I feel like I sometimes don’t appreciate the severity of her injuries. I’ve spent the last six months since it happened walking on eggshells, trying not to point out the obvious, not wanting her to feel like she’s lost as much as she has. But what if indulging her desire to avoid talk of that night has inadvertently made it all worse?
A brain injury has to be similar to a physical injury. You exercise a physical injury. You work harder to gain back all the strength you lost. I went through three months of physical therapy for the wound to my shoulder, but we did the exact opposite with Layla’s injury.
We didn’t exercise her brain . . . we put it on bed rest.
We’ve avoided the damage—put her wounds on respite in the hopes everything would heal on its own. But it hasn’t. Physically, yes. But mentally—I’m not so sure.
“Were you on the phone just now?” she asks.
“No. Why?”
“I thought I heard you talking when I was coming downstairs.”
“I was,” I say quickly. “To myself. Not on the phone.”
She buys my explanation and walks to the refrigerator and opens it. She stares at the shelves, but grabs nothing before closing the door.
“Want me to make you some breakfast?” I ask her.
She groans. “I’ve gained two pounds this week. I’m not eating breakfast anymore.”
“We’re on vacation. You still have at least eight more pounds left to gain before we can even consider this a successful trip.”
She smiles. “You’re sweet. But eight more pounds on me would mean no more naked pool days. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself.”
I walk over to her and pull her against me. I don’t like hearing her talk like this. I don’t like that something as simple as a little weight gain on vacation would even stress her out. I try to think back on our relationship—recall anything I might have said that would make her think I care about her body more than I do her. I do tell her she’s sexy a lot, but I mean that in a positive way. But maybe reinforcing my attraction to her looks is causing her to put more importance on her appearance than she should.
I take her face in my hands. “I love you, Layla. That love doesn’t fluctuate with numbers on a scale.”
She smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know that. But I still want to be healthy.”
“Skipping meals isn’t being healthy.”
“Neither are Pop-Tarts or Twinkies, but this kitchen is full of nothing but junk food.”
“It’s vacation,” I say. “That’s what you do on vacation. You eat crap that’s bad for you while being lazy and sleeping too late.” I kiss her. “You need to get in vacation mode before our vacation is over.”
She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her forehead against my shoulder. “You’re right. I need to relax and enjoy this next week.” She pulls back. “You know what I can’t say no to? Mexican food. Specifically tacos.”
“Tacos sound good.”
“And margaritas. Where can we go around here to get tacos and margaritas?”
I fill with hesitation when she suggests leaving the house. I do want to get her out of here, and I like that she seems excited about the idea of tacos, but I also have fifty thousand questions left for Willow. I won’t be able to ask her those questions if we leave and I’m driving and preoccupied with Layla.
“You sure you want to leave? It’s at least sixty miles to the nearest restaurant.”
Layla nods emphatically. “Yes. I need out of this house.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. “I’m gonna go shower.”
She walks out of the kitchen, and I head straight for my laptop and open it.
“Are you still here?” I ask, hoping to get some kind of response.
I stare at my laptop, but nothing happens. I wait patiently until I hear the shower running upstairs. I repeat my question. “Willow? Are you still here?”
The seconds are slow as they pass without action. But then the keys begin to press down, and I breathe a sigh of relief as she types something out.
Sorry. I’m here now. I left the room when Layla got down here. It feels weird watching the two of you without your permission, so I don’t.
“Where do you go when you leave the room?”
I was in the Grand Room.
“Do you ever go upstairs?”
Sometimes. Not when you’re both up there, though.
That’s not entirely accurate. “You were upstairs the night you slipped into her and got out of bed to look in the mirror.”
I thought you were both asleep. I try not to spy on you when you’re together. It feels wrong. But I have weaknesses . . . like when I smell the food you’re eating.
“But you spy on us when we’re alone?”
Spy is a strong term. I’m curious. Lonely. So yes, sometimes I watch you live your lives. There’s nothing else to do around here.
“What will you do when we leave next week?”
Sulk. Maybe try to beat my eight-day record of staring at the clock.
I don’t laugh at her self-deprecating joke. The thought of her being completely alone makes me feel bad for her. It’s weird—feeling sorry for a ghost. A spirit. Whatever she is.
I wonder what happened in my childhood that makes me take on so much guilt, even when I’m not responsible for whatever is wrong. I take on the weight of Layla’s sorrows. Now I’m taking on the weight of Willow’s.
Maybe I should buy this house. I know Layla wouldn’t want to live here full-time, but we could come here for vacations. That way Willow wouldn’t always be alone.
“We’re leaving soon, but we’ll be back this evening.”
Where are you going?
I guess she really wasn’t in here for Layla’s and my conversation. I find it humorous that a ghost has morals in the same way humans do. She doesn’t want to be intrusive, even though we wouldn’t be aware of her presence.
“Layla wants tacos. And I’m sure she’ll want to shop while we’re in town. We’ll be gone all afternoon.”
Tacos sound so good.
“Want me to bring you some?”
It’s a nice gesture, but I think you forget that I can’t eat.
“You could tonight. After Layla goes to sleep.” There’s a moment of stillness before she begins typing again.
You’re okay with me using Layla again?
I shouldn’t be okay with it, but it doesn’t seem to be harming Layla in any way. If anything, she’s getting some much-needed calories from it. “Sure. Tacos are important. You want beef or chicken?”
Surprise me.
I close the laptop and head upstairs, skipping every other step. I’m looking forward to spending the day with Layla. But I think I’m looking more forward to talking to Willow again tonight.
There’s definitely some deceit going on here—I’m fully aware of that. But it’s hard to know where to draw the line when the lines aren’t even in the same world.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There were more options in Nebraska than anywhere within an hour of Lebanon, Kansas, so we crossed the state line and went to a city called Hastings.
I was starving by the time we got there, but Layla wanted to shop first, so we went to a few boutiques before going to the restaurant. It was a smart choice on her part, because she had four margaritas with just one taco, so she was barely able to stand without assistance by the end of dinner.
She wasn’t too drunk not to question why I wanted to order tacos to go. I told her it was because she didn’t eat enough at dinner, so I wanted to take food home in case she got hungry later.
When I said that, she smiled and leaned across the table to kiss me but knocked over one of her margarita glasses. It went crashing to the floor, and she was so embarrassed she was apologizing to everyone in the restaurant while they cleaned up her mess. She even apologized to the glass she broke. That’s when I knew she’d exceeded her limit.
It was only an hour’s drive back, but Layla had t
o stop twice to pee because of all the margaritas. I kept talking to her in an attempt to keep her awake. It was still fairly early in the evening on our drive back to Lebanon, so I didn’t want her sleeping in the car and then staying up late.
I felt a twinge of guilt for that—being excited for her to go to sleep at the house so Willow could take over.
But not guilty enough to stop myself from doing everything I could to keep her talking.
We arrived back at the house right as the sun was setting. Layla wanted to sit outside and watch it, so that’s what we’re doing right now. Sitting on the grass near the pecan tree, watching as the sun is swallowed up by the earth.
It’s a painfully slow process.
I keep checking the time on my phone as if I have somewhere to be. I have nowhere to be, but I’ve never wanted Layla to want to go to sleep as much as I wish she would right now. But she’s still drunk. Still laughing at nothing and at everything.
I have so many questions for Willow, and I just want to go inside, but Layla has other plans.
She places her hand on my chest and pushes me onto my back as soon as the last sliver of sun disappears. She leans over me, dropping her hand to the button on my jeans, just as she lowers her mouth to mine. The sour taste of lime still lingers on her tongue.
I kiss her back because that’s what I’m supposed to want to do. I’m supposed to crave her, to want her tongue in my mouth, my hands on her body, to push myself inside her. But it’s not what I want right now. All I feel right now is overwhelming impatience.
I don’t know how to separate my desires now. I came here so Layla and I could regain our footing, but I have a feeling our worlds are going to grow further apart the longer we stay here. I’m becoming too fascinated with the world we aren’t in, and that’s going to affect us. Somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I know what I’m doing is wrong. Allowing Willow to use Layla’s body is a terrible form of deception. Yet, it’s a deception I find myself justifying every time I start to question it.
Layla’s hand slips between my jeans and my stomach. I can feel her deflate when she grips me and finds that I’m not nearly as into this as she is right now.
“You okay?” she asks. This normally doesn’t happen. When she wants me, all she has to do is kiss me, and that’s enough to make me hard. But right now it’s not enough. My mind is everywhere but here, and I can tell in her eyes that she feels it’s somehow a reflection of how I feel about her. It’s not. I’m just preoccupied.
I bring my hand up to her cheek. “I’m good,” I say, brushing my thumb over her mouth. “There’s just a rock or something digging into my back.” I roll her over so that I’m looking down at her now. “Maybe we can finish this later tonight. In our bed.”
She smiles. “Or right now in our bed.” She pushes me off her and then stands up. She’s wobbly when she’s on her feet, so I stand up and steady her. She brings a hand to her forehead. “Wow. I am so drunk.”
I help her back to the house, hoping she’s too drunk to want to continue this upstairs.
She doesn’t forget, though.
She starts kissing me as soon as we’re inside the house. She tucks her hands into my jeans and tugs me toward the Grand Room. “Let’s just do it on the couch,” she says.
I pause, wondering where Willow is right now. It feels weird, knowing she can see this.
I don’t want to fuck Layla in the Grand Room. I don’t want to fuck Layla at all right now. It feels awkward, knowing someone else is in this house with us. Layla is loud during sex when she thinks we’re alone. And yes, technically we’re alone, but we’re not.
Our vacation here isn’t over, though, and I can’t avoid having sex with her for the remainder of our trip. She’ll know something is up. She’ll take it personal. And the last thing I want is for her to start feeling like I made her feel in the airplane bathroom.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say, pulling her away from the door to the Grand Room and toward the staircase. She pouts, but lets me take her hand. She holds on to the railing all the way up the stairs. I hold on to her because I don’t want her to fall.
When we get to the bedroom, I close the door, confident that Willow remained downstairs.
Layla takes off her jeans and kicks them toward the bed. She pulls her shirt off, but gets caught up in it and almost falls. I help her out of her shirt. She’s laughing when I toss it to the floor.
That’s when Layla gets my full attention. She’s in a good mood. She’s laughing. She’s drunk and carefree in this moment. It’s very rare that Layla lets loose like this anymore. I can count on one hand the times I’ve heard her giggle since her surgery.
I like it. I miss it.
Maybe this house and this vacation really are helping us.
I kiss her this time, and I’m relieved when I do, because all the want is back inside me. I force Willow out of my mind and focus on Layla as much as I possibly can. She wrestles my shirt off me, and we’re still standing next to the bed when I unfasten her bra. She presses her body against mine, and we kiss until I can feel her becoming unbalanced, her body leaning to the right.
She gasps as I spin her around and bend her over the mattress. Her gasp is followed by a giggle, and my God, I love that sound so much. I don’t even remove her panties. I just pull them aside and then shove myself into her like I’m afraid this feeling will pass if I don’t rush it.
She moans, and it’s loud, and I don’t want her to be loud tonight. I reach around and cover her mouth with my hand as I fuck her. All the noises she makes remain stifled against the palm of my hand.
I don’t make a single noise when I come.
And then when I roll her onto her back and reach between her legs, I kiss her the whole time I’m touching her.
Willow may be in the back of my mind, but that means she’s still in my mind, and for whatever reason, I don’t want her hearing this right now.
When we’re finished, I fall on top of her, breathing heavily. Layla is running her fingernails down my back, but my eyes are closed, my face pressed into the mattress.
I should be satiated, but I’m full of impatience, even still.
I want to go downstairs and talk to Willow.
I think about that—how I brought Layla back to this place so I could focus on her, but that focus is beginning to blur.
Layla has a right to know what’s going on in this house around her. She’s ignorant of Willow’s presence. Ignorant of Willow’s use of her body at night. Ignorant of my culpability in the situation.
Yet I do nothing to change any of that.
Layla shoves against my chest until I roll onto my back. She walks to the bathroom to clean herself up. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, wondering how long it’ll be before Layla goes to sleep. It’s not very late. Four margaritas would normally be enough to ensure she calls it an early night, but she slept until eleven this morning.
I can hear the shower kick on in the bathroom, and I groan. Showers wake her up even more when she’s drunk. It’s like they breathe new life into her. She’s probably going to emerge from the shower and ask to binge-watch an entire Netflix series in one go. It could be hours before she falls asleep now.
I button my jeans and walk to the dresser. I study her prescription bottles, reading the names to see which one she normally takes to help her sleep.
I open the lid to the Ambien, shake one into my hand, and then put the bottle back in the dresser.
I go downstairs to make Layla a glass of wine. Wine mixed with margaritas will make her sleepier. The sleeping pill will exacerbate that. It’s not like she doesn’t take them on her own every night anyway. I’m just accelerating the process.
I use the back of a spoon to crush the pill up on the counter. I scoop up the powder and mix it into the wineglass until it’s completely dissolved.
I turn to walk out of the kitchen, but I don’t make it far.
The glass is knocked from my grip and shatters against the kit
chen floor, several feet away from me.
I look at my empty hand, and then I look at the droplets of red wine as they stain the white cabinets on their descent to the floor.
The wine is everywhere. I just stand still, completely shocked. Instantly regretful. The glass was knocked out of my hand with enough force to send it across the kitchen, and there’s only one explanation as to why that happened.
Willow saw what I was doing, and it obviously upset her.
The severity of what I was about to do finally catches up to me. I look up at the ceiling and drag my hands down my face.
What was I thinking?
I leave the kitchen and head back upstairs, embarrassed that Willow saw that. Embarrassed I would even consider slipping Layla her own medication so that she’d fall asleep faster.
My desire to speak to Willow fades immediately and is now replaced by a heaping pile of shame. I open the bedroom door just as Layla walks out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She points at the floor near my feet. “Toss me your T-shirt.”
She catches the shirt and pulls it over her head, dropping the towel in the process. The hem of it falls to the middle of her thighs, and I take in the fact that my clothes swallow her. She’s petite and quite possibly underweight now that she barely eats; yet I was about to slip her a dosage of her sleeping medication, along with even more alcohol, not knowing how that might affect her. Especially if she would have taken her usual nightly pill along with that.
This is not who I am.
I wrap my arms around Layla, pulling her against me, silently apologizing for something I’ll never admit to almost doing. I close my eyes and press my face into her damp curls. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she says, her words muffled against my skin.
I hold her like that for a long time. Several minutes, as if it’ll somehow absolve me of my guilt.
It doesn’t. It just makes it worse.
Layla yawns against my chest and then pulls back. “I’m so tired,” she says. “I think I drank too much. I’m gonna go to bed.”
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