Layla

by Colleen Hoover

  “Me too,” I say. She leaves my T-shirt on and crawls under the covers. I change out of my jeans, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I normally sleep in boxers, but I don’t know if Willow is going to show up tonight. I want to be prepared if she does.

  I wasn’t tired when I lay down with her, and even though an hour has passed since we crawled into bed, I’m still not tired. I don’t even close my eyes. I watch Layla sleep, waiting for Willow to take over, but she still hasn’t.

  She could be upset with me. Or maybe she has to wait until Layla is in a deeper sleep. I don’t know. I don’t know the rules. I don’t know if there are rules.

  I want to explain my actions to Willow, but I can’t do that if she doesn’t slip into Layla, and I can’t do that from up here because I need my laptop to communicate with her.

  I ease myself out of bed without waking Layla, and I head downstairs to the kitchen.

  I pause in the doorway, shocked by what I see. Or by what I don’t see, actually.

  There isn’t a single trace left of what happened earlier. The spilled wine has been cleaned up. The shards of glass are gone. It’s as if it never happened.

  I walk over to the trash can and lift the lid. Right on top of the trash are the bits of glass that were all over the floor an hour ago.

  Willow cleaned up everything while I was upstairs with Layla.

  I take a seat at the kitchen table, but I don’t open my laptop. I open the security app on my phone first. I skip it back and watch as the wineglass is knocked out of my hands by nothing. I fast-forward it, and approximately ten minutes after I went upstairs earlier, the video shows the lid as it slides off the trash can.

  I watch in fascination as the kitchen is slowly cleaned by nothing. The wine stains disappear. The shards of glass move from the floor to the trash can. The lid eventually slides back over the top of the trash can, and all traces of the broken glass are gone.

  I close out the app and lay my phone facedown on the table.

  I tried to stop understanding the world around me the day after we arrived here. Watching a tape of a ghost cleaning a kitchen doesn’t even faze me at this point. At least in this element.

  I don’t know what that says about me.

  I also don’t know what it says about me that I almost slipped Layla medication without her knowledge.

  Maybe this house is messing with my head. Unraveling the threads of my morals.

  I’m not even sure where to start the conversation with Willow. How to start the conversation. Do I apologize? I don’t want Willow to think I’m the type of guy who would drug his girlfriend, but . . . that’s exactly what I was about to do before she prevented it from happening.

  Did she prevent it because she didn’t like what I was doing or because she didn’t want Layla’s body to be too hard to wake up?

  I don’t know if Willow’s actions were selfless or selfish, but I’m not really in a position to judge, considering my actions were completely selfish.

  I hear our bedroom door open.

  My spine stiffens, and I immediately get out of my chair. I don’t know if Layla or Willow is walking down the stairs right now, but I’ll feel equally ashamed, no matter whose eyes I’m about to look into.

  I suddenly don’t know how to act natural or what to do with my hands. I grip the counter behind me and lean against it, staring at the entryway.

  She walks around the corner. I can tell it’s Willow immediately. She’s pulled a pair of Layla’s shorts on and is still wearing my T-shirt. I can tell it’s Willow because of the way she’s looking at me—as if I have a lot of explaining to do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say immediately.

  She holds up a hand and then pulls out a chair and sits down. “Not yet. She’s really drunk; I need to sit down for a second.” She drops her head into her hands. “Can you pour me a glass of water?”

  I turn around and grab a glass from the cabinet. I fill it with ice and water and hand it to her, then take a seat at the table. She downs the glass and then sets it back on the table in front of her.

  She stares at the glass for a quiet moment, gripping it with both hands. “What was it?”

  “What was what?” I ask, needing clarification.

  She drags her eyes to my face. “What kind of pill did you put in her wine?”

  My jaw twitches. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. “Ambien. A sleeping pill. I don’t . . . I’ve never done that before. I just really wanted her to go to sleep.”

  “Why? So you could talk to me?”

  I nod.

  “That’s dangerous, Leeds. She was drunk. And what if she would have taken another pill on top of what you were already giving her?”

  I lean forward, running a hand through my hair. I grip the back of my neck and blow out a breath. “I know. I wasn’t even thinking. It was like I was acting on impulse.”

  “If your need to speak to me makes you act on impulse like that, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea we do this anymore.”

  The thought of her putting an end to this makes my chest tighten. I have so many more questions. “I would never do anything to intentionally hurt Layla. It won’t happen again.”

  Willow’s eyes are searching mine for truth. She must accept whatever it is she sees because she nods and says, “Good.” Then she leans forward, pressing a palm to her stomach as it rumbles. “Does she ever eat? Christ. She’s always starving.”

  I stand up, remembering the tacos. “I brought you tacos.” I retrieve the to-go box from the refrigerator. I had them separate the condiments and the meat from the taco shells so they’d be easy to assemble and heat. “She only ate one taco at the restaurant, but that’s probably because she drank four margaritas.” I heat up the food while Willow remains seated at the table. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Water is fine. I don’t think her body can handle anything stronger than that right now.”

  I refill her water and then assemble the tacos. When I place them in front of her, her eyes are practically shimmering. She picks up one of the tacos and takes a bite.

  “Holy shit,” she says with a mouthful. “These are so good.” It’s funny how small differences, like the way they eat food, are so noticeable between the two of them, even though it’s the same body. “Did Layla ask why you were getting tacos to go?”

  “I just told her she didn’t eat enough.” I tilt my head as I think more about Willow’s question. “You have her memories when you’re inside of her, right? Can’t you remember us being at dinner even though you weren’t there?”

  Willow grabs her napkin and wipes her mouth. She takes a sip of water. “I’m sure I could, but it takes too much effort for me to do that. Her thoughts are really . . . cluttered. I try to stay out of her head when I’m inside of her.”

  “How do you do that?”

  Willow leans forward a little, lowering her voice as if someone might hear us. “It’s like reading a book. How you can read an entire page before you realize you didn’t process any of what you read because your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. That’s how it is being in her head. If I want to, I can focus harder and intentionally take in all the information. But I’d rather just be distracted.” She picks up her glass and downs the rest of her water. “Her head isn’t a fun place to be sometimes.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Willow shrugs. “I don’t mean anything negative by it. We all have thoughts we’d never speak aloud. It’s weird being able to see those thoughts, so I’d rather not look at them. I think about other things when I’m inside of her.”

  I want to ask her what some of Layla’s unspeakable thoughts are, but I don’t. I already feel like I’ve crossed one too many lines tonight with the Ambien. Not to mention the line I’m crossing right now—allowing Willow to use Layla’s body so she can eat tacos. Tacos can excuse a lot of bad decisions, but I’m not sure they’re worthy enough to excuse a possession.

  “Can we go swim
ming?” Willow asks.

  I’m caught off guard by her question. “You want to go outside? I thought you didn’t leave the house.”

  “I never said that,” she says. “I said I’ve never left the property. The idea of it makes me nervous, but I’ve been wishing I could go swimming for as long as I can remember.”

  I’m not sure what I expected tonight, but I certainly didn’t expect Willow to want to go swimming. But the water is heated, so why not? “Sure,” I say, amused by the turn of events. “Let’s go swimming.” She’s eaten two tacos and left one on the plate, but she pushes it away from her like she’s full. I take the plate and dump the food in the trash. “Layla has a couple of bathing suits upstairs.” I set the plate on the counter, and then Willow follows me up to the bedroom.

  I open the third dresser drawer and take out a pair of swim trunks for myself. Layla brought two bathing suits, and as much as we’ve swum, she hasn’t worn either of them. “Which one do you want? Red or black?”

  “I don’t care,” Willow says.

  I hand her the black one. It’s not as revealing as the red one. Not that it would matter—she doesn’t have anything I haven’t seen before, or touched.

  But it does matter. She’s not Layla, so it doesn’t feel like her body is something I should look at in the same way I do when Willow isn’t occupying it.

  Willow changes in the bathroom while I change in the bedroom. When she walks out, she’s holding two towels. I can’t help it when my eyes wander down her body—but it’s hard not to be enthralled by the fact that it’s not her body, yet she makes it her own somehow. Her strides are longer, her shoulders set farther back when she walks. She even holds her head differently.

  When my eyes meet hers, I immediately clear my throat and look away. “Ready?”

  I walk out the door, down the stairs, and all the way to the pool without making eye contact with her again.

  I jump into the deep end as soon as I reach the pool, needing the refreshing water to reset my focus. I stay under the water for a moment, long enough to see Willow’s feet as she dips them into the water.

  Her legs dangle over the ledge in the deep end. I push myself up out of the water, and she’s sitting near the spot where I sat when I spoke to Layla for the very first time.

  That was back when I thought the hardest part of life was playing bass in a slightly successful band I couldn’t stand.

  So much has happened since then. I’ve changed as a person in more ways than one. That happens when you’re forced to take another person’s life.

  I don’t allow myself to think about it a lot. I did what I had to do, but it still doesn’t take away that guilt, no matter how justified it was.

  I sink back under the water, hating that my thoughts have gone back to that night. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything right now. I just want Willow to enjoy being able to feel water for the first time.

  I push myself off the bottom of the pool and break the surface. She’s still sitting in the same spot, staring at the water surrounding her calves. “You getting in?” I ask her.

  She looks at me and nods. “Yes, but I’m kind of scared. What if I can’t swim?”

  “Only one way to find out.” I swim closer to her and reach out my hand. “Here. I’ll help you.”

  She hesitates before taking my hand. She slips slowly into the water and sinks down to her chin before she squeals and grabs hold of my shoulder with her other hand. She starts moving her feet to try and stay afloat, but she’s too scared to let go of me.

  She’s smiling, though, so I know she isn’t scared. This is just new to her. She releases my shoulder and starts to move her arm, but she’s still holding on to my hand.

  “You got it?” I ask.

  She nods, taking in accidental gulps of water as she barely keeps her head above the surface. She spits it back out and says, “I think so.” She’s breathless in a giddy way. It’s like watching a child try to swim for the first time. I release her hand but stay near her. When she doesn’t immediately sink, her eyes grow wide with excitement. “I’m doing it!” she says. “I’m swimming!”

  Her pride makes me laugh. She stretches her arms out in front of her and parts the water. Maybe swimming is a natural instinct, even for ghosts, but she pushes off the wall and dog-paddles to the middle of the pool by herself. She spins and then swims back. She’s already got the hang of it, which proves she’s done this before.

  “It’s like riding a bike,” I say.

  She laughs. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done that either.”

  “You probably have—you just don’t remember being alive.”

  My words make her smile disappear.

  She stays in the same spot, moving her arms and legs to keep herself afloat. “You really think I died?”

  She asks me in a curious way, not an offended way. “If theories about ghosts are accurate, I feel like maybe you had a life before this. You just don’t remember it.”

  She watches me for a moment before swimming back to the ledge of the pool. She holds on to it. “Do you think I’m a stereotypical ghost, stuck between death and an afterlife?”

  “I’m not sure why else you would be here. What do you think?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. I never really thought about it until you showed up here and started trying to figure me out.”

  “Do you wish I’d never showed up?”

  She doesn’t answer that.

  Instead, she looks away from me and presses her back against the concrete ledge. She tilts her head back until she’s staring up at the stars. “I’m kind of scared to find out why I’m here. It’s why I’ve never left this property to search for answers, or to search for others like me. Because what if you’re right? What if I’m stuck between life and death?” Her eyes seek mine out again, but she looks scared when we make eye contact this time. “What if I find answers and then it’s over?”

  “And then what’s over?”

  “This. Me. What if I find a way to leave this existence, only to discover there’s nothing after it? What if I just . . . disappear? Forever?”

  “Would that make you sad?” I ask. “You talk like it’s a miserable existence.”

  She stares at me for several long seconds. Then she says, “It used to be.” She lets herself sink below the surface as soon as she says that.

  Her response was heavier than I expected it to be.

  When she comes back up, she’s closer to me. She regards my shoulder with curiosity, reaching out to touch it. She runs her finger over the scar from the wound I was left with six months ago. “Is this where you got shot?”

  “Yes.” It feels odd—her touching my scar. Layla has never touched it. Not once. Every time we make love, she deliberately runs her hands around it, near it, but she never touches it. I’ve always wondered if it brings back bad memories for her, or if she’s just scared it might hurt me if she touched it.

  “Who shot you?”

  “Sable. The same girl who shot Layla.” I lift her hand and bring it to the scar on Layla’s head. “Feel that?” Willow touches Layla’s scar with her fingertips, running her fingers back and forth over it. Then she brings her hand back to my shoulder and runs her finger over my scar.

  “Yours feels healed. Hers doesn’t.”

  “She messes with hers a lot,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one inside her head. You tell me.”

  She stares at me for several seconds, and I think maybe it’s because she’s sifting through Layla’s memories. I want to ask her what Layla remembers, but I don’t want to use Willow to pry into Layla’s mind without her permission. What we’re doing with Layla’s body is wrong enough.

  Willow swims back to the ledge and rests against it. She drops her chin to her arms and looks out over the backyard. I swim up next to her and do the same. I watch her, but she doesn’t look at me. I’m not sure what she saw in Layla’s he
ad—or if she even saw anything at all—but her quietness stirs up an uneasiness inside me.

  She lays her cheek on her arm and looks at me. “She fell in love with you in this pool.”

  “Did she?”

  Willow nods, but the nod isn’t accompanied by a smile or a look of fondness while she thinks back on it. She just whispers, “Yes,” and then turns away from me. She lays her opposite cheek on her arm and looks in the other direction. I swim around her, wanting to see the look on her face. When we make eye contact, her eyes are rimmed with tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She laughs, embarrassed, and wipes at her eyes. “It’s just confusing. I have her feelings when I’m inside of her. I guess she’s sad right now.”

  “How do you know the tears aren’t yours?”

  Willow regards me with a stoic expression. “I guess I don’t.” She slips beneath the water, and when she comes back up, she wipes her burgeoning tears away along with the water.

  I feel conflicted.

  She’s inside Layla’s body, and if Layla is the one who is sad right now, I want to comfort her. Pull her against me and kiss away her pain.

  But she isn’t Layla, so the need to comfort her and the knowledge that I can’t leave me feeling empty. It feels a little like longing, and I don’t like that feeling. This is all starting to become muddled.

  “We should go back inside,” I say. “I’ll need to wash and dry her bathing suit before I go to sleep so she doesn’t notice it was used.”

  Willow concedes, even though she seems like she isn’t ready to stop swimming yet. She swims to the edge of the pool and lifts herself out of the water. She grabs a towel and wraps herself in it, her back to me. Then she walks back toward the house, never checking to see if I’m following her. I’m still in the middle of the pool, watching as the door closes and she disappears inside.

  I sigh heavily and then sink to the bottom of the pool, holding my breath until I can’t hold it anymore.

  Willow is wearing my T-shirt when I get back to the bedroom, but she’s not wearing the shorts this time. When I close the bedroom door, my eyes linger on her thighs for a moment.