Layla

It’s almost ten now, and there’s been no sign of Willow. I’ve tried asking her if she’s here, but she hasn’t responded. Not even with the laptop.

I’ve spent the last hour working out new lyrics. If I’m going to lie to Layla and tell her music is what’s keeping me in this house, I at least need to create said music.

I started writing a song about two weeks ago called “No Vacancy,” so I’ve spent most of my time tonight reworking the lyrics.

It’s been storming for four hours now. The forecast extended the rain to a third day, which concerns me. Layla seems content when she gets her pool days, but I don’t know what mood three days of being stuck inside this house will put her in.

“What are you doing?”

I jump so violently my chair scoots back two feet. I grab at my chest and blow out a breath when I see Willow standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear her walking down the stairs because of the thunder, so my reaction to her unexpected appearance makes her laugh.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she says with a wink. She walks straight to the refrigerator. “Seriously, Leeds. Your girlfriend has an eating disorder. I’m worried about her.” She grabs a plate of leftovers from the dinner I cooked earlier. Stuffed baked potatoes and Caesar salad. Layla only ate the salad, so I saved the baked potato for Willow.

I close out my document and then shut my laptop. Willow puts the plate in the microwave and then turns around to face me. “What was today all about? With the pictures, and the uncharacteristically vain photos?”

The entire time Layla was forcing me to pose today, I wondered where Willow was. If she was watching or not. I was hoping she wasn’t.

“Nothing.” I don’t want to talk about the compromise I made with Layla, and I especially don’t want to talk about the embarrassing fact that every time Layla posts a shirtless selfie of me, I get twice as many downloads on my music.

“Are you like a model or something?” Willow’s voice is playful, but I still don’t feel like talking about it. I’d almost rather her dive into Layla’s thoughts just so I don’t have to explain it to her.

“There’s this thing . . . social media.”

“I know what social media is,” she says.

“Of course you do. Anyway. Layla is working to monetize my platform.”

“So you’re an influencer?”

I lean back in my seat, perplexed. “How do you even know what that is?”

“I watch TV. I know a lot of things. Are you famous?”

“No.”

“But you want to be?” The microwave timer goes off. Willow grabs her plate and walks over to the table.

“Layla is hoping my music career takes off, so I humor her. Gives her something to focus on.”

“What if she’s right? What if you become famous?” Willow says.

“That’s my fear.”

She waves her fork in the air after taking a bite. “Is that how you can afford to stay here? Money from social media?”

“No. I only have three songs out. But I have money. An inheritance.”

I expect her to make a comment about that, but Willow just eyes me curiously for a moment. “Are you just playing aloof, or do you really not want the music career to work out?”

“I’m undecided. I love writing music and I want people to hear it, but I don’t know that I’m cut out for all that comes with it.”

“You have the look.”

“I definitely don’t want to get famous because of how I look.”

“What if you aren’t as talented as you think you are, though? What if the only reason you have followers is because you’re hot?”

I laugh at her bluntness. “You think I’m hot?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen a mirror before.” She gestures toward my phone. “I want to hear one of your songs. Play the one you played for Layla at the piano the night you met her. I think it’s called ‘I Stopped.’”

“I thought you didn’t look at her memories.”

“I try not to. That one’s hard to avoid, though. It’s front and center in her head.”

I like that Layla prefers that memory. It’s one of my favorites too.

I open the music app and hit play on the song for Willow. But then I open my laptop and focus on it in an attempt to ignore the fact that she’s listening to my music.

I hate listening to my own music. I try to busy myself with emails while she listens to each of the three songs intently. When they all finish playing, she scoots my phone back to me across the table.

“Your voice is haunting,” she says.

“Is haunting good or bad coming from a ghost?”

She grins. “I guess it could be either.” She’s in a good mood. She’s almost always in a good mood, even when she’s upset with me for almost drugging my girlfriend or for continuously insisting she should find out why she’s here. It’s like whiplash, going from Layla, who feels so heavy, to Willow, who’s like a gust of wind.