Layla
The Sorensens’ private conservatory on their Long Island estate looks like a dream. Lush green plants
line the walls in front of huge windows that arch overhead. A collection of circular tables is dotted around
the vast space, with delicate tableware set out for the guests. At the far end of the glasshouse, the
tuxedo-clad members of a string quartet tune their instruments.
I test the lights, turning on the lanterns that have been strung up from the ceiling, and smile. This
looks like a fairy wonderland, with the cold, dreary outside making the glasshouse feel like a green safe
haven.
It’s finally time for the Sorensens’ thirty-five-year wedding anniversary party. After four weeks of
planning— and four weeks of absolute bliss, hectic work, and dreamlike happiness—the day is finally
here.
This is the final test. After tonight, all going well, Mrs. Sorensen will invest in me. I’ll be a real event
planner.
We’ve installed temporary flooring to accommodate the heels and fancy footwear that will soon be
treading on the floor, and some of the more delicate plants have been moved to a safe place. The
Sorensens’ gardener flits about the space, checking his babies with tender care.
Babies.
A lurch in my chest makes me grip the back of the nearest chair to stay upright.
Nope. I’m not thinking about that right now. This morning was a mistake. I bought the cheapest test
the pharmacy had, which was stupid of me. It’s definitely not working properly. I probably left it out too
long, and it gave me a false positive—even though I used a timer and followed the instructions. But
maybe I read them wrong! I’ll take another pregnancy test in a couple of days, and this whole mix-up will
be behind me. I’ll go to the doctor if I have to, just to prove to myself that the two blue lines on the test I
took this morning are some kind of error. I can ask for a birth control prescription while I’m at it.
Everything will work out just fine. I’m not pregnant. I’m just stressed and I need to eat more
vegetables. My body is confused, that’s all.
Just... don’t ask me what vegetables have to do with anything. My brain is also confused.
But right now, I have work to do. I nod at the army of workers setting the tables, then duck out of the
conservatory to head to the vast kitchen inside the Sorensens’ home.
Rachael is in her element. She’s wearing a black chef’s uniform with a white apron, her hair tied back
in a bandana. With one other line cook, she’s busy pr epping for the eight-course meal to come—one
course for every five years of the Sorensens’ marriage, plus a dessert to signify the sweet future they have
ahead.
“Everything under control?” I ask, ke eping well out of the way.
Rachael flashes me a smile. “Everything is great. Now go away.”
Laughing, I do as I’m told. Despite what happened this morning, a pleasant buzz fills me up. It’s the
energy of all the workers coming together, the excitement of the final
pr eparations before the guests arrive. I manage to push that pesky pregnancy test right out of my
mind.
My life is going well. It’s not going to implode because I decided the pull-out method was a good
idea. No, sir-ee. Not me. I’m going to throw a fantastic event tonight, get that business deal, lift my family
out of poverty, then ride off into the sunset with Leif. He’ll give me millions of orgasms and the test I
took this morning will just be a funny story I tell him in the very distant future.
My thought process is basically the equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and singing,
“La-la-la-la!”
I’m halfway to the back door when I hear my name. “Layla!”
Turning to see Christine at the other end of the hallway, I head toward her. “Yes?”
“Did you get the sound system set up? My husband wants to make a speech once all the guests are
here.”
“It’s set up and ready to go. I’m about to head to the conservatory, then out to the valet stand to make
sure everyone is ready to welcome your guests.”
She nods. “Good. You’ve done well. I look forward to working with you in the future. I’m excited
about all we can accomplish together.”
I paint a smile on my face while my brain screams, “LA- LA-LA-LA-LA!”
Miraculously, I manage to form coherent words. “I look forward to working with you too, Christine. I
can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity.”
Leif’s mother stares at me for a moment, then dips her chin. “Good. You’d better get to the valet
stand. Our guests will be arriving soon.” Then she turns on her heels and clacks down the hallway and out
of sight.
I let out a breath, then look down at my belly. If that test wasn’t a false positive, I’m in very, very big
trouble.
Left off-balance by the hostess, I throw myself into my work for the next three hours. When Leif and
Isla arrive, I greet them with a secret smile and a wink, but I’m immediately pulled away to put out one of
the thousand fires that crop up during an event. I barely have time to think, let alone talk to anyone.
Behind the scenes, it’s chaos, but in the greenhouse, the delicate sounds of a string quartet float through
the air as guests mill about, sipping drinks and laughing.
Every time I enter the space, a thrill of pride courses through me.
I did this. I pulled this event together, organized everything, thought of every detail. Me.
I can’t think of a single time I’ve accomplished something like this. I’m proud of Emma, of course,
and her success is in part due to the support I’ve given her (as she likes to remind me), but this event... It
was all me. Every little detail from the location to the menu to the lighting to the centerpieces. It looks
effortless and elegant all at once —just like the Sorensens.
From the sidelines, I watch Leif’s parents talk to their guests and each other, feeling a twinge in my
chest. They’ve been married thirty-five years. Longer than I’ve been alive, and look at them! Mr.
Sorensen still touches his wife’s back every time he’s close, and she always glances at him across the
room. They love each other.
My eyes move to Leif. He has Isla in his arms, and she’s talking to him while she fiddles with the hair
on his forehead. His smile is soft and tender, and my heart gives another violent squeeze.
Leif is a good father. He’s caring and present, he loves spending time with Isla, but he’s not afraid to
set boundaries. That little girl is the apple of his eye and he
dotes on her like I’ve never seen before. I wonder where I would have ended up if I’d had a father like
that in my life... Maybe I wouldn’t be experiencing pride in my accomplishments today for the first time
in my life.
My hand drifts over my stomach and a sneaky little thought worms its way to the front of my mind.
What if the test was accurate? Watching Leif with Isla, it’s easy to indulge in the fantasy of another
kid in his arms—our kid. After everything I’ve been through, all the struggle and the dead- end jobs and
the tears shed in the shower where no one could hear me, what if I could be happy? What if Leif chose
me? What if we had a family together?
“Layla.” A young woman wearing thick-rimmed glasses st eps into my field of view. “We don’t have
any steak knives. Rachael said to come find you.”
The fantasy shatters and I’m back in the present—where I’m not part of the Sorensen family. I just
work for them.
Nodding to the young woman, I follow her across the backyard, the path cleared of snow and lit by
temporary lanterns, and head to the kitchen. There, I’m made aware of the problem—as the young woman
said, there isn’t a single steak knife on the premises. We need fifty, ASAP. Grabbing the keys to the van I
rented for all the errands I had to run today, I head out into the cold.
A frantic Walmart shopping spree later, I’m back at the Sorensens’ house and entering the side door
closest to the kitchen—when I hear two male voices coming from a room in the opposite direction.
I don’t know what makes me do what I do next. Maybe it’s the daydream I had earlier, where all the
struggles in my life were washed away by Leif’s love and care. That foolish need to be taken care of, to
feel safe—that’s why I tiptoe toward the voices and listen.
Leif’s low rumble makes my core tighten with want, but whether it’s lust or some de eper need set off
by my
discovery this morning, I’m not sure. I turn a corner and stop short beside a door that’s been left ajar,
completely unaware that my fragile, hopeful heart is about to be shattered into a million pieces.