Layla

by Colleen Hoover

  Sometimes, when I look at Layla, I wish she were Willow. At breakfast, I catch myself wishing I were chatting with a cheerful Willow over coffee, rather than Layla complaining about her headache. During the day when I’m chatting with Willow on the computer, I spend that time wishing she could take over Layla and I could talk to her face to face.

  And now . . . as Layla slides her tongue up the length of me, I kind of wish it were Willow doing this to me.

  I harden at that thought.

  It’s easy to pretend Layla is Willow because Layla’s face is the only one I can attribute to Willow when I think about her. I wrap my hand in Layla’s hair and watch her for a moment . . . wondering what this would feel like if it were Willow inside of Layla right now. Would Willow use her tongue like that? Would she make the same noises Layla makes?

  She wraps her lips around me and takes me in as far as she can. My head falls back against the door and I groan, putting pressure on the back of her head, not wanting her to stop now.

  One of her hands is moving up and down the length of me in rhythm with her mouth. Her other hand is sliding up my stomach. I grab it, squeeze it, press it to my chest as I think about Willow.

  I imagine how Willow’s kiss would feel. Would it feel the same as Layla’s kiss?

  Would sex with Willow feel different than sex with Layla?

  Would she arch her back the same way Layla does when I push into her?

  “Fuck.” I release Layla’s hand and grip the back of her head with both hands. “I’m about to finish,” I say, warning her. She always stops when I say that so she can finish with her hand.

  She pulls back, breathless, and whispers, “You can finish in my mouth this time.”

  There’s a glimmer in her eye as she takes me back in her mouth—an excitement—and I know this is her way of thanking me for a proposal that has yet to happen. If I wasn’t already on the brink of exploding, I’d probably put a stop to this, simply because I know where her head is at.

  Everything about this moment is wrong. Layla thinks she’s pleasuring her soon-to-be fiancé while I’m pretending she’s the ghost I’ve been slowly falling for.

  It’s the strangest release I’ve ever had.

  I don’t even enjoy it.

  My legs tremble as she keeps her mouth on me, swallowing every last bit of deception I’ve been handing her. I don’t make a noise. I just close my eyes and wait for her to stop.

  When she finally releases me, I can’t even bring myself to look at her.

  All I can think about are the words she said to me the first night we met, after I’d just told her she was the best sex I’d ever had. “We always think that when we’re in it. But then someone new comes along, and we forget how good we thought it was before, and the cycle starts all over again.”

  Is that all Layla was to me? Part of an endless cycle of relationships?

  I thought for sure she was the one. I felt it in my bones.

  Now all I feel is remorse, because it wasn’t until ten seconds ago that I realized I’ve already moved on to another cycle.

  I’ve moved on to Willow.

  It’s Willow I want to talk to when I wake up. Willow I want to see before I close my eyes. Willow I want to spend all my time with during the day.

  I prefer Willow over Layla now, in almost every way, and it’s a heavy, appalling, shameful realization.

  I hear the water running in the bathroom sink. I open my eyes and Layla is brushing her teeth again. She swishes the water around in her mouth and then spits it into the sink. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and smiles with pride. “Did I leave you speechless?” she says, laughing.

  I have no idea what to say. I’m sorry wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “That was intense.” It’s not a lie. Intense isn’t necessarily a good thing, and I don’t want to lie to Layla anymore. It doesn’t feel good.

  She saunters back over to me and tucks me back into my sweatpants. She leans in and kisses me gently on the cheek, leaving her mouth on my skin when she says, “Go back to work. You can return the favor tomorrow night.” She backs away and takes off her shirt with a grin, and then finally gets in the shower.

  The water has been running this whole time.

  I walk into the bedroom and stare at our bed. The same bed I was on when I first began to fall in love with Layla.

  Falling in love with her was weightless, like air was breezing through my bones.

  Falling out of love is fucking heavy, like my lungs are carved from iron.

  I walk over to the bed, and I drop down onto it. I don’t go back downstairs. I can’t face Willow tonight. I don’t even want to face Layla.

  I just want to sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Why do you think I’m able to touch things?”

  Her voice rips me from the claws of a deep sleep. I open my eyes, and Willow is facing me, lying on her side. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s still dark outside.

  I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms. “What do you mean?” My voice is still heavy with sleep.

  “I can move things when I’m not in Layla’s body,” she says. “I can touch things. But you can’t see me, and I can’t even see myself, so I’m not made of matter. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe you’re made of energy. And you somehow channel that energy into something as dense as matter.”

  She sighs and rolls onto her back. She stares at the wooden beam over the bed. “You’d think if that were the case, I wouldn’t be as strong as I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can move big things too. I did it once. Moved every piece of furniture in the Grand Room around in the middle of the night.”

  “Because you were bored?” I ask.

  “No. Because I hate Wallace Billings and I wanted to scare him.”

  She has my full attention now. I lift up onto my elbow. “Who is Wallace Billings?”

  She cuts her eyes to mine, and there’s a mischievous grin on her face. “He owns this place. I’m the reason he put it up for sale a few months ago.”

  She looks proud of whatever she did. There’s a gleam in her eye, and I kind of find it fascinating. I’ve been wondering why this place was put up for sale.

  She sits up, wrapping the bedsheet around her to cover herself. “You know how I can’t remember how long I’ve been here?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I know Wallace inherited this place right before I showed up. Just based on conversations I’ve heard him have. His mother owned it, and it passed on to him when she died, but he wasn’t sure what to do with it. If he should keep it open or sell it or move in. After a while, he started to lean toward moving his family here. And I know this is terrible, but I couldn’t stand him. He was such an asshole to people. His wife, his kids, anyone he spoke to on the phone. I couldn’t imagine sharing this place with him for however long I was going to end up being here.”

  “What did you do? Haunt him?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. But then she looks up and to the right. “Wait. I guess what I did could be defined as a haunting. I’ve just never really identified as a ghost, so to me, I was just pranking him.”

  “What’d you do?”

  She tucks her chin against her chest a little, looking at me somewhat embarrassed. “Don’t judge me.”

  “I’m not.”

  She relaxes a bit. “It was little things at first. I’d slam doors, turn off lights. Your typical ghostly encounters. It was fun watching him try to explain it all away. But the more I’d witness his asshole behavior, the bigger I went with the pranks. One night, after I decided I didn’t want him in this house for another day, I moved all the furniture around in the Grand Room. I moved the couch against the opposite bookshelf. I moved the piano to the other side of the room. I even moved books from one shelf to another.”

  “What was his reaction the next day when he saw everything had been moved?”

  Wil
low presses her lips together tightly. She moves her head from side to side with a sheepish look on her face. “Well . . . that’s the thing,” she says. “I moved everything while he was still in the room.”

  I try to imagine what that must have been like for the guy—seeing an entire piano move across the room by itself.

  “He put the house on the market that day, and he hasn’t been back since.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, laughing. “That explains the rush to sell.”

  She falls back onto her pillow, and she’s smiling proudly. Her smile is infectious. I lie down on my own pillow, smiling right along with her.

  The moment makes me think back to the few things that happened when I first arrived here. Willow saving me from burning down the kitchen. Her cleaning up the wine spill. That’s hardly a haunting.

  I roll my head until I’m facing her. “Why didn’t you try to haunt me when I showed up?”

  Willow loses her smile, gently facing me. “Because. You aren’t an asshole. And I felt sorry for you.”

  “You felt sorry for me? Why?”

  She shrugs. “You just seemed sad.”

  I seemed sad?

  Am I sad?

  I tear my gaze from hers and look up at the ceiling.

  “Have you always been sad?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean when you say sad. Give me an example.”

  “It’s mostly when Layla leaves a room,” Willow says. “You stare at the door for a long time with this distant look in your eyes. Sometimes you seem sad even when you’re with her. I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I get. I’m probably wrong.”

  I shouldn’t be shaking my head, but I am. “You aren’t wrong.”

  She sits up again, holding the sheet up over her breasts. I tilt my head on the pillow and look at her.

  “Do you not enjoy being with her?” she asks.

  “I used to. But now it’s . . . complicated,” I keep my voice low because for whatever reason, it feels like less of an admission if I say it quietly. “A lot has changed between us since that night. Since the shooting. We aren’t the same couple we were in the beginning. She’s been through a lot, physically, emotionally, mentally. And of course I would never give up on her, but . . .” I don’t know how to finish my sentence. I’ve never admitted any of this out loud.

  “But what?” Willow asks.

  I exhale. “Sometimes I wonder, if I would have met her today . . . how she is now . . . would I have fallen in love with her as easily as I fell in love with her in the beginning? I don’t know. Part of me thinks maybe I wouldn’t be able to fall in love with this version of her at all. And when I have those thoughts . . . it makes me feel like shit. Because I’m the reason she is the way she is. I’m the reason she’s so unhappy now. Because I failed to protect her.”

  Willow’s expression is sympathetic. Almost regretful—like she didn’t mean to open up this can of worms. She inhales a soft breath and releases it into the silent room. “Maybe things will eventually go back to exactly how they were in the beginning between you two. If it’s any consolation, you don’t seem as sad now. Not like when you first showed up here.”

  I look at her pointedly. “That has nothing to do with Layla and everything to do with you,” I admit.

  Willow doesn’t react to that with anything other than her eyes. They flicker a little, as if she wasn’t expecting me to say it.

  I shouldn’t have said it. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt the guilt. But I said it, and I said it because it’s the truth. I look forward to these moments with Willow more than I look forward to time with Layla.

  What does that say about me?

  I sit up and slide my hands up my face, then into my hair. I’m gripping the back of my neck when I completely change the subject. “Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

  Willow stares at me, unmoving, as if my words are still sinking in. But then she nods and slips gracefully out of bed, leaving the sheet behind. She walks confidently to the closet and takes down one of Layla’s shirts. She catches me watching her as she pulls it over her head. I can’t even tear my eyes away this time.

  “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” she says evenly. She walks out of the room, and I listen as her footsteps fade down the stairs.

  I wait a couple of minutes before heading down myself. I’m shamefully aware that the sight of Willow naked had more of an effect on me than when Layla had my dick in her mouth. And that makes no fucking sense. It’s Layla’s body either way.

  I made grilled cheese. Layla only had a salad for dinner, and Willow said the hunger pains were intense tonight, so I made her two sandwiches.

  I’m relieved Willow has been taking over Layla’s body, even if just for the nutritional benefit. Not that grilled cheese is all that nutritional, but it’s better on Layla’s body than too few calories, and Layla certainly wouldn’t willingly eat a grilled cheese.

  Her obsession with dieting has been a concern of mine for a while now, but I haven’t really made it a priority because so many other things with Layla have been my focus for the last six months. I thought the eating would work itself out.

  It hasn’t, but Willow at least makes it less of a concern for me.

  She’s on her second sandwich, and neither of us has spoken since I handed her the plate of food. I’m on my laptop, staring at the listing for the house. I’m still torn about what to do.

  I don’t want to leave Willow alone, but I know Layla doesn’t want to stay here. I would ask Willow to come with us, but that’s not really an option. I can’t allow her to continue using Layla’s body. It was only supposed to be a temporary fix—a way for Willow and me to communicate. But it’s taking its toll on Layla.

  It’s taking a toll on me.

  The only solution I can think of is to buy this place. If I do that, Layla and I can visit. Willow could still take over Layla’s body the few times a year we come here. And in the meantime, we could work on finding answers for Willow. When she’s ready for that, of course.

  I email the Realtor and make an offer that’s $10,000 over the asking price, but I let her know I’d like the option to continue to occupy the property during closing.

  I don’t know how Layla will feel about staying even longer, but Layla’s concern doesn’t seem to weigh on my decision. I’ve made it, and I’m prepared to deal with the fallout.

  After I send the message to the Realtor, I check a few unopened messages in my in-box. One is from an address I don’t recognize.

  Leeds,

  It’s been a while since you’ve been in the forum. I apologize if reaching out to you beyond the forum makes you uncomfortable, but I do have a talent for separating the wheat from the chaff. I believe you, and I hope you can believe me in return.

  I can help your ghost.

  There’s no name attached to the email, but I recognize the title in the email address. UncoverInc.

  How did he find me? I didn’t even use my real name in the forum.

  I immediately go to the forum to check my profile, wondering if it pulled my information from Facebook somehow. All the settings are private, though, but before I log back out, a chat message pops up.

  Did you get my email?

  I look across the table at Willow, but she’s still eating, not paying attention to me. I shift in my chair and then hit respond.

  Yes. How did you get my email address?

  Never communicate with someone through a cell phone if you’re hoping to stay anonymous. I, however, have no interest in you or who you are, so there’s no need to be concerned. I’m interested in your ghost. Did you find anything out about her?

  No.

  Are you still at the bed & breakfast?

  I lean back in my chair and stare at that message, unnerved. He knows where we’re staying? My heart begins pumping wildly in my chest. The last time someone found out where we were staying—it didn’t end well. I immediately push back from the table
and walk to the front door to make sure it’s locked.

  I double-check the alarm system when I pass by it to make sure it’s set. I check the other doors as well as every single window in the house. It takes me a while because this house is huge and there are a lot of windows, so by the time I make it back to the kitchen, I’m not surprised to see Willow is finished eating.

  I am surprised to see that she’s looking at my laptop. She points at the screen and looks up at me like I’ve betrayed her.

  “What’s this?”

  I can’t tell if she’s upset or not. I shake my head and try to close the laptop, but she forces it back open. “Who is he?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How does he know about me?”

  “It’s just someone I met in a forum. I thought it was anonymous, but he figured out how to contact me.”

  Willow’s jaw hardens. She stands up and paces the kitchen. “Is that why you seemed anxious while I was eating?”

  “I’m not anxious.”

  “You are. You checked all the windows and doors because whoever he is, he knows where we are.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m overly cautious now. Everything’s locked up.”

  Willow’s shoulders are tense. It’s only the second time I’ve seen her stressed while inside Layla. She pauses her pacing and says, “Why have you been talking to him? Do you want me out of this house?”

  “No. I’ve been talking to him because when this first started, I thought I was going crazy.”

  “Why are you still talking to him?”

  “He keeps contacting me. I’m not hiding anything, Willow. He’s just adamant that he can help you, but I haven’t taken him up on the offer because it isn’t what you want right now.”

  She blows out a quick, frustrated breath. Then she walks to the freezer, opens it, and grabs a half gallon of ice cream. She retrieves a spoon and sticks it into the ice cream, then takes a big bite.

  “We both know what answers mean for a ghost,” she says, talking between bites of mint chocolate chip. “It means I’ll be done here. Whatever the reason is for me being stuck here, if that man is right, I’ll get unstuck. I won’t be here anymore. You’ve seen all the movies. Patrick Swayze had to die twice in that movie. Twice!”