Layla

I’d feel nothing if you punched me in the heart

I’d feel even less if you stabbed me with a knife

But I didn’t fall out of love with you

I fell out of love with life

I study the lyrics, convinced I’ve never written truer words. Nothing excites me anymore, it seems. Not even writing music. It feels like I’m opening wounds I’ve been trying to heal.

I should just buy this place. We could stay here forever, plant a garden, get a dog and some cats. Maybe some chickens. We could reopen it as a bed and breakfast and watch people get married in the backyard every Saturday.

I minus out the Microsoft Word app and open Google. I type in the Realtor’s website and search for the house. I have the listing saved in my favorites because I’ve looked at it almost daily since I found out it was for sale. It’s not hard to imagine me and Layla building a life here.

Maybe I could accept growing the public side of my career if I also had an extremely isolated private life. I’m sure there’s a way to find a good balance between both.

Her recovery would probably be less stressful here, especially if I installed a privacy fence and an electronic gate. Get her out of the city where all our bad memories began.

I click on the email icon to email the Realtor. I have some questions about the property, and I’d like her to meet us here at the house so Layla can be a part of the decision.

As soon as I’m finished typing the email, I move the cursor to send, but before I click it, my laptop slams shut—right on top of my hands.

What the fuck?

I toss the laptop away from me. It’s a gut instinct to throw it, even though it pains me as I watch it crash against the hardwood floor.

But what the fuck was that?

I look down at my hands. I look at the laptop that’s three feet away from my feet. There’s no way to explain that. It closed with enough force that two of my knuckles are red.

I immediately run up the stairs. When I get to the bedroom, I lock the door behind me.

I think of all the things that could have caused that to happen, but I come up empty. That can’t be blamed on a broken hinge, or a faulty appliance, or wind.

I don’t believe in ghosts. This is stupid. Fucking stupid.

Maybe I’m delirious. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. in Tennessee yesterday so I could get us packed for our trip here. I’ve been up almost twenty-four hours now.

That has to be it. I just need sleep. Lots of it.

I crawl into bed, my heart still pounding. I pull the covers over my head like a scared toddler trying to shut out the monsters.

I’ll go find a Best Buy tomorrow. Figure out what’s wrong with my laptop. While I’m there, I’ll buy cameras. Some kind of security system that can be connected to an app on my phone.

From this point forward, anything weird that happens in this house will be recorded.CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s almost nine in the morning when I wake up. It took me forever to fall asleep last night. I feel like I still have hours of potential sleep left in me, but I want to get up before Layla. The idea of coffee and isolation on the front porch is all I really want right now after last night.

After I get the pot of coffee started, I open the refrigerator to look for the creamer, but I immediately pause when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

My laptop is sitting on the kitchen table.

I stare at it—afraid to move. Did I dream that last night?

I hate that I immediately begin to question myself. I never get my reality confused with my dreams, but this feels like maybe I have, because I know this laptop was on the floor in the Grand Room last night. I threw it there after it slammed shut on my hands.

Maybe Layla got out of bed after I fell asleep. I don’t know why she’d use my laptop, though. She has her own.

I walk over to the table and take a seat in front of it. I slowly open the laptop and then move my finger over the track pad to wake up the computer. I want to look at the browsing history and see what Layla thought I was up to.

When the computer powers on, the Word document I wrote the lyrics in last night is pulled up. I specifically remember minimizing this document before I opened Google, which means Layla definitely used my computer after I fell asleep.

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, as I realize Layla read the few lyrics I’ve put into this document. Does she assume they’re about her?