Layla
: Chapter 13

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. Couldn’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.

“I know you don’t want to think about work, but this house is huge. There are so many potential backdrops for photos. Just give me two hours with the camera, and then I’ll leave you alone about it until Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“That’s when we leave.”

Her voice is delicate, but those words feel dense and unintentionally harsh. We’ll be leaving Willow here alone in just a matter of days. I don’t really want to go until Willow is ready to replace answers, because for some reason, I need answers. I don’t feel like I’ll be able to function out in the real world unless I can somehow make sense of everything that’s happened in this house.

I take a seat across from Layla. “What do you think about staying a little longer?”

Her shoulders drop a little. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a lot of songwriting done. I can probably finish the album here if I have a little more time.”

“I haven’t heard the piano once.”

“I haven’t needed it. I’ve been writing lyrics,” I lie.

She sighs and drops her phone to the table. “Not to be mean, but it’s boring here, Leeds. I’m going stir crazy. And the boredom is making me tired. I feel exhausted every day. It’s like all I do is sleep.”

I know that exhaustion is my fault, but I still don’t let up. “What if we compromise?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Depends on the compromise.”

“I’ll give you three hours today to pose me however you want for however many pictures you want to take. And you give me three more days to work on my album.”

She seems attracted to that compromise. “I can even pose you in the rain?”

I nod.

A smile manages to break through her hangover. “Deal.” She leans across the table and kisses me. “You won’t regret this.”

She’s wrong. I already regret it. I’ve regretted almost every decision I’ve made at her expense since we got here.

Yet . . . I’ve done nothing to stop myself.

Layla maybe got four hours of sleep last night. Combine that with a three-hour photo shoot, a hangover, and very little food today, and I have no idea how she held out until eight o’clock before going upstairs to crash.

It’s almost ten now, and there’s been no sign of Willow. I’ve tried asking her if she’s here, but she hasn’t responded. Not even with the laptop.

I’ve spent the last hour working out new lyrics. If I’m going to lie to Layla and tell her music is what’s keeping me in this house, I at least need to create said music.

I started writing a song about two weeks ago called “No Vacancy,” so I’ve spent most of my time tonight reworking the lyrics.

It’s been storming for four hours now. The forecast extended the rain to a third day, which concerns me. Layla seems content when she gets her pool days, but I don’t know what mood three days of being stuck inside this house will put her in.

“What are you doing?”

I jump so violently my chair scoots back two feet. I grab at my chest and blow out a breath when I see Willow standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear her walking down the stairs because of the thunder, so my reaction to her unexpected appearance makes her laugh.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she says with a wink. She walks straight to the refrigerator. “Seriously, Leeds. Your girlfriend has an eating disorder. I’m worried about her.” She grabs a plate of leftovers from the dinner I cooked earlier. Stuffed baked potatoes and Caesar salad. Layla only ate the salad, so I saved the baked potato for Willow.

I close out my document and then shut my laptop. Willow puts the plate in the microwave and then turns around to face me. “What was today all about? With the pictures, and the uncharacteristically vain photos?”

The entire time Layla was forcing me to pose today, I wondered where Willow was. If she was watching or not. I was hoping she wasn’t.

“Nothing.” I don’t want to talk about the compromise I made with Layla, and I especially don’t want to talk about the embarrassing fact that every time Layla posts a shirtless selfie of me, I get twice as many downloads on my music.

“Are you like a model or something?” Willow’s voice is playful, but I still don’t feel like talking about it. I’d almost rather her dive into Layla’s thoughts just so I don’t have to explain it to her.

“There’s this thing . . . social media.”

“I know what social media is,” she says.

“Of course you do. Anyway. Layla is working to monetize my platform.”

“So you’re an influencer?”

I lean back in my seat, perplexed. “How do you even know what that is?”

“I watch TV. I know a lot of things. Are you famous?”

“No.”

“But you want to be?” The microwave timer goes off. Willow grabs her plate and walks over to the table.

“Layla is hoping my music career takes off, so I humor her. Gives her something to focus on.”

“What if she’s right? What if you become famous?” Willow says.

“That’s my fear.”

She waves her fork in the air after taking a bite. “Is that how you can afford to stay here? Money from social media?”

“No. I only have three songs out. But I have money. An inheritance.”

I expect her to make a comment about that, but Willow just eyes me curiously for a moment. “Are you just playing aloof, or do you really not want the music career to work out?”

“I’m undecided. I love writing music and I want people to hear it, but I don’t know that I’m cut out for all that comes with it.”

“You have the look.”

“I definitely don’t want to get famous because of how I look.”

“What if you aren’t as talented as you think you are, though? What if the only reason you have followers is because you’re hot?”

I laugh at her bluntness. “You think I’m hot?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen a mirror before.” She gestures toward my phone. “I want to hear one of your songs. Play the one you played for Layla at the piano the night you met her. I think it’s called ‘I Stopped.’”

“I thought you didn’t look at her memories.”

“I try not to. That one’s hard to avoid, though. It’s front and center in her head.”

I like that Layla prefers that memory. It’s one of my favorites too.

I open the music app and hit play on the song for Willow. But then I open my laptop and focus on it in an attempt to ignore the fact that she’s listening to my music.

I hate listening to my own music. I try to busy myself with emails while she listens to each of the three songs intently. When they all finish playing, she scoots my phone back to me across the table.

“Your voice is haunting,” she says.

“Is haunting good or bad coming from a ghost?”

She grins. “I guess it could be either.” She’s in a good mood. She’s almost always in a good mood, even when she’s upset with me for almost drugging my girlfriend or for continuously insisting she should replace out why she’s here. It’s like whiplash, going from Layla, who feels so heavy, to Willow, who’s like a gust of wind.

“Can you feel Layla’s anxiety when you’re inside of her?” I ask her.

“I don’t feel it right now. That’s probably because she isn’t alert—

nothing to be anxious about.”

“But you can feel her love. And her sadness. You’ve said that before.”

Willow nods. “Maybe her feelings for you are stronger than her anxiety. She does feel a lot for you.”

That’s good to know. “Does she think I’m going to propose to her?”

“Are you?”

“Probably.”

Willow takes a sip of water. Swallows. She stares down at her plate for a moment in thought, and I can tell she’s trying to sift through Layla’s feelings. “She hopes you’re going to propose, but I don’t think she’s expecting it this soon.”

“What kind of ring does she want?”

“Does it matter? You already bought it. You keep it upstairs in your shoe like an idiot.” She knows about the engagement ring? “Girls can sniff those things out like a bloodhound. She’ll replace it if you don’t hide it better.”

“So you’ve seen the ring? Do you think she’ll like it?”

Willow smiles. “I have a feeling she’ll like any ring you give her, even if it’s plastic. She loves you more than . . .” Her voice fades before she finishes her sentence.

“More than what?”

Willow shakes her head, her eyes suddenly growing more serious.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t be sharing her thoughts with you. It feels wrong.”

Willow finishes her food, but I can’t help but wonder what the sudden change in her demeanor was about. What was she about to say?

She clears off the table and walks to the kitchen entry. She looks over her shoulder at me. “Come play me a song, Leeds.”

I hesitate, because I don’t know that I want to. I like the memory of playing a song for Layla in the Grand Room. I’m not sure I want to create that memory with anyone else. It feels like a betrayal.

Willow has already gone into the Grand Room. She’s waiting in there for me. I hesitate for another few seconds, but then I ultimately leave the kitchen and walk across the hallway.

I pause in the doorway to the Grand Room because Willow is lowering the lid to the grand piano. Then she proceeds to climb up on top of it. She sprawls out across the piano on her stomach, stretching her arms out over it.

She sees me eyeing her with perplexity. She smiles gently and says, “I want to feel the sound. I never get to feel things without a body. It’s nice.”

As much as I want to preserve my memory of this room with Layla, I feel equally bad not playing a song for Willow. She doesn’t get to interact with people outside of me. That has to be lonely.

I reluctantly take a seat at the piano bench. “What do you want me to play?”

“Play the one you were writing earlier, on your laptop.”

“I thought you weren’t in there when I was on my laptop. I tried to talk to you.”

She lifts her cheek off the piano. “I didn’t want you to stop writing, so I pretended I wasn’t there.”

I thought she might have been in there. I don’t know how. Sometimes it’s like I can feel her in the room with me, but I don’t know if that’s because I know she’s in this house or if she really does have a presence.

Willow lays her cheek against the varnished wood again, patiently waiting.

I look down at the piano keys and try to remember how the song begins. “I haven’t finished writing it yet.”

“Play what you have, then.”

I start fingering the keys, and when I look back up at her, she’s closed her eyes. “This one is called ‘No Vacancy,’” I say quietly. Then I sing it for her.

I showed up rich while feeling poor

I didn’t knock but they opened the door

Throwing stones, they pierce my eye Leave tiny cracks all down my spine

We were royalty without a throne

Our castle didn’t feel like home

Echoes of “I love you” in the halls

Our words absorbed into the walls

I checked us in so we couldn’t leave

Thought maybe time would make me believe

If I took us back to the starting line

We’d never cross the finish line

My hands may not be red

But my heart, it feels the bleed

If my soul had a neon sign

It would read No Vacancy

If my soul had a neon sign

It would read No Vacancy

When I’m finished playing all the parts of the song I’ve written, I look up from the piano. Her eyes are still closed.

She remains pressed against the piano, like she doesn’t want the feeling to end. She seems sad . . . sort of regretful. It makes me wonder if she’ll miss this when we leave. She’ll be alone with no one here to talk to at night, no one here to play music for her, no one here to give her something to do to pass her time while she just floats around in nothing.

She finally opens her eyes, but she doesn’t move.

I feel my chest constrict when we make eye contact, because again, I just want to comfort her. But not because I’m mistaking this urge for some wandering remnant of how I feel for Layla—but because I want to comfort her.

Willow.

“I’m sorry you’re so lonely,” I whisper.

She smiles, but it’s such a sad smile. “You’re the one who wrote this song. I’m no lonelier than you.”

Silence slowly descends over the room, wrapping us tightly in its grip.

But I don’t say anything to break it. I soak it up. I soak her up. No one else ever will, and that makes me sad for her.

“She’s really in love with you,” Willow says.

I don’t know why she says that. Does she sometimes feel Layla’s urges to touch and kiss me, the same way I feel the urge to touch and kiss Layla? When she’s inside of Layla, is it as confusing to her as it is to me?

“Her body is really tired tonight. I should let her sleep.” Willow sits up on the piano. “You coming to bed?”

I want to.

Which is exactly why I shouldn’t.

I swallow the yes that’s stuck in my throat and look down at the piano keys. I place my fingers on them. “You go ahead.”

She stares at me a moment, but I don’t look at her. I begin playing the song over again, and when I do, she leaves the room. After she walks upstairs and I hear the bedroom door close, I stop the song. I lower my head to the piano.

What am I doing?

And why do I not want to stop?