Layla

“Layla, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m fine,” she says. “Just . . . ate too fast. A little nauseous.” She turns and leaves the kitchen, then rushes up the stairs.

I follow her. She’s behaving like another panic attack might be on the horizon.

When I get to the bedroom, she’s rifling through the dresser drawers, muttering, “Where is it?” When she doesn’t find whatever it is she’s looking for, she opens the door to the closet. I panic a little—thinking maybe she might find the ring by accident. I walk over and grab her hands, pulling her attention to me and away from the closet.

“What are you looking for?”

“My medicine.”

Of course.

I reach into the top drawer of the dresser and pull out her bottle of pills. I open them and hand her one, but she looks like she wants to take the bottle from me and down every single one of them. I have no idea what has her so spooked, but as soon as she has the pill, she goes to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. She places the pill on her tongue and then takes a sip straight from the sink. She tilts her head back to swallow it, and it reminds me of the night in the pool when Aspen gave her medicine.

The thought makes me smile as I lean against the doorway. Layla seems a little bit calmer now that she’s taken the Xanax, so I try to distract her from her own anxiety by making conversation. “Remember when I thought your sister gave me drugs?”

Layla swings her head in my direction. “Why would I remember Aspen giving you drugs?” As soon as she says that, I can see the regret in her eyes. She drops her head between her shoulders and grips the sink. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” She blows out a breath and then pushes away from the sink. She walks over to me and snakes her arms around my waist, pressing her forehead against my chest.

I hug her, because I have no idea what it must be like inside that head of hers. She’s doing her best, so I don’t let her mood bother me. I hold her for several minutes—feeling her heartbeat as it gradually slows down.

“You want to go to bed?” I whisper.

She nods, so I slip my hands up her back and ease her out of her shirt. Somewhere between the bathroom door and the bed, we start to kiss.

It’s become our nightly routine. She stresses out. I soothe her. We make love.I took a shower after Layla fell asleep. I still couldn’t sleep after that, so I went downstairs and crammed in an entire day’s worth of stuff in the span of two hours. I’ve shaved, washed the dishes, written some lyrics for a new song.

It’s now one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back in the bed with Layla, but my mind still won’t settle down.

I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep, but my mind is racing. I thought today would be different for Layla. Stress-free. I thought maybe it would be like the first time we were here—but it hasn’t been. Today has been like all the other days since the hospital. As much as I don’t want to suggest it again, I really think she needs to start seeing a therapist. The doctor recommended it. Her mother and sister recommended it. But she insisted she would be fine. Until now, I’ve been on her side. I thought if I supported her through her recovery, the anxiety would pass. But it’s getting worse.

I’m staring at the alarm clock when I feel Layla’s side of the bed shift. I hear her stand up and walk across the hardwood floor.

At first, I think maybe she’s heading to the bathroom. But the sound of her walking ceases, and she doesn’t move for a while. I can feel that she’s not in the bed, though, so I turn over to see what she’s doing.

There’s a standup mirror on the wall a few feet away from the bed. Layla is staring at herself. It’s dark in here, other than a little light from the moon shining through the window, so I’m not sure what she’s trying to see. She turns from left to right, inspecting herself in the mirror. It’s strange how long she stares at herself. I wait another couple of minutes, thinking she’ll come back to bed, but she doesn’t.

She steps closer to the mirror, lifting a hand to the glass. She traces her index finger over the mirror as if she’s outlining her body.

“Layla?”

Her head snaps back in my direction. Her eyes are wide with embarrassment—like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. She rushes back to the bed and slips under the covers with her back to me. “Go back to sleep,” she says in a whisper. “I’m fine.”