Layla

“You want some?” she asks. “I read eggs help with hangovers.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I make myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, watching Layla. I’m curious if she has any memories at all of last night.

“What time did you wake up?” I ask her.

“Five. Couldn’t go back to sleep. I have a horrible hangover.” She spins around and says, “Want to know something weird?”

“What?”

“I had a piece of popcorn stuck in my tooth when I woke up.”

My spine stiffens at that comment. I turn away from her and pour creamer into my coffee cup. “Yeah, we watched a movie in bed last night. You were pretty drunk.”

Layla laughs, but it’s a painful laugh. She’s touching her forehead when I turn back around. She winces and then says, “Wow. I don’t remember that at all.”

She scoops a pile of eggs onto a piece of toast and sits at the table to eat. I can’t stop looking at her eyes. Her pupils are dark and wide—like two black marbles have covered the greens of her eyes.

She takes a bite of her eggs and toast with a fork, then taps her fork repeatedly on the table as she chews. Her knee is bouncing up and down, like her hangover is oddly coupled with a lot of pent-up nervous energy.

“How much coffee have you had today?”

She swallows her bite and then wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Four cups already. I thought it might help with the hangover.”

That explains her behavior. I was beginning to think she might be Willow again, but she isn’t. She’s eating like Layla eats. Small bites, always with a fork. Willow would have devoured that whole plate of food by now.

“Maybe you should relax today,” I suggest. “Have another pool day.”

She motions toward the kitchen window. “I can’t—it’s supposed to storm.”

I walk to the window and push the curtain aside. The entire sky looks like deep-blue rolling hills. I open the weather app on my phone, and it says it’s supposed to rain for the next two days. I look back at Layla. She’s only eaten half of her toast and eggs, but she’s already pushed her plate away and is scrolling through her phone. “Then what do you want to do today?” I ask.

“You really need some new social media content,” she says. “We haven’t posted anything since the picture on the plane. I can take some sexy pictures of you in the rain. That might make a really great album cover.”

That actually sounds like a nightmare. Layla can see on my face that I’m not in the mood to pose for pictures.

“I know you don’t want to think about work, but this house is huge. There are so many potential backdrops for photos. Just give me two hours with the camera, and then I’ll leave you alone about it until Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“That’s when we leave.”

Her voice is delicate, but those words feel dense and unintentionally harsh. We’ll be leaving Willow here alone in just a matter of days. I don’t really want to go until Willow is ready to find answers, because for some reason, I need answers. I don’t feel like I’ll be able to function out in the real world unless I can somehow make sense of everything that’s happened in this house.

I take a seat across from Layla. “What do you think about staying a little longer?”

Her shoulders drop a little. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a lot of songwriting done. I can probably finish the album here if I have a little more time.”

“I haven’t heard the piano once.”

“I haven’t needed it. I’ve been writing lyrics,” I lie.

She sighs and drops her phone to the table. “Not to be mean, but it’s boring here, Leeds. I’m going stir crazy. And the boredom is making me tired. I feel exhausted every day. It’s like all I do is sleep.”

I know that exhaustion is my fault, but I still don’t let up. “What if we compromise?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Depends on the compromise.”

“I’ll give you three hours today to pose me however you want for however many pictures you want to take. And you give me three more days to work on my album.”

She seems attracted to that compromise. “I can even pose you in the rain?”

I nod.

A smile manages to break through her hangover. “Deal.” She leans across the table and kisses me. “You won’t regret this.”

She’s wrong. I already regret it. I’ve regretted almost every decision I’ve made at her expense since we got here.

Yet . . . I’ve done nothing to stop myself.Layla maybe got four hours of sleep last night. Combine that with a three-hour photo shoot, a hangover, and very little food today, and I have no idea how she held out until eight o’clock before going upstairs to crash.