“Sorry about that.” Layla grins. “Some differences in logistics, but it’s all cleared up now. Aurora is happy to have you amongst us, Johnny.”
He narrows his eyes on me even as he speaks to her, “The name is Jonathan.”
“You call me Black Belt. Why should I call you by your full name?”
Ethan and I smile, but Elsa stares frantically at Layla as if begging her to take it back. Jonathan’s bored expression doesn’t change. He watches Layla and everyone else like they’re disposables — if they have something to offer him, they’re good, if not, they’re out.
Right now, he seems to be weighing Layla’s worth, contemplating whether he should let it slide or crush her to pieces.
Elsa and I simultaneously release a breath when he doesn’t press the matter. Lay seriously needs to keep her mouth shut. Sometimes, it’s like she doesn’t care who she’s talking to. The girl is too fearless for her own good.
“I’ll send you the address to the house,” Ethan tells me as if we were never interrupted.
“Thank you.”
“I said —” Jonathan’s face remains blank, but his tone gains a firm, final edge “— she will not be there.”
“Is that so, Aurora?” Ethan asks.
“Maybe we should reschedule,” Elsa suggests. “Next week?”
“She’ll not be there next week either,” Jonathan shoots her down.
“There’s no need to reschedule, I’ll be there.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Ethan’s lips curve in a slow smile.
Jonathan towers over me, his woodsy scent closes imaginary hands around my throat and squeezes. He speaks low so only I can hear him, “Did you hear what I said? You will not be there and that’s final.”
“Last I checked, you’re not my keeper.” I bypass him and motion at Ethan and Elsa to follow me, leaving Jonathan with Layla.
That should be fun.
I spend the rest of the evening trying to ignore Jonathan’s looming presence. He somehow ends up in circles of people who buzz around him like bees to honey. It’s almost as if he’s stealing the limelight away from the children with his presence.
Pretending he’s not there, I continue networking and introducing the associations’ representatives to the donors.
When I was young, I took everything for granted, and because of that, I need to revisit my choices and try to make a difference.
No matter how small that difference is.
Charity is all about giving, and I always feel like I haven’t done enough of that — giving, that is.
I’ve taken and taken and haven’t even stopped to look back once. Now, I have the choice to do something different.
Layla’s mother, Kenza — which literally means treasure — is a plump woman in her mid-fifties with pale skin and dreamy hazel eyes. When she catches me roaming around, she hugs me and rubs my arm. She has a French accent she acquired from her time living in France. Like Layla, she covers her hair with a hijab, but unlike her daughter’s hip-hop style, she wears modest, elegant dresses. “I’m so happy our Layla got to know you, Aurora.”
“I’m so happy you gave birth to her.”
“Believe me, so am I.” Then she leans in to murmur, “Don’t tell anyone, but I hate boys.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Seriously. The only reason I kept giving birth was so I’d get a baby girl. Though she did turn out to be like her brothers, didn’t she?”
“Sort of.”
We laugh and she reaches into her pocket. “Hold on, Layla has been teaching me how to take selfies.”