow at her and tried to keep my smile at bay. “Don’t ask questions and just finish getting yourself ready. I’ll meet you out front when you’re done.”
* * *
Layla seemed thrilled to spend an impromptu afternoon with me in a dark, air-conditioned theater. I wish I could say it was because she was excited to be with me, but the truth is, there’s no better cure for a hangover than cold air and an even colder drink.
The reason I was so insistent about hitting a matinee that day was because I found out the Shermer Heights Loews showed classic movies on Sunday afternoons, and this month’s offering was none other than Franco Zefirelli’s Romeo and Juliet.
We’d bought a bunch of snacks, two huge Cokes, and a shit-ton of candy. She hogged the popcorn; I hogged all the oxygen in the room.
“Look at the lighting here. Man, Zeffirelli really knew his shit. Why didn’t we think to film more of our scene outside?”
Layla scoffed, “Because we didn’t want anyone to witness what we were doing?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Trip! Shh. I’m trying to watch.”
“Okay. Fine, fine.”
By the time we made it to the third act, I forgot my previously agreed upon vow of silence. “Hey, our scene’s coming up.”
“I know.”
“Look... Here we go!”
I was in awe of the choices Zef made for his film. From the costumes to the sets to the cinematography to everything in between. Unfortunately, I also couldn’t seem to find a way to shut up about it. I fully admit that I chewed Layla’s ear off for a good 50% of the movie.
She’d probably put that percentage a bit closer to ninety.
“Trip,” she finally scathed. “Will you stop comparing for godsakes? Of course ours isn’t as good as this one, but I happen to like it just fine. Everyone else did too. So, please, for the love of God, can you just shut up already and let me watch this thing?”
She huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest, a little wrinkle working between her brows.
She was kinda cute when she was angry.
Without even taking my eyes off the screen, I tossed a handful of popcorn at her face.