Layla

by Colleen Hoover

  “I put her shorts back in the drawer where I found them,” Willow says. “I don’t want her to question herself by waking up in something she didn’t fall asleep in.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Where’s the bathing suit?”

  She motions toward the bathroom door. “I hung it up on the shower door.”

  I walk toward the bathroom, but pause before I go inside. I’m not sure Willow is ready to leave Layla’s body. “You want to watch TV while I shower?”

  She nods, so I grab the remote and turn on the bedroom television. I toss the remote to the bed and then go inside the bathroom.

  I take a long shower—not because I’m trying to avoid Willow, but because I need time to clear my head. This whole thing feels wrong, but how does one properly interact with a ghost? It’s not like there’s a handbook, or people who could tell me if what I’m doing is morally corrupt.

  Who would I ask? A psychiatrist would tell me I’m schizophrenic. A doctor would send me to a psychiatrist. My mother would tell me the stress from all that’s happened is getting to my head, and she’d beg me to move back home.

  Layla would probably leave me if she knew what was happening while she slept. Who wouldn’t? If she told me she was allowing some spirit from a different realm to inhabit my body to fulfill some gaping hole in her life, I’d have her committed and then I’d run in the opposite direction.

  There isn’t a single person I can talk to about this.

  But that also means there isn’t anyone to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong.

  It’s after midnight now, and I don’t really feel like staying up for an entire washing machine cycle just for a bathing suit, so I hand-wash it in the sink and then take it down to the laundry room and throw it in the dryer. While I’m downstairs, I pop a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

  Willow is sitting up in bed, half-covered with the blanket when I bring it to her, along with another glass of water. She looks elated when she sees the popcorn. She sits up straighter and grabs for the bowl before I’m even seated on the bed.

  “What are you watching?” I ask.

  She shoves three pieces into her mouth. “Ghost.” I raise an eyebrow, and it makes her laugh. “I know. I’m a ghost, watching the movie Ghost. Ironic.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “How have you never seen this movie?”

  I shrug and take a handful of the popcorn. “It released before I was born.” My comment makes me wonder if that could be a clue. If she’s seen this movie before, how long has she been in this house, watching movies when no one’s around? “How old do you think you are?”

  “I already told you I don’t know. Why?”

  “You seem young. The way you talk. The fact that you know how to use a computer. But then you act like it’s crazy that I’ve never seen a movie that came out thirty years ago.”

  Willow laughs. “I don’t think that’s a clue. This movie is like a rite of passage; pretty much everyone alive has seen it. Everyone but you. Hell, I’ve seen it, and I don’t even really exist.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “What?”

  “That you don’t exist. You’ve said it at least three times since we met.”

  “It’s no worse than you calling me dead.” She shoves more popcorn in her mouth and leans back, focusing on the movie again. I watch a little bit of it with her, but the irony of our situation is too much.

  “This is so weird,” I say.

  “The movie? Or watching a movie called Ghost with a ghost?”

  “All of it.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You know what would be even weirder?”

  “What?”

  “If another ghost showed up,” she says, grinning. “Then there would be a ghost watching a ghost watch Ghost while in someone else’s body.”

  I study her for a moment, then take a few pieces of popcorn and toss them at her face. “You are so strange.”

  Kernels of popcorn are all over her shirt, in her hair. She pulls a piece from her shirt and then eats it. I sit back and look at the TV, because looking at her is starting to stir something up inside me. Normally when Layla says something I find funny, I’d laugh and then kiss her.

  There are moments when I forget that Willow isn’t Layla while she’s using her body.

  I can’t react with her how I would react with Layla. But it’s instinctual for me to just want to grab her hand, or kiss her. But then I remember she’s not the girl I’m in love with, and it’s confusing.

  Maybe I shouldn’t put myself in situations like this. Familiar situations where I’m sitting on a bed in our bedroom. It makes everything dangerously blurred.

  I let Willow finish her movie, but I go downstairs and check the dryer. The bathing suit is almost dry, so I set it for five more minutes and go to the kitchen. I sit at the table and open my laptop, then go straight to the paranormal forum. I’m curious if anyone has said anything else that might give me any answers as to why Willow is here.

  I never updated the group to let them know I did, in fact, speak to the ghost. I certainly haven’t updated them to tell them I communicate with her through Layla. Those two things seem too far fetched, even for a paranormal forum.

  I have a notification in the top-right corner of my screen. I open the private messages in the forum and have one unread message from the forum member UncoverInc. I click on it.

  Did you ever communicate with your ghost?

  I don’t respond to his message. I’m not sure anyone would even believe me at this point. I hit delete, and my in-box is empty again, but then I get a ping and a box pops up in the left-hand corner of my screen. It’s from the same username.

  I’ve been waiting for an update. Your post has me intrigued.

  The message is live, sent just now in a chat box. I move my mouse over the X to minimize it, but I don’t minimize it. I’m anonymous in this forum, so what would it hurt to talk to this guy? I type,

  Let’s just say I’m no longer a skeptic.

  I hit send and immediately see that he’s typing something out. I watch the chat box until his next message comes up.

  So you’ve communicated?

  Yes.

  Are you still there at the house? Or did you leave?

  I’m still here.

  Is there a reason you chose to stay? Most people would have left if they were in your situation.

  She doesn’t seem dangerous.

  Hopefully. They usually aren’t.

  I stare at that sentence for a beat. This person hasn’t hesitated at all while chatting with me. What if whoever this is has had an experience like mine? I type out another question:

  She has no memory of her life. I don’t know how to help her. I’m not even sure she wants help.

  Ghosts have no capacity to hold specific memories. Only feelings, so that’s not unusual. But her lack of desire for answers could be an indicator that she might be a fairly new spirit. It takes its toll after a while. They’re usually more than ready to move on the longer they’ve been around. It’s not a fun place to be.

  I reread the response, wanting to believe this person knows what they’re talking about, but this is the internet. Chances are the person on the other end of this conversation is laughing at my gullibility.

  I would like to help your ghost find answers. It’s what I do.

  I start to type a response to that, but my fingers grow still on the keyboard. How could this person possibly help without me having to give him personal information, like where the ghost resides or how to contact me? I can’t tell a complete stranger who I am. I learned my lesson the hard way that privacy is a precious and fragile thing.

  My entire body jerks when the buzzer from the dryer sounds off. I quickly close my laptop, go get Layla’s bathing suit, and head back upstairs.

  Willow is staring at the TV as the credits roll, her eyes full of tears. She doesn’t even look away from the TV when I close the door behind me. I
put Layla’s bathing suit back in the dresser and then grab the empty popcorn bowl from Willow. She finally breaks her stare and follows me with her eyes as I set the bowl on my nightstand. “It’s such a terrible ending,” she mutters. “I always forget how bad the ending is.”

  “How does it end?”

  “He finds closure and goes to heaven,” she says with a pout.

  I laugh, not understanding why that’s a bad ending. “If heaven exists, isn’t that what a ghost should want?”

  She waves her arm angrily at the television. “What about Molly? She’s all alone now. She has to live the rest of her life knowing her husband is gallivanting around in eternity while she still has to work and pay the bills and . . . live.”

  She says live like it’s such a bad thing. I take a seat on the bed. “Let me make sure I have this right. You’re sad for the human? Not the ghost?”

  “Of course I’m sad for the human. Wow, great ending, the ghost became an even ghostlier ghost,” she says sarcastically. “Big freaking deal, we knew he was dead since it happened in the beginning of the movie. But where does that leave her? She got proof he was dead, and then she got even more proof that he was dead. How is that romantic? She had to grieve twice! It’s the worst movie I’ve ever seen.”

  “I thought you’ve seen it before.”

  “I have, but not while I was in a body with a heart that could break and tears that could form. I didn’t feel all this when I watched it before. This sucks.” She drops down onto the bed and hugs Layla’s pillow. “I don’t like all these feelings.”

  I point the remote at the TV and then hit the power button. The room grows dark. I set the remote on the nightstand and then lie down in the bed and pull the covers over me. Willow turns to face me, curling her hands beneath her cheek. “Patrick Swayze died, right? In real life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think he’s a real ghost now? You think he could be like me?”

  “Maybe. But you’ve never left this property, so how can you know what else is out there? Who else is out there?”

  She grins. “I’d leave this property for Patrick Swayze.”

  “Maybe that’s what you need to do. Leave. Travel. Go see if there are others like you.”

  “But it feels like I’m supposed to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve just always felt that way. Surely there’s a reason I’m here, in this random house in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Maybe you used to live here. Maybe you died here.”

  She thinks on that for a moment. “It doesn’t feel like home, though. Not that anywhere could, I guess.”

  “What if there was a way you could find out where you’re from? Who you are? Would you do it?”

  Her eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? Like hire a detective?”

  “Something like that. I might know a guy.”

  She laughs. “You know a guy?” She rolls her eyes as if that’s far fetched. But honestly, not much seems improbable to me anymore. She covers her mouth and yawns. “Layla’s really tired. She’ll have a hangover when she wakes up tomorrow.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow night? I want to talk more about how I can help you find answers.”

  Willow adjusts the pillow beneath her head. “I don’t really want help, Leeds. Every time you bring it up, it gives me a Dr. Kevorkian vibe.”

  I laugh, confused. “What?”

  “How would you feel if I told you that you should move on from your existence? It’s like encouraging me to commit suicide.”

  Wow.

  I roll onto my back, clasping my hands together over my chest. “I didn’t think about it from your point of view. I’m sorry I keep bringing it up.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “And I’m not saying I’m opposed to searching for answers someday. I’m just not sure I’m brave enough to take that step yet. For now, I just want to enjoy this last week of being able to hang out with you.”

  I don’t look at her, but I can feel her staring at me. She enjoys hanging out with me. It’s not an inappropriate thing to say, but the reaction I have in my chest to those words might be bordering on inappropriate.

  I don’t respond to her. It’s during the moments of silence between us when I feel the guiltiest.

  Silence is where all the mistakes happen.

  I roll over and close my eyes. “Good night, Willow.”

  THE INTERVIEW

  The man stops the recorder.

  I tilt my head back, feeling uneasy about where this conversation is headed. I want to be honest with him, but the truth that’s about to come up doesn’t paint me in a good light.

  Nothing else I say tonight will paint me in a good light.

  “Do you have a restroom I can use?” he asks.

  I point down the hallway. “Third door on your right.”

  He gets up and leaves the room. I would go check on Layla, but it’s finally quiet upstairs. Hopefully it stays that way for a while. I open my laptop to see if Willow is in the room with us.

  “Are you here?” I ask her.

  I scoot the laptop over to an empty seat next to me, and she immediately types a response.

  Yes.

  “What do you think?”

  I haven’t been down here for all of the conversation because I wanted Layla to fall asleep, so I don’t know what all you’ve told him, or what he’s suggested.

  “I’ve told him almost everything, but all he’s done is listen so far.”

  Almost everything? What have you left out?

  I roll my head and then lower it to my arms. “I haven’t told him everything that happened the night Layla and I were shot.”

  Leeds . . .

  “I know. I’ll get to that. I just . . .”

  The man walks back in the room, so I clamp my mouth shut and don’t finish my sentence. He eyes me carefully as he takes his seat at the table. “Were you just speaking to Willow?”

  I nod.

  “How?”

  “Through my laptop. I talk to her out loud, and she responds using the computer.”

  The man stares at me in thought. “Fascinating,” he says.

  I turn the laptop toward him. “Do you want to watch her do it?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t need to see it. I believe you.” He leans forward and hits record. “So what happened the next morning?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I wake up to the smell of eggs. I roll over, and Layla isn’t in bed. There’s a popcorn kernel next to her pillow, so I quickly snatch it up and take it with me to the bathroom, tossing it into the trash can.

  After I brush my teeth, I head downstairs, not exactly sure what to expect. Layla doesn’t usually cook anymore, but someone is cooking.

  I walk into the kitchen, and she’s still in the T-shirt Willow was wearing when we crawled into bed last night, but I’m not certain this isn’t still Willow.

  It’s the first time I’m not able to tell who is who. Did Willow wake up as Layla?

  I quietly observe her from the doorway. Would Willow ever pretend to be Layla to trick me?

  I immediately feel bad for even thinking that. Willow is protective of Layla. She knocked the wineglass out of my hand last night. I doubt she’d do anything deceptive now that I know about her.

  As soon as she looks up from the stove and I make eye contact with her, I know instantly that it’s Layla. Her voice is heavy with sleep when she mutters, “Morning.” Her eyelids are drooping a little. She looks tired. Hungover.

  I walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek. “Morning.” I look down at the pan, and she’s scooting around scrambled eggs with a fork.

  “You want some?” she asks. “I read eggs help with hangovers.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I make myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, watching Layla. I’m curious if she has any memories at all of last night.

  “What time did you wake up?” I ask her.

  “Five. Co
uldn’t go back to sleep. I have a horrible hangover.” She spins around and says, “Want to know something weird?”

  “What?”

  “I had a piece of popcorn stuck in my tooth when I woke up.”

  My spine stiffens at that comment. I turn away from her and pour creamer into my coffee cup. “Yeah, we watched a movie in bed last night. You were pretty drunk.”

  Layla laughs, but it’s a painful laugh. She’s touching her forehead when I turn back around. She winces and then says, “Wow. I don’t remember that at all.”

  She scoops a pile of eggs onto a piece of toast and sits at the table to eat. I can’t stop looking at her eyes. Her pupils are dark and wide—like two black marbles have covered the greens of her eyes.

  She takes a bite of her eggs and toast with a fork, then taps her fork repeatedly on the table as she chews. Her knee is bouncing up and down, like her hangover is oddly coupled with a lot of pent-up nervous energy.

  “How much coffee have you had today?”

  She swallows her bite and then wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Four cups already. I thought it might help with the hangover.”

  That explains her behavior. I was beginning to think she might be Willow again, but she isn’t. She’s eating like Layla eats. Small bites, always with a fork. Willow would have devoured that whole plate of food by now.

  “Maybe you should relax today,” I suggest. “Have another pool day.”

  She motions toward the kitchen window. “I can’t—it’s supposed to storm.”

  I walk to the window and push the curtain aside. The entire sky looks like deep-blue rolling hills. I open the weather app on my phone, and it says it’s supposed to rain for the next two days. I look back at Layla. She’s only eaten half of her toast and eggs, but she’s already pushed her plate away and is scrolling through her phone. “Then what do you want to do today?” I ask.

  “You really need some new social media content,” she says. “We haven’t posted anything since the picture on the plane. I can take some sexy pictures of you in the rain. That might make a really great album cover.”

  That actually sounds like a nightmare. Layla can see on my face that I’m not in the mood to pose for pictures.