Layla

“Did you speak to Willow again that day?”

“Chad and Aspen ended up showing up around five o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t even try to communicate with Willow. I tried to forget it had happened, but Willow made that impossible.”

“How so?”

“She joined us for dinner.”CHAPTER TEN

“You guys have any plans for your anniversary?” I ask. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation—pretend I’m mentally involved in this dinner. But my mind hasn’t been on dinner at all.

“Just practicing our baby making on our road trip,” Chad says, grinning in Aspen’s direction.

“We are not. I’m still on birth control,” Aspen says.

“That’s why I said practicing,” Chad says. He looks at me. “We took a detour to Hutchinson on our way here today. Ever been to the Salt Mine Museum?”

I take a long swig of my beer and then say, “No.”

“We had sex in the mine,” Chad says, shooting Aspen a grin.

I look at Layla. She’s cringing.

Aspen groans and says, “Please stop talking about our sex life.”

“Yes,” Layla says. “Please.”

I want to beg him to stop, too, but I’m honestly barely even in this conversation. Chad was tolerable when they got here a few hours ago, but that was before eight beers.

“I can’t wait until the honeymoon phase is over,” Aspen mutters. “You’re wearing me out.”

Chad laughs and picks up her hand, kissing the back of it. Aspen seems to melt a little with that action.

Layla is still holding her fork, cringing at Chad.

“How’s the stay been so far?” Aspen asks. “It’s kind of weird seeing this place so empty.”

“It’s been good,” Layla says, seeming relieved by the change of subject. “Having the pool to ourselves is my favorite part, even though I’ll probably start blistering if I don’t stay inside.”

“It’s crazy the place is for sale now,” Aspen says. “How cool would that be to own a bed and breakfast?”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Layla says.

I sink a little at that reply, wondering if Layla really feels that way now. She cuts a tiny bite of her pizza. It’s a homemade pizza—Aspen cooked it. Layla used to make it, but she hasn’t cooked since her surgery. The crust is thick, and the toppings are an inch high, so it’s hard to eat with your hands. Chad is the only one at the table not eating it with a fork.

“I’d hate to live here,” Chad says. “Do you know how far away the liquor store is? Far. And we’re out of beer.”

Aspen grips the bottle of wine sitting in the center of the table and slides it over to him. “There’s a few of these left,” she suggests.

“I’d rather you not drink all my wine,” Layla says. “There’s a liquor cabinet above the sink.”

Chad perks up at that comment. I wish she wouldn’t have said that. Chad reached his limit about three beers ago, but he stands up and heads straight for the liquor anyway.

Aspen pours herself more wine.

I’m staring at Layla, because she just stiffened in her seat. Sometimes when that happens, it’s because of the anxiety.

I stay focused on her, watching her every movement, hoping she’s not experiencing the onset of a panic attack—but something about how she’s holding herself now is concerning me.

She sets down her fork and picks up her slice of pizza with her hands. She takes a huge bite of it. Then another. She holds the pizza with her right hand while she picks up her wineglass and sips from it.

“This is so good,” she says, her voice on the edge of a moan, like she hasn’t eaten in days. It catches everyone’s attention. She shoves the rest of the pizza in her mouth.

Aspen looks at her like Layla was looking at Chad earlier—with a little bit of disgust. Layla lifts out of her chair and reaches toward the pan of pizza, picking up another slice with her hands.

She plops back down in her seat and stuffs as much of the pizza in her mouth as she can. She’s doing that thing again—eating like her life depends on it. Aspen just continues to stare at her in horror as she shovels half the slice of pizza in her mouth.

“Gross,” Aspen says. “Use your fork.”

Layla pauses and looks at Aspen; then she gives her attention to me. Her eyes are suddenly apologetic. Embarrassed. She takes another quick, huge bite and then downs her entire glass of wine in one go.

As soon as Layla sets down the glass, she hesitates. Then her hand goes to her forehead and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh, God. My head hurts.” She massages her forehead and then lowers her hand, opens her eyes, and . . . screams.

The unexpected noise makes all of us jump in our chairs.

Her scream makes Aspen scream. “What is it?” Aspen says, pushing back from the table. “Is it a spider?” She crawls up into her chair. “Where is it?”