Layla

“Why do you think I’ve kept you?”

She rolls her eyes. I give my focus to my phone and begin checking all the messages I’ve missed in the last twelve hours since turning it off.

The first one is from Garrett, letting me know where and when to meet them tonight.

I never did quit the band. After Layla and I left the bed and breakfast, Garrett texted me like I didn’t skip out on two shows in a row because of a girl I had just met. He said, Your vacation over yet? We need you to play tonight.

I didn’t have a good enough excuse to not play that night, and knowing Layla would be going to the show with me made me dread it less. That was several weeks ago, and even though I still feel dead inside while I’m on that stage, Layla keeps all the other parts of me alive.

I’m not a cynic when it comes to love, but I’ve only been in a couple of relationships. I figured love would find me in my late thirties, when I was bored of travel and bored of life. I blame Jerry Seinfeld for my outlook on life.

I binge-watched every season of Seinfeld when I was fifteen and came out of it believing that Jerry was right—there’s something annoying about every single human on this planet. Annoying enough to make relationships seem like torture. After witnessing all of Jerry’s doomed relationships, I started seeking out the most annoying traits in people. Their laugh. The way they treat waitstaff. Their taste in movies, music, friends. Their parents. As soon as I would start dating a girl exclusively, I would find myself already planning ways to break things off.

Until Layla, that is.

We stayed three extra nights at Corazón del País when we met. And even after that last night, I didn’t want to say goodbye to her. I didn’t find a single thing about her annoying. In fact, the thought of being alone sounded more dreadful than being with her. That was a first.

I asked her to come stay a week in Franklin with me, but it’s been over two months now and I’ve had more sex in these two months than I thought I’d be capable of in a lifetime. When we aren’t fucking, I’m playing songs for her, or writing songs, or thinking about songs. I feel like my music has a purpose now that she’s into it.

She believes I’m going to be a somebody, and her belief in me is actually making me start to believe it too.

It took some twisting of my arm, but three weeks ago she finally convinced me to release a few of the songs I’ve been sitting on. She posted me playing one of them to YouTube two weeks ago, and it has almost ten thousand views already.

I hate that I like that, but it feels surprisingly good to have someone in my life who makes me feel like my art is worth consuming. Even if she’s the only one who ever consumes it, it’ll be enough for me.

Garrett will be pissed if I officially stop playing with them and go solo, but bass players aren’t all that hard to replace here in Nashville.

Layla comes with me to every show, no matter how painful they’ve been for us both. It helps that she spends the entire last song of each set re-creating her ridiculous wedding dance. At least I end the shows in a good mood now.

I love her.

I think.

No, I do. I love her.

Everything about her. Her confidence, her eccentricities, her drive, her body, her blow jobs, her spontaneity, her belief in me. I love watching her sleep. I love watching her wake up.

I’m pretty sure this is love.

It’s only five o’clock in the afternoon and I leave in two hours, and I had to drag myself out of bed to finish packing. Garrett’s Band is playing a beach festival in Miami, so Layla and I have spent all day in bed to make up for the three days we won’t see each other. This will be the first show she hasn’t gone to since I met her. There’s not enough room for passengers in the van with all the equipment, and the idea of spending three days with Garrett and the guys isn’t appealing to her. I’m not going to force her to endure that torture.

This whole day has been my favorite day with her. Neither of us turned our phones on when we woke up this morning. We kept the lights off and the curtains shut, and I had her for both breakfast and lunch.

The lamp beside my bed is on now as Layla flips through her magazine.

I open Instagram and immediately regret turning on my phone. I haven’t looked at it since I posted a picture of us last night. It was the first time I’ve ever posted a picture with a girl. We were in bed, naturally. Layla was asleep on my chest and I really liked how I felt in that moment, so I held my phone up, snapped a picture of us, and left the caption blank.