Layla

by Colleen Hoover

  “It won’t hurt if you stop trying to free yourself.” I adjust the pillow beneath her and give the rope more slack so she can lie down. I know she feels like a prisoner. I guess, in a way, she is. But I’ve at least left her legs untied. If she’d just lie still and stop trying to fight me on this, she’d come out of it just fine. She might even get some much-needed rest. “Just give me a couple of hours. When I’m finished talking to him, I’ll bring you downstairs with me.”

  She rolls her tear-rimmed eyes. “You’re a liar. All you do now is lie to me.”

  I don’t let those words penetrate the walls of my chest. I know she doesn’t mean them. She’s just scared. Upset.

  But so am I.

  I lean forward and press a kiss against the top of her head. She tries to pull away from me, but she can’t go far. She’s crying now, trying not to look at me. I hide my guilt behind a hardened jaw. “If you promise not to scream, I won’t put the duct tape back on.”

  This is a compromise she’s willing to make. She nods with a defeated look in her eyes, as if I won this round, but I’m not trying to win anything other than our normalcy back.

  When I close the door and lock her inside, I can hear her begin to sob. I feel her pain in every part of me, crackling inside my bones. I press my forehead against the door for a few seconds and force myself to regain my composure before heading back downstairs.

  When I’m back in the kitchen, there’s a glass of dark liquor sitting in front of my chair. The man motions toward it.

  “Bourbon,” he says.

  I sit down and sniff it, then take a sip, enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat. It immediately soothes my nerves. I should have poured myself a glass before we started this.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him. I only know the email address we’ve been using to communicate, but it was just the name of his business. Not his actual name.

  He looks down at the shirt he’s wearing. It’s a Jiffy Lube shirt covered in oil stains with a name tag on it that says Randall. He points at the name tag. “Randall.”

  He resumes the recording, but we both know his name isn’t Randall, and I know for a fact that isn’t his shirt. But despite knowing he’s not entirely forthcoming about his own identity, I still move forward with this interview, because he’s the only person I know on this earth who can possibly help.

  And I am desperate for help.

  So desperate I’m making decisions I wouldn’t have dared make if this were a few months ago.

  It’s interesting how much a person’s belief system can be changed by things in this world that can’t be explained. Hell, not just my belief system, but my morals. My values. My focus. My heart.

  The Leeds from a few months ago would have slammed the door in this guy’s face. Instead, I’m the one who reached out to him, begging for his help. And now that he’s here, I can only hope I made the right decision.

  “How long did the two of you stay here after you first met?” he asks.

  “Three extra days.”

  “Did anything significant happen while you were here?”

  “Not that I can recall. We stayed in our room most of the time. Only came down for meals. It was the middle of the week, so the place was relatively quiet.”

  “And then you went back to Tennessee? Layla to Chicago?”

  “No. Even after four days together, we weren’t ready to say goodbye. I invited her to come stay a week with me in Tennessee, but one week turned into two. Two turned into six, and then eight. We didn’t want to be apart.”

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “About eight months now.”

  “Have there been any significant changes in your life since you met her? Besides the obvious?”

  I laugh half-heartedly at that. “I’m not even sure what you’re referring to when you say besides the obvious. So much has changed.”

  “The obvious being everything that’s happened in this house,” he says. “What changed before that?”

  I take another sip of the bourbon.

  Then I finish it off.

  I’m staring into the bottom of the empty glass, thinking about all of it. The picture I posted of us, the outcome of that, the fear, the recovery.

  “Everything was perfect for those first two months.”

  “And then?”

  That question elicits a huge sigh from me. “And then Sable happened.”

  “Who is Sable?”

  “My ex.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’m shoving a pair of jeans into my backpack. Layla is on my bed, reading a magazine.

  “Did you pack a phone charger?” she asks.

  “Got it.”

  “Toothbrush? Toothpaste?”

  “Check, check.”

  “You should take a book,” she suggests. “That’s a long drive.”

  “I don’t have any books.”

  Layla looks up from her position on my bed. She pulls her magazine to her chest and makes a face like I just offended her. “Leeds. It’s been proven that people who read live longer. Are you trying to die young?”

  Her brain is like a morbid version of Wikipedia. “I do read. I just read on my phone. I travel light.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Lies. What’s the last book you read?”

  “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind.”

  “Who is the author? What’s it about?” She’s smirking like I won’t pass this interrogation.

  “Can’t remember his name. He hosted The Gong Show back in the seventies.” I toss my backpack to the floor and grab my phone. I power it on for the first time since I shut it off last night. Layla leans onto her elbow, watching me as I wait for my apps to load. I sit down on the bed and pull the book up in my Kindle app. “Chuck Barris. He also created The Newlywed Game.”

  “Is it an autobiography?”

  “I think so. The guy claims to have been an assassin in the CIA, but I haven’t finished it yet.”

  “The host of The Gong Show was an assassin?”

  “Some people say he lied about it all. It’s why I’m reading it.”

  “Wow. That’s sexy.”

  “You think assassins are sexy?”

  She shakes her head. “No. The fact that you read is sexy.” She lifts her magazine from her chest and looks back down at it. “You’re hot. You write songs. You read. Too bad you can’t cook for shit.”

  I push her away from me and slap her playfully on the ass. She’s laughing when she rolls back over. “Seriously. You can’t even make a sandwich without screwing it up.”

  “Why do you think I’ve kept you?”

  She rolls her eyes. I give my focus to my phone and begin checking all the messages I’ve missed in the last twelve hours since turning it off.

  The first one is from Garrett, letting me know where and when to meet them tonight.

  I never did quit the band. After Layla and I left the bed and breakfast, Garrett texted me like I didn’t skip out on two shows in a row because of a girl I had just met. He said, Your vacation over yet? We need you to play tonight.

  I didn’t have a good enough excuse to not play that night, and knowing Layla would be going to the show with me made me dread it less. That was several weeks ago, and even though I still feel dead inside while I’m on that stage, Layla keeps all the other parts of me alive.

  I’m not a cynic when it comes to love, but I’ve only been in a couple of relationships. I figured love would find me in my late thirties, when I was bored of travel and bored of life. I blame Jerry Seinfeld for my outlook on life.

  I binge-watched every season of Seinfeld when I was fifteen and came out of it believing that Jerry was right—there’s something annoying about every single human on this planet. Annoying enough to make relationships seem like torture. After witnessing all of Jerry’s doomed relationships, I started seeking out the most annoying traits in people. Their laugh. The way they treat waitstaff. Their taste in movies, music, friends. Their parents. As
soon as I would start dating a girl exclusively, I would find myself already planning ways to break things off.

  Until Layla, that is.

  We stayed three extra nights at Corazón del País when we met. And even after that last night, I didn’t want to say goodbye to her. I didn’t find a single thing about her annoying. In fact, the thought of being alone sounded more dreadful than being with her. That was a first.

  I asked her to come stay a week in Franklin with me, but it’s been over two months now and I’ve had more sex in these two months than I thought I’d be capable of in a lifetime. When we aren’t fucking, I’m playing songs for her, or writing songs, or thinking about songs. I feel like my music has a purpose now that she’s into it.

  She believes I’m going to be a somebody, and her belief in me is actually making me start to believe it too.

  It took some twisting of my arm, but three weeks ago she finally convinced me to release a few of the songs I’ve been sitting on. She posted me playing one of them to YouTube two weeks ago, and it has almost ten thousand views already.

  I hate that I like that, but it feels surprisingly good to have someone in my life who makes me feel like my art is worth consuming. Even if she’s the only one who ever consumes it, it’ll be enough for me.

  Garrett will be pissed if I officially stop playing with them and go solo, but bass players aren’t all that hard to replace here in Nashville.

  Layla comes with me to every show, no matter how painful they’ve been for us both. It helps that she spends the entire last song of each set re-creating her ridiculous wedding dance. At least I end the shows in a good mood now.

  I love her.

  I think.

  No, I do. I love her.

  Everything about her. Her confidence, her eccentricities, her drive, her body, her blow jobs, her spontaneity, her belief in me. I love watching her sleep. I love watching her wake up.

  I’m pretty sure this is love.

  It’s only five o’clock in the afternoon and I leave in two hours, and I had to drag myself out of bed to finish packing. Garrett’s Band is playing a beach festival in Miami, so Layla and I have spent all day in bed to make up for the three days we won’t see each other. This will be the first show she hasn’t gone to since I met her. There’s not enough room for passengers in the van with all the equipment, and the idea of spending three days with Garrett and the guys isn’t appealing to her. I’m not going to force her to endure that torture.

  This whole day has been my favorite day with her. Neither of us turned our phones on when we woke up this morning. We kept the lights off and the curtains shut, and I had her for both breakfast and lunch.

  The lamp beside my bed is on now as Layla flips through her magazine.

  I open Instagram and immediately regret turning on my phone. I haven’t looked at it since I posted a picture of us last night. It was the first time I’ve ever posted a picture with a girl. We were in bed, naturally. Layla was asleep on my chest and I really liked how I felt in that moment, so I held my phone up, snapped a picture of us, and left the caption blank.

  I’ve gained almost a thousand followers since meeting Layla and releasing some of my own music, but that’s still only five thousand people total. I would assume with only five thousand followers, there would be less of a reaction to the picture I posted of us. Call me naive, but I honestly didn’t think I’d get much reaction at all.

  Most of the comments I’m reading are from people congratulating us, but some of the comments are from other girls who are picking Layla apart. Luckily I didn’t tag her in the photo. I’d hate for her to see what people are saying about her.

  The more I read through the comments and private messages, I’m tempted to just delete my account altogether. I know if I ever get to the point of being able to pay a bill with my music, I’ll be thankful for any followers I have. But right now, it’s disturbing reading comments like, Your girlfriend looks like a slut and You’re hotter when you’re single.

  The internet is fucking brutal. It makes me nervous to leave her here for three days by herself. I don’t think she’s seen the picture yet, so I don’t even bother deleting the negative comments. I just delete the photo altogether and then set my phone facedown on the nightstand.

  “You sure you’re okay staying here alone?” I ask her.

  She lays the magazine against her chest. “Why? Do you want me to leave?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “We met two months ago and we haven’t even come up for air yet. Surely you’re sick of me crowding your space by now.”

  She has no idea how not sick of her I am.

  Well, I guess she would have no way of knowing how I really feel about her since I’ve never said it out loud. I show her, but I don’t say it.

  I grab her magazine and toss it on the floor, then I roll on top of her. I love the look she always gets in her eye when she knows I’m about to kiss her. It’s a gleam of anticipation. There’s nothing better than knowing this girl anticipates my mouth on hers. “Layla,” I whisper. “I am not sick of you. I’m in love with you.”

  I say it casually, but it only takes two seconds for my words to register. When they do, she covers her face with both hands. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look shy. I kiss one of the hands covering her face right before she curls them into two fists against her chin. “I’m in love with you too.”

  I immediately press my mouth to hers, wanting to swallow those words. I imagine them typed out in Arial font, slowly bouncing around inside of me, ricocheting off my internal walls, endlessly twisting and rotating inside my stomach and my chest and my arms and my legs until every part of me has been touched by them.

  I pull away from her, and I love that her smile is so wide. “I guess it’s settled, then,” I say. “We’re in love, you’re staying here while I’m gone, and I think this means we just officially moved in together.”

  “Wow. Maybe I should let my parents know I don’t live with them anymore.”

  “You haven’t been home since your sister got married. I think they’re aware.”

  She wraps her arms around my neck. “This is a lot in one day. We said I love you, we moved in together . . . and we’re Instagram official now.” She says the last part like a joke, but my stomach drops knowing she saw the picture.

  “You saw that?”

  I can tell by the way her smile fades that she also saw the comments that accompanied the picture. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t worry, I deleted it.”

  “You did? I didn’t mind it.”

  “Either way, I don’t think I was prepared for people I don’t even know to have an opinion about us.”

  “You’re not real to them. It’s just how people are on social media.” She kisses me. “It’s your own fault for being so damn hot,” she says with a grin.

  I’m relieved she doesn’t seem to be taking any of it personally. “I don’t know if I want to post pictures of us together anymore. I don’t want them to find your account and start bothering you.”

  Layla laughs. “Too late for that. You follow thirty people, and I’m one of them. They already found me.”

  I roll off her and sit up on the bed. “What do you mean they already found you?”

  “It’s just been one girl so far,” she says. “Sonya? Sybil? I can’t remember her name.” Layla says it so nonchalantly, but I know exactly who she’s talking about.

  “Sable?”

  She points at me with a wink. “That’s it. Sable. I already blocked her, though.”

  I haven’t heard from Sable since I blocked her number several months before meeting Layla. The fact that she’s still looking at my posts confirms my concerns about her. “What’d she say?”

  “I don’t know. I had over twenty in-box messages from her when I turned on my phone this morning. I only read two of them before I told her to get a life. Then I blocked her
.” Layla walks her fingers up my leg, leaning in. She grins like she finds this amusing. “Did you sleep with her?”

  Since I’ve known Layla, I’ve never once lied to her. I’ve never felt the need to. She’s the least judgmental person I’ve ever met. “We dated for a couple of months. Figured out real quick that relationship was a mistake.”

  Layla grins, like she finds that amusing. “Well. She doesn’t think it was a mistake. She thinks I’m the mistake.”

  Sable was the mistake, but I don’t want to say anything about Sable that might worry Layla. But the girl is definitely someone worth worrying about. It took me several weeks to figure it out, though, probably because I was only paying attention to how much my dick liked her and wasn’t aware that the way she felt about me was on a completely different level.

  I initially thought our meeting was organic, but I found out from Garrett that Sable ran a fan club for me that she’d started a year before we even met. I confronted her about it, and things got weird after that. I tried to break it off, but she didn’t take that very well. At first, it was just incessant phone calls. Messages. Voice mails. But then she started showing up to shows, demanding I give her another chance.

  Garrett and the guys started calling her Unstable Sable.

  We finally had to have security escort her out of a show one night—a couple of days before I blocked her on my cell and social media. I also blocked the account she used to run her Leeds Gabriel fan club.

  The whole thing was bizarre. She was bizarre.

  And it really unnerves me that she’s still out there, watching my page, reaching out to people I post pictures with.

  “It’s people like Sable that make me question whether or not I want to be in the public eye at all. Why am I even trying when I hate everything it entails?”

  Layla crawls on top of me. “Sadly, you can’t really sell music without an online presence. Crazies and success are a package deal.” She kisses the tip of my nose. “If you ever do become a household name, you’ll have enough money to hire someone to delete the trolls for you. Then you won’t have to deal with them.”

  “Good point,” I say, even though I have enough money now to hire someone to deal with my social media. My finances haven’t come up in conversation between me and Layla yet, though. She assumes I’m a starving artist yet somehow still loves me as if I could give her the world. There’s no better feeling than being loved for who you are rather than for what you’re worth.