Layla

“Can you feel Layla’s anxiety when you’re inside of her?” I ask her.

“I don’t feel it right now. That’s probably because she isn’t alert—nothing to be anxious about.”

“But you can feel her love. And her sadness. You’ve said that before.”

Willow nods. “Maybe her feelings for you are stronger than her anxiety. She does feel a lot for you.”

That’s good to know. “Does she think I’m going to propose to her?”

“Are you?”

“Probably.”

Willow takes a sip of water. Swallows. She stares down at her plate for a moment in thought, and I can tell she’s trying to sift through Layla’s feelings. “She hopes you’re going to propose, but I don’t think she’s expecting it this soon.”

“What kind of ring does she want?”

“Does it matter? You already bought it. You keep it upstairs in your shoe like an idiot.” She knows about the engagement ring? “Girls can sniff those things out like a bloodhound. She’ll find it if you don’t hide it better.”

“So you’ve seen the ring? Do you think she’ll like it?”

Willow smiles. “I have a feeling she’ll like any ring you give her, even if it’s plastic. She loves you more than . . .” Her voice fades before she finishes her sentence.

“More than what?”

Willow shakes her head, her eyes suddenly growing more serious. “Never mind. I shouldn’t be sharing her thoughts with you. It feels wrong.”

Willow finishes her food, but I can’t help but wonder what the sudden change in her demeanor was about. What was she about to say?

She clears off the table and walks to the kitchen entry. She looks over her shoulder at me. “Come play me a song, Leeds.”

I hesitate, because I don’t know that I want to. I like the memory of playing a song for Layla in the Grand Room. I’m not sure I want to create that memory with anyone else. It feels like a betrayal.

Willow has already gone into the Grand Room. She’s waiting in there for me. I hesitate for another few seconds, but then I ultimately leave the kitchen and walk across the hallway.

I pause in the doorway to the Grand Room because Willow is lowering the lid to the grand piano. Then she proceeds to climb up on top of it. She sprawls out across the piano on her stomach, stretching her arms out over it. She sees me eyeing her with perplexity. She smiles gently and says, “I want to feel the sound. I never get to feel things without a body. It’s nice.”

As much as I want to preserve my memory of this room with Layla, I feel equally bad not playing a song for Willow. She doesn’t get to interact with people outside of me. That has to be lonely.

I reluctantly take a seat at the piano bench. “What do you want me to play?”

“Play the one you were writing earlier, on your laptop.”

“I thought you weren’t in there when I was on my laptop. I tried to talk to you.”

She lifts her cheek off the piano. “I didn’t want you to stop writing, so I pretended I wasn’t there.”

I thought she might have been in there. I don’t know how. Sometimes it’s like I can feel her in the room with me, but I don’t know if that’s because I know she’s in this house or if she really does have a presence.

Willow lays her cheek against the varnished wood again, patiently waiting.

I look down at the piano keys and try to remember how the song begins. “I haven’t finished writing it yet.”

“Play what you have, then.”

I start fingering the keys, and when I look back up at her, she’s closed her eyes. “This one is called ‘No Vacancy,’” I say quietly. Then I sing it for her.

I showed up rich while feeling poor

I didn’t knock but they opened the door

Throwing stones, they pierce my eye

Leave tiny cracks all down my spine

We were royalty without a throne

Our castle didn’t feel like home

Echoes of “I love you” in the halls

Our words absorbed into the walls

I checked us in so we couldn’t leave

Thought maybe time would make me believe

If I took us back to the starting line

We’d never cross the finish line

My hands may not be red

But my heart, it feels the bleed

If my soul had a neon sign

It would read No Vacancy

If my soul had a neon sign

It would read No Vacancy

When I’m finished playing all the parts of the song I’ve written, I look up from the piano. Her eyes are still closed.

She remains pressed against the piano, like she doesn’t want the feeling to end. She seems sad . . . sort of regretful. It makes me wonder if she’ll miss this when we leave. She’ll be alone with no one here to talk to at night, no one here to play music for her, no one here to give her something to do to pass her time while she just floats around in nothing.