Layla

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Layla Page 17

by Colleen Hoover


  “It’s just some novel,” I say, adjusting myself on the couch so that I’m lying next to her. She cuddles against me, pressing a kiss to my neck. I take in the scent of her shampoo. It’s tropical—mangoes and bananas—and it reminds me of everywhere that isn’t Lebanon, Kansas. Everywhere Layla would probably rather be than right here.

  What will she think if I buy this house?

  Should I even buy it?

  Or should we just pack up and leave before every line I’ve already crossed becomes a wall so high we can’t climb over?

  “Leeds.”

  Layla’s voice is a distant whisper, hanging in the air as I struggle with whether I want to leave my sleep and follow that voice.

  “Leeds, wake up.”

  Her hand is on my cheek, and we’re pressed together. We’re still on the couch. It’s not surprising we fell asleep, considering all the nights I spend awake with Willow. I’ve been getting just as little sleep as Layla gets.

  I slip my hand inside the back of her silk shirt and run my palm up her skin. When I do this, she presses her hands so hard against my chest she propels herself off the couch and onto the floor. Her sudden movement, followed by the thud, forces my eyes wide open. I lean over the couch in search of her. She’s on her back, staring up at me.

  It’s Willow. Not Layla.

  “My bad,” I say, scrambling to help her off the floor. “I thought you were Layla.”

  When she stands up, she looks down at herself—at the clothes Layla put on earlier. Or lack thereof.

  My voice is rough when I say, “You should probably go change.” I clear my throat and walk into the kitchen while she runs up the stairs.

  I make us a pot of coffee because Willow feels Layla’s exhaustion when she’s inside of her. I certainly feel the exhaustion. It’s late, and the last thing I need is coffee. The last thing I need is an excuse to stay up and chat with someone who isn’t Layla. But when Willow comes back downstairs and enters the kitchen, I’m relieved to see her, and I instantly forget how wrong this is.

  She threw on a T-shirt and a pair of Layla’s pajama pants. She nudges her head toward the coffee. “Good idea.”

  When it’s finished brewing, I fill two cups with coffee and slide one over to her. She’s standing next to me at the counter. We’re shoulder to shoulder as I pour cream into my cup and she stirs sugar into hers.

  “Did you know in ancient Arab culture, a woman could only divorce her husband if he didn’t like her coffee?” Willow asks.

  I lean against the counter. “Is that true?”

  She nods, leaning against the counter next to me, facing me. She sips slowly from her cup and then says, “I read it in one of those books in the Grand Room.”

  “How many have you read?”

  “All of them.”

  “What other random facts have you learned?”

  She sets her cup down and then pushes herself up onto the countertop. “The most expensive coffee in the world is made in Indonesia. It’s expensive because the beans are eaten and digested by a cat before they’re used to make the coffee.”

  I wasn’t expecting a fact like that. I look down at my coffee and grimace. “What do they do? Dig the digested beans out of cat shit?”

  She nods.

  “People pay more money for coffee made from cat shit?”

  Willow grins. “Rich people are weird. That could be you someday. Drinking cat shit coffee on your mega-yacht.”

  “I hope to hell not.”

  She presses both hands into the counter at her sides. She leans back a little, swinging her legs back and forth. “What’s your mother like?”

  That question throws me for a loop. “My mom?”

  She nods. “I hear you on the phone with her sometimes.”

  There are so many times throughout the day I wonder where Willow is when she’s not in Layla’s body. Does she follow me around? Does she just hang out in the Grand Room all day? Does she ever follow Layla around?

  “She’s a good person. I got lucky.”

  Willow releases a slow breath and then looks down at her swinging feet. She stops moving them. “I wonder what my mother was like.”

  It’s the first time she’s ever acknowledged that she might have had an actual human life prior to the one she’s living. It makes me wonder if she’s having a change of heart. If maybe she does want to try and research into her past.

  “I’m thinking about putting in an offer on the house.”

  Willow perks up at that. “This house? You really are going to buy it?”

  I nod.

  “Does Layla want to live here?”

  “Probably not. But I could pitch it to her as a business investment. It would give me a reason to visit you.”

  “Why doesn’t she like it here? When I’ve looked back on her memories of this place, they all seem good.”

  “A lot has happened since we met. I don’t know that it’s this particular place she doesn’t like. She just hasn’t had a chance to settle since she was released from the hospital. I don’t think anywhere will feel like home to her until we can pick out a place together, and I doubt she’ll want a place this isolated.”

  “She lived in Chicago before, right? Do you think she wants to go back there?”

  I stare at Willow, wondering if she knows that’s what Layla wants, and she’s just saying that as a hint. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Willow shakes her head. “I don’t want to dig around in her head anymore. Like I said before, her thoughts are chaotic.”

  “What do you mean by chaotic?”

  “I’m not sure,” Willow says with a shrug of her shoulders. “You say she’s lost a lot of her memories, but to me, when I’m inside her head, there are too many for me to process. It’s like they all overlap, so it’s hard for me to really sift through them. But honestly, they aren’t my thoughts to sift through, so I mostly just ignore them.”

  “That’s probably the right thing to do.”

  She laughs half-heartedly. “I think we blurred the line between right and wrong a while ago.”

  Neither of us speaks for a moment after she says that. It’s tough, because we both know this is wrong, but I think we’re both hoping the other one doesn’t put a stop to it. We obviously enjoy each other’s company or we wouldn’t be doing this night after night.

  Willow looks at me thoughtfully. “What happened the night you and Layla were shot?”

  I stand up straighter. Shuffle my weight to my other leg. “You can’t just dig around in her head for that? It’s not really something I like talking about.”

  Willow is silent for several seconds. “I could . . . but I want to hear your version.”

  I don’t like talking about it. I swore to myself after I recounted every detail to the police that I’d never talk about it again unless Layla asked.

  Willow is waiting for me to say something. I open my mouth to respond, just as thunder rolls across the sky and a streak of lightning hits nearby. Willow flinches, and the lights go out.

  The kitchen lights didn’t even flicker—they just immediately shut off, along with every other appliance in the house.

  The sound of thunder is still rumbling through the house when Willow says, “Leeds?”

  She sounds frightened.

  I find her in the dark, and she’s no longer sitting on the counter. She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen. I rub my hands down her arms reassuringly. “It’s okay. The power just went out. It’ll probably kick back on in a second.”

  Willow steps back and says, “What’s going on?” Her words come out quick and shaky. “Where are we?”

  More lightning illuminates the kitchen, and I stare at her between flashes of darkness and bright light. Her eyes are full of fear. I can immediately tell I’m no longer looking at Willow. “Layla?”

  “What the fuck is going on?” she says, her voice louder as she takes another step back. She grips the counter next to her, looking wildly around the kitc
hen. “Why am I in the kitchen?”

  I immediately grab Layla and pull her against me. I press my hand against the back of her head. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to come up with an excuse as to why she’s now standing in the middle of the kitchen with no memory as to how we ended up here. “The power went out. It woke us up.”

  “Why don’t I remember that? How are we in the kitch—” She stops talking.

  She releases a sigh.

  I feel her relax, and I can immediately tell Willow has taken back over because she feels different in my arms. She pulls away from my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Willow says. “The lightning startled me and I must have accidentally slipped out of her.” There’s a new concern in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Willow brings her thumb up to her mouth and starts to chew on it. “She’ll remember this tomorrow. She’ll remember waking up down here.”

  I don’t like seeing Willow worried just as much as I don’t like seeing Layla worried. “Hey,” I say, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll pass it off like she had a nightmare, or she was half-asleep.”

  Willow nods, but I can still see the nervous energy in her expression. “Okay.” She covers her face with her hands. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Willow.”

  She nods again, but I can tell she doesn’t feel reassured.

  Neither do I.

  THE INTERVIEW

  “Did Layla remember the next day?”

  I nod. “Yes. It was the first thing she asked about when she woke up. I played it off like she was half-asleep when the power went out, so I made her go to the kitchen with me, and she didn’t fully wake up until the lightning struck.”

  “And she bought that?”

  “Yeah. It was an easy sell. Anyone would believe they were in a daze or sleepwalking before their mind would automatically start questioning whether or not they were possessed by a ghost.”

  The man agrees with a nod. “Did Willow continue to use her body after that? Even after the slipup?”

  I nod, but barely. It’s not something I’m proud of, because no excuse is good enough for what we’ve done. Not even an excuse as worthy as ours.

  “Did Layla ever grow to suspect anything?”

  “She was concerned about why she was so tired all the time. Willow was using her body at night, so she wasn’t getting as much sleep as she thought she was getting. She’d wake up confused as to why she slept in so late when she was going to bed so early. She started thinking it was related to her head injury.”

  “And you didn’t tell her otherwise?”

  I inhale and then slowly exhale before answering that question. “No. I went along with it. Made her an appointment to see the neurologist.”

  “What did the neurologist tell her?”

  “The appointment isn’t until next week.”

  “Are you going to take her?”

  I shake my head. “No. I can’t now. She’s never going to forgive me for what I’ve done to her these last few days.” I lean forward, pressing my palms to my forehead. “I’ve let this get out of hand and I’m not sure how to turn it around.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell Willow to stop when you realized it began to affect Layla?”

  “I didn’t want her to stop.”

  “Because you were trying to help Willow?”

  I wish I could say yes to that, but I shake my head. “We just fell into a routine, I think. It went on for days. Layla would fall asleep at night and Willow would take over. We’d watch movies. I’d cook for her. She’d read a book on the couch while I worked on music. There wasn’t a good reason for us to do it . . . we still weren’t using the time together to search for answers. We just enjoyed each other’s company.”

  The man nods. “How does Willow feel about the part she plays in this?”

  “She feels terrible. We both do.”

  “Yet you continue to do it?”

  I’m growing frustrated with his questioning.

  “Is it fair to assume this continued because you started to develop feelings for Willow?”

  I can’t even say yes out loud. Instead, I just nod.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We’re supposed to check out in two days and head back to Tennessee. Layla has been cheerful about it.

  I haven’t been.

  I’m sitting at the piano bench, trailing my fingers up and down the keys. I’ve been internally moping all day, like a child being forced to throw away his favorite toy.

  I haven’t spoken much to Willow since last night. We stayed up late watching another movie. I’ve noticed a recurring theme over the past several nights. We watch movies about ghosts, the afterlife, anything paranormal. Willow asks questions after the end of each movie, as if she’s trying to figure out which version of this world she wants to believe in. Last night we watched What Dreams May Come. It made her cry.

  She didn’t ask a single question when it was over. She just rolled onto her side and looked at me sadly. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “I don’t want to go back.”

  “Back where?” I said.

  “To nothing. I like being inside of Layla. I like spending time with you. It gets harder every time I have to leave her body.”

  I didn’t know what to say because I felt the same way, so I just grabbed her hand and held it until we both fell asleep.

  It’s becoming difficult at night, watching her have to leave Layla, knowing she’s just going back to a bare minimum of an existence in a huge and lonely house. And the closer we get to the day Layla and I are supposed to leave, the more sullen Willow and I have become when we spend time together.

  I’m playing a low key on the piano—tapping it over and over with my finger—when one of the higher notes plays by itself. I immediately look around, but Layla is still upstairs.

  Willow must be trying to get my attention.

  I go to the kitchen to open my laptop, and she immediately begins typing.

  I have bad news.

  “What?”

  Layla just found the ring.

  My eyes immediately dart up toward the upstairs bedroom. “Is she digging through my things?”

  Yes.

  “What did she do when she found it?”

  She gasped. Then she put it back and immediately texted Aspen and told her about it.

  “Shit,” I say with a heavy breath.

  I wasn’t ready for this. Not after I’ve spent the last two and a half weeks using Layla the way I’ve been using her. A proposal at this point would feel dishonest.

  I sit down at the table and drop my head into my hands. Willow begins typing something into the document again.

  She doesn’t know which day you’ll be proposing, so there’s still an element of surprise there. You shouldn’t let this upset you.

  “It’s not that,” I say. “I just don’t think I’m ready, but now it’s all she’s going to be thinking about.”

  If you aren’t ready, why did you bring the ring with you?

  “I brought it with me because this trip . . .” I lean back in my chair. “This trip was supposed to bring us closer together. But I feel even more distant than I did the day we arrived.”

  Is that my fault?

  “No. I don’t think what we’re doing has helped, but it’s not your fault.”

  I didn’t know that’s why you came here. Now I feel guilty for inserting myself into the narrative. I can stop. If you want to spend these last two days with Layla . . . I can disappear, and you won’t even know I’m here.

  My chest tightens at that thought. I don’t want to spend these last two days here without Willow. “That’s what I’ve been afraid you’ll do, Willow. It isn’t at all what I want.” I close the laptop because I don’t want to continue this conversation. Not over a laptop, anyway. I need to go talk to Layla. Gauge her mood. Maybe the ring freaked her out. Maybe she isn’t ready either. Maybe this will prompt a long-overdue conversation between us.

  I go u
pstairs and can hear the shower running. I walk into the bathroom, and Layla is brushing her teeth. She always does this. Turns on the shower to warm up the water and then stands at the sink for ten minutes to do her nighttime routine of brushing her teeth and washing her face and plucking her eyebrows. Then she barely has enough hot water left to actually make it through a full shower.

  She grins as soon as I walk into the bathroom. She spits toothpaste into the sink and then rinses. Then she walks over to me and wraps her arms around me, pressing her mouth to mine. There’s such a difference in her right now compared to the tired version of herself she’s been dragging around during the daytime. She’s definitely excited for the proposal. It’s like it breathed new life into her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice a disturbing level of cheerful.

  “Working.”

  She slides her palms down my chest. “You should take a break. Shower with me.”

  I look over my shoulder like I have somewhere to be. “I took a shower this morning.”

  When I look back at her, she rolls her eyes and lowers her hands to my sweatpants. “Well then, I’ll shower.” She feathers her lips across my jaw as she reaches into my pants. “After I’m done with you.”

  Before I can stop her, she pushes me against the bathroom door and drops to her knees. We haven’t had sex in three days. I don’t know that I can come up with a good enough excuse to refuse a blow job without hurting her feelings.

  She’s on a high right now, assuming this trip is going to end with a proposal. She thinks we’ll spend the rest of our lives together—me and Layla against the world.

  And maybe we will. I don’t even know. But she’s not really in a position in which we can discuss it because she’s taking me into her mouth, despite the fact that I’m not even hard yet. I look down at her, and even though I’m not immediately turned on by this because of the pandemonium in my head, I can’t help but think of Willow when I look at Layla.

 

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