Layla

I tucked it into a sock and shoved the sock deep inside a pair of my running shoes. Layla has a separate suitcase, so there shouldn’t be a reason for her to dig through mine, but I don’t want her to find the ring. I bought it when she was still in the hospital. I knew it was premature, but I was overwhelmed with fears of the unknown. I thought buying the ring might put some kind of energy into the universe that would make her recover faster.

Her recovery has been better than expected, but I’ve yet to propose. She doesn’t even know I bought her the ring. I’m still not sure when I’m proposing because I want it to be perfect. It might not even happen on this trip, but I’d rather have the ring and not need it than need it and not have it.

I booked this trip because the last six months have been horrendous. It has taken a toll on us, emotionally and physically. I’m hoping going back to the place where Layla and I met will feel like a reset on our lives. I have this notion that if I take us back to the starting line, we’ll never cross the finish line.

Another potential lyric.

The man in front of me is attempting to shove his oversize suitcase into the overhead bin, so I take the pause in the movement of the line and type a tweaked version of that sentence into my notes. I keep running back to the starting line because I don’t want to be finished with you.

Layla’s recovery has been a lot more intense than my own. It was touch and go for an entire week. Once she was stable, it was still four weeks before she was discharged.

I blame myself daily for not being more careful. For not fearing Sable’s instability all those months before, when she refused to stop contacting me.

I blame myself for ever thinking it was a good idea to put Layla’s face out there while not expecting some sort of repercussions. I mean, it’s the fucking internet. I should have known better. Every post has some sort of repercussion.

We desperately need this trip. We need the privacy. A break from the outside world. I just want to go back to how it all was in the beginning. Just the two of us, locked up in a bedroom, having the best and most random conversations between rounds of sweaty sex.

I shove Layla’s carry-on into the overhead bin. We’re in seats 4A and 4B, the last row in first class. Layla takes the window seat. She’s been unusually quiet, which means she’s probably feeling anxious.

I haven’t told her where we’re going yet. I wanted it to be a surprise, but the unknown might be feeding her anxiety. I hadn’t really thought about that until this moment.

I sit down and fasten my seat belt while she closes the window shade. “Any guesses where we’re headed?”

“I know we’re flying to Nebraska,” she says. “I don’t even know what’s in Nebraska.”

“We’re not actually staying in Nebraska. It’s the closest airport to where we’re going, though.”

That should be a hint, but she doesn’t seem to catch on to it. She grabs one of the small water bottles from between our seats and opens it. “I hope it’s relaxing. I don’t know that I’m in the mood for adventure.”

I try not to laugh at the thought of that. What does she expect? That I would sign her up for rock climbing or river rafting after she’s been in physical therapy for the past six months?

She’s been through so much and I know I’ve been extremely overprotective, but we’ve slowly been easing back into our old routine. No one can bounce back from something like that and immediately fall back into being their chipper, happy selves, so there’s still some ground to cover, but I’m confident our rhythm will come back with time.

Layla pulls her phone out of her purse before shoving the purse beneath the seat in front of her. “We need to post a picture of you on the plane,” she says, lifting her phone.

I smile, but she shakes her head, indicating she doesn’t want me to smile. I stop smiling. She snaps a picture of me and then opens it in an editing app.

It’s hard not being a little bitter at the idea of fame after what happened to us. Layla never would have been injured if it weren’t for social media.

She finishes editing the picture and holds it up for me to approve. I always approve them. I don’t really care what she posts, to be honest. I nod when I see the picture, but then I groan when I see the hashtags. #Singer #Musician #LeedsGabriel #Model

“Model? Really, Layla? Am I trying to make it as a musician or an influencer?”