Layla
When I’m back in the kitchen, there’s a glass of dark liquor sitting in front of my chair. The man motions toward it.
“Bourbon,” he says.
I sit down and sniff it, then take a sip, enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat. It immediately soothes my nerves. I should have poured myself a glass before we started this.
“What’s your name?” I ask him. I only know the email address we’ve been using to communicate, but it was just the name of his business. Not his actual name.
He looks down at the shirt he’s wearing. It’s a Jiffy Lube shirt covered in oil stains with a name tag on it that says Randall. He points at the name tag. “Randall.”
He resumes the recording, but we both know his name isn’t Randall, and I know for a fact that isn’t his shirt. But despite knowing he’s not entirely forthcoming about his own identity, I still move forward with this interview, because he’s the only person I know on this earth who can possibly help.
And I am desperate for help.
So desperate I’m making decisions I wouldn’t have dared make if this were a few months ago.
It’s interesting how much a person’s belief system can be changed by things in this world that can’t be explained. Hell, not just my belief system, but my morals. My values. My focus. My heart.
The Leeds from a few months ago would have slammed the door in this guy’s face. Instead, I’m the one who reached out to him, begging for his help. And now that he’s here, I can only hope I made the right decision.
“How long did the two of you stay here after you first met?” he asks.
“Three extra days.”
“Did anything significant happen while you were here?”
“Not that I can recall. We stayed in our room most of the time. Only came down for meals. It was the middle of the week, so the place was relatively quiet.”
“And then you went back to Tennessee? Layla to Chicago?”
“No. Even after four days together, we weren’t ready to say goodbye. I invited her to come stay a week with me in Tennessee, but one week turned into two. Two turned into six, and then eight. We didn’t want to be apart.”
“How long have you been with her?”
“About eight months now.”
“Have there been any significant changes in your life since you met her? Besides the obvious?”
I laugh half-heartedly at that. “I’m not even sure what you’re referring to when you say besides the obvious. So much has changed.”
“The obvious being everything that’s happened in this house,” he says. “What changed before that?”
I take another sip of the bourbon.
Then I finish it off.
I’m staring into the bottom of the empty glass, thinking about all of it. The picture I posted of us, the outcome of that, the fear, the recovery.
“Everything was perfect for those first two months.”
“And then?”
That question elicits a huge sigh from me. “And then Sable happened.”
“Who is Sable?”
“My ex.”CHAPTER THREE
I’m shoving a pair of jeans into my backpack. Layla is on my bed, reading a magazine.
“Did you pack a phone charger?” she asks.
“Got it.”
“Toothbrush? Toothpaste?”
“Check, check.”
“You should take a book,” she suggests. “That’s a long drive.”
“I don’t have any books.”
Layla looks up from her position on my bed. She pulls her magazine to her chest and makes a face like I just offended her. “Leeds. It’s been proven that people who read live longer. Are you trying to die young?”
Her brain is like a morbid version of Wikipedia. “I do read. I just read on my phone. I travel light.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Lies. What’s the last book you read?”
“Confessions of a Dangerous Mind.”
“Who is the author? What’s it about?” She’s smirking like I won’t pass this interrogation.
“Can’t remember his name. He hosted The Gong Show back in the seventies.” I toss my backpack to the floor and grab my phone. I power it on for the first time since I shut it off last night. Layla leans onto her elbow, watching me as I wait for my apps to load. I sit down on the bed and pull the book up in my Kindle app. “Chuck Barris. He also created The Newlywed Game.”
“Is it an autobiography?”
“I think so. The guy claims to have been an assassin in the CIA, but I haven’t finished it yet.”
“The host of The Gong Show was an assassin?”
“Some people say he lied about it all. It’s why I’m reading it.”
“Wow. That’s sexy.”
“You think assassins are sexy?”
She shakes her head. “No. The fact that you read is sexy.” She lifts her magazine from her chest and looks back down at it. “You’re hot. You write songs. You read. Too bad you can’t cook for shit.”
I push her away from me and slap her playfully on the ass. She’s laughing when she rolls back over. “Seriously. You can’t even make a sandwich without screwing it up.”