Layla

Hell, she’ll probably make it my priority. She wants me to finish this album more than I want to finish it myself.

I leave the Grand Room after failing to find the thermostat. I glance down the hallway and see Layla peeking into a room. She closes the door and then continues walking and opens the door to a second room. She seems confused—as if she can’t remember where our room was. She starts to close that door.

“It’s upstairs, Layla.”

She startles when I say that, spinning around. “I know.” She points to the room she was about to walk past and heads inside. “I just . . . need to use the restroom first.” She slips inside the bathroom and closes the door.

She just used the restroom twenty minutes ago at the gas station.

Sometimes I feel like her memory loss is worse than she admits. I’ve thought about testing her—maybe bringing up something that never happened just to see if she’d pretend to remember it.

That’s conniving, though. I already feel enough guilt as it is.

I hear the water begin to run in the bathroom just as I locate the thermostat next to the stairwell. It reads seventy-one degrees. I’m not sure I want it warmer than that, but I bump it up a few degrees for her so that the heat can eat away whatever chill she’s feeling.

I make my way to the living room, if only to inspect all the areas of the house I never entered last time I was here.

It has a very unwelcoming feel—as if the room isn’t meant for living at all. A light cream-colored sofa and matching love seat are angled toward a fireplace. A stiff brown leather chair sits next to a table strategically piled with books.

There’s only one window in the room, but the curtains are drawn, so the room is dark. I passed by this room a few times when I was here last, but I never utilized it. There were always people in here, but now those figures are replaced by shadows.

I don’t necessarily like this room as much as I like the Grand Room. Maybe because Layla and I connected in the Grand Room. There’s history for us in there.

This room feels unconnected to us. If this house is the heart of the country, this room is the gallbladder.

If we end up buying this place, this would be the first room I would strip bare. I’d knock out part of the wall and add more windows. I’d fill it with furniture that Layla could spill cereal on, or red wine.

I’d make it livable.

Nothing has felt like home to us since Layla was released from the hospital. Neither of us wanted to go back to my place in Franklin. Understandably. But I didn’t feel right getting a new place without Layla having a say, so I leased a temporary apartment near the hospital, and that’s where I took her when she was discharged. I’ve been dragging my feet on buying something permanent. I’m not sure I want a place in Franklin. Or Nashville, even.

I look at houses a lot, but until I saw this place for sale, I hadn’t felt drawn to anything.

There’s something about this place, though. Maybe it’s because I met Layla here. Maybe it’s because being in the literal heart of the country really is grounding in some way. Or maybe it’s because it’s an entire day’s drive from Nashville, and I really like the idea of getting out of that town.

Whatever it is, I’m not here just because I wanted a vacation. I’m here because I want time to focus on my music and I want Layla to find peace. I feel like this is the only place that can give us that. The seclusion would be perfect for us. She’d feel safe.

I spin around at the sound of Layla screaming.

I immediately run across the room and toward the bathroom when I hear glass shattering.

“Layla?” I swing open the door, and she looks at me with two fearful eyes. I immediately reach for her hand because there’s blood on her knuckles. Shards of mirror line the bottom of the sink. I glance up, and the bathroom mirror is shattered. It looks like someone put a fist right to the center of it. “What happened?”

Layla shakes her head. She looks from the broken mirror to all the glass in the sink. “I . . . I don’t know. I was just washing my hands, and the mirror shattered.”

There’s an obvious indention in the mirror, as if someone punched it, but I can’t imagine why Layla would do that. Maybe it was already broken before she started washing her hands and the movement jarred the glass out of place.

“I’ll grab the first aid kit out of the car.”

She’s in the kitchen when I return from the van. And just like earlier, I care for her wounds. I don’t ask her questions. She seems shaken up. Her hands are trembling. When I’m finished, I take the first aid kit with me and grab one of our suitcases. “I’ll email the Realtor about the mirror,” I tell her. “That could have done some serious damage.”