Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) by Crystal Cierlak Page B

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    “You okay there, Lay?”
    “Yes, just…” I trail off. I click the screen off the phone and toss it back into my purse. “A new friend asking me about plans to get together for drinks tonight. I told him I couldn’t.”
    “New guy friend?” he asks, stressing the word in what I think is meant to be a noncommittal tone, but I have my doubts.
    “We were sitting next to each other at CPK the other night, struck up a conversation and we ended up eating together. We have the same birthday,” I add as an afterthought, as if it was a necessary part of the story. I look up at Nick and find him pensive, brow furrowed visibly above the rim of his Ray Bans.
    This is awkward. Eric Jacobson was the first man to so much as bat an eyelash at me in four years, and I couldn’t possibly have known that the very next morning I’d be running into Nick at LAX. And then fighting him. And then blacking out after mind blowing sex. It’s been a strange few days.
    “Are you mad?” The question sounds lame when it leaves my mouth and I feel like an errant teenager.
    “No, baby, I’m not mad. Of course men are going to ask you out on dates. In fact, I recently met someone, too.”
    Wait, what? “I thought you said,” I cut off, remembering his words clearly. “You said you’ve been alone for four years.”
    “I have. I only met Kirsten a few months ago. We’ve gone on a few dates but it’s nothing serious. She’s a - what do you call it? - one of the psych doctors. The kind that doesn’t prescribe medication.”
    “You’re seeing a psychologist ?!” Wow, talk about unexpected. “You’re not her patient, are you?” Oh, god, please say no.
    “No, I’m not seeing a psychologist,” he laughs. “I met her at the other kind of psych doctor’s office.”
    “Let me get this straight.” I turn in my seat to face him and swipe my sunglasses off my face and into my hair like a headband. “While seeing a psychiatrist you met a fellow patient who just so happens to be a psychologist?”
    “It’s a private practice so there are multiple doctors; we see different ones. I met her in the waiting room. It’s kind of a funny story, actually. I had tickets that night to see this amazing band at Madison Square Garden and she just happened to be wearing one of their old tour shirts from like, eight years ago. She couldn’t get tickets and I had an extra one so … one thing lead to another and we had a date.”
    “Did she know who you are? Or, I mean, recognize you?”
    “No. My music isn’t really her style. I think she thinks I’m just some random guy.”
    I’m trying to picture a doctorate-holding psychologist named Keer-sten wearing some grody old band shirt and oh-so-felicitously attending the band’s concert with a man who has sold out Madison Square Garden multiple times. And without having a clue to the fact!
    “So you and Kirsten the psychologist who love the same band have gone on a few dates together? And it’s just casual?”
    “Yeah, just casual. Why do you say her name like that?”
    Because it sounds ridiculous. I lean back in my seat and slip the sunglasses back over my eyes.
    “Have you slept with her?” My voice sounds much smaller than it did a second ago and I want to kick myself for it. This morning we were making love and now we’re talking about the other people we’ve met.
    He glances sideways at me, brow furrowed over glasses. “No.”
    “Kissed her?”
    He clears his throat. “Yes.”
    Oh . Okay then.
    The Pacific is still stretched out to my right. A few cars have pulled over to take in the view. We’re a good fifteen minutes away now.
    Is this how things are going to be from now on? I had been living in the dark for so long that it never really occurred me to think of these questions. Not that I gave any thought to Nick at all. We’re both in the light now, reasonably recovered enough from the death of our child to not fall to pieces - at least, I hope so in