Layla

by Colleen Hoover

  “They’re just movies, Willow. Written by people in Hollywood who get paid to use their imagination. We don’t know what actually happens next.”

  She waves her spoon at me while she paces, tucking the ice cream tub against her chest. “Maybe not, but it’s a consensus. It’s the theme in every ghost story. Every ghost is a ghost because something went wrong. They were either evil in a past life, or they have unfinished business, or they have to find forgiveness. Or give forgiveness.” She plops down in a chair at the table. Her energy is all channeled into a frown. “What if I don’t like what I find out? What if I don’t like what’s next?” She takes another bite with the spoon upside down, and then she just lets the spoon hang from her mouth while she leans forward, clasping her hands behind her head, digging her elbows into the table.

  The spoon is just dangling from her mouth.

  I never intended to upset her.

  Before Layla and I showed up, Willow didn’t have these concerns. She didn’t even consider herself a ghost. She just existed in whatever realm she’s in, and she was content with that until I came along. Nothing good has come from her crossing into this realm.

  It’s only caused Layla to stress about her fatigue.

  It’s turned me into a liar.

  It’s instilled a fear into Willow that wasn’t there before.

  “Willow,” I say quietly. She looks up at me and pulls the spoon from her mouth. “Do you think what we’re doing is wrong? Using Layla like we’re doing?”

  “Of course it’s wrong. Just because we’re able to do this doesn’t mean we should be doing it.”

  As much as I don’t want her to be right, I know she is. I’ve known all along, but the selfish side of me has been excusing it because I’ve been telling myself I’m helping Willow.

  But before I got here, Willow didn’t even want help. She took over Layla simply because she wanted to taste food. And even that might have been fine, but then I got way too involved. I became morbidly fascinated to the point that I’ve been putting Layla at risk. Maybe even Willow.

  There may not be a handbook for how to deal with a ghost, but a person doesn’t need it to be written down in order to know the difference between right and wrong.

  Willow walks the ice cream back to the freezer. “You look tired,” she says flatly.

  “I am.”

  “You can go to bed,” she says, waving toward the stairs. “I’m gonna watch a movie.”

  I don’t want her to watch a movie. I’m not sure I want her using Layla’s body anymore. “Layla’s tired too. She needs to sleep.”

  Willow stiffens at my words. She can see in my resolute expression that I’ve reached my immoral threshold. She just stares at me, silently, sadly. “You want me to get out of her?” she whispers.

  I nod, then turn and head upstairs because I don’t want to see the look on Willow’s face.

  She isn’t far behind me. She walks into the room a minute later, her eyes downcast. She doesn’t look at me as she makes her way to Layla’s side of the bed. She’s still wearing the shirt she took out of Layla’s closet earlier.

  “Layla wasn’t wearing clothes when she went to bed.”

  Willow pulls the shirt over her head and walks back to the closet to hang it. She doesn’t bother covering herself on the walk back to the bed, but I’m not even looking at her body. I’m looking at the moon’s reflection on her face, and the tears that rim her eyes.

  She crawls into bed and pulls the covers up to her neck. Her back is to me, but I can hear her crying.

  I hate that I’ve upset her. I don’t want her to be upset, but I don’t know how else to deal with this. She’s a ghost who doesn’t want help. I’m a guy who doesn’t want to leave her. We’re communicating through a girl we have no right to be using like we have been.

  It feels like a breakup, and we aren’t even intimate.

  Her breaths are coming in short and shallow bursts, like she’s trying her hardest to fight back her tears. The need to comfort her is overwhelming, especially because I’m the one who has made her feel this way. I move my head to her pillow and find her under the covers, then wrap my arm over her stomach.

  She grips my arm with her hand and squeezes it supportively. It’s her way of letting me know she understands my decision. But understanding it doesn’t make it easier.

  When Layla is sad, it’s almost always fixable with whatever kind of medicine will cure her pain or ailment.

  But with Willow, her sadness is unreachable, even from this proximity. I can’t soothe the loneliness she feels in her world. I can’t tell her it’ll be okay, because I don’t know that it will be. This is an unprecedented journey for both of us.

  “I want you to message him back tomorrow,” she says. “Ask him if he really thinks he can help me.”

  I close my eyes, relieved that she’s finally willing to do something about this. The thought of her just living forever without purpose is depressing. I kiss the back of her head. “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Do you not want me to use Layla anymore?” she asks.

  I don’t answer that right away because it’s not a simple yes or no. Of course I want her to use Layla because I like spending time with her. But I also want her to stop, because we’ve taken this way too far.

  She takes my silence as confirmation that I don’t want her to do it anymore.

  I bury my face into her hair, but I still don’t speak. Anything I say at this point feels like it’ll just be a new item added to the list of ways I’ve betrayed Layla. Like the fact that I’ve put in an offer on the house. I haven’t even told Willow. Now I’m not so sure she would even want me to buy it.

  “I put in an offer on the house.”

  Willow rolls over. Her breast brushes against my arm, and I try to ignore it, but we’re in a more intimate position than we’ve ever been in. It’s hard to ignore when my face is just two inches from hers and she’s looking up at me with hope shining through her tear-filled eyes.

  “You did?”

  I nod and lift my hand from her waist. I bring it to her forehead and move a piece of hair that’s fallen over her eyes. “Yes. I wouldn’t be here full-time, but I can come back and visit. I want to help you.”

  “What about Layla?” she asks.

  I shrug, because I don’t know what will happen with Layla. I don’t know that she’ll ever want to come back here. I don’t know where we’ll be when we leave here. Things with Layla feel different now that Willow has entered the picture.

  But I also know that visits back to this place will just be another form of torture if we don’t use Layla’s body. Sure, we’ll be able to communicate. But we’ll have to do that without a way to look at each other, and that sounds like torment.

  The room is quiet. So quiet I swear I can hear Willow’s heart pounding in her chest. She’s gazing up at me with a mixture of longing and sadness. I’m looking down at her much the same way.

  Even buying this house wouldn’t bring me reassurance. I’d still think about her every minute of the day when I’m not here.

  I’ll still pretend Layla is Willow every time I kiss her.

  My eyes fall to Willow’s lips, and I’m reminded of the crazy way my heart beat when I kissed Layla for the first time, only now it’s an even smaller plink and a much bigger BOOM.

  I never thought I’d feel more for someone than I felt that night. But right now . . . I’m feeling everything I can feel in this world, coupled with everything I could feel in Willow’s world.

  I run the back of my hand across her jaw, angling her face more toward mine. She keeps her eyes open as I slowly lower my head and rest my mouth against hers. There’s a hesitation on both of our parts as our lips slide against each other with very little movement. It’s as if we’re both scared of what this will mean for our future.

  Will crossing a physical line by kissing her make me crave her even more? Will it make me never want to leave? Will it weaken my resolve to the point that I let Willo
w take over Layla whenever she wants?

  In this moment, I honestly don’t care.

  In this moment, the only thing I can care about is my selfish, insatiable need to kiss Willow. I wouldn’t even care if this caused an upheaval to the entirety of humanity.

  I slide my hands in her hair and slip my tongue into her mouth, and I don’t do it gently. I kiss her with a need I didn’t even know was buried inside me.

  She moans into my mouth, and it fills me with even more urgency. I don’t know why I’m kissing her like someone might steal this moment from us.

  She responds in kind, threading her fingers through my hair, tilting her body more toward mine. She presses her breasts against my chest, and a sensational pull rolls through me. I want on top of her, inside of her. I want my mouth to cover every inch of her. I want to hear every single sound she’s capable of making, and I want my hands and my tongue to be responsible for those sounds.

  The kiss has only gone on for a matter of seconds, but it’s long enough that an ache inside of me builds and builds to the point that the kiss becomes painful.

  It becomes sad.

  I’ve never had so many emotions run through me during a single kiss before, but I run through every feeling my body and mind are capable of until the one I want the least consumes me the most.

  I ache everywhere, but it’s the most prominent in my chest. It hurts so much I’m forced to pull away from her and suck in air because I feel like my heart is being strangled.

  I roll onto my back and try to catch my breath, but there isn’t enough air in this world to ease this feeling.

  I find Willow’s hand, and I hold it, but it’s all I can do. I can’t kiss her again. I can’t go through that with her again, knowing she’s not someone I get to keep for the rest of my life.

  I shouldn’t have done that. Now I don’t want to leave. The only thing that feels important to me now is making sure Willow doesn’t have to spend another day alone in this house.

  I’m full of an immense need to find answers for why Willow is stuck in her world, because I desperately need her to get stuck in mine.

  I tilt my head to look at her, and when I do, I wish I wouldn’t have. It just makes it worse because she’s looking back at me with a broken heart. She rolls toward me and tucks her head in the crook of my neck, curling herself around me. “Every time I have to leave her body, it feels like a punishment. Every night, over and over. It’s torture.”

  I wrap my arms around her, wishing I could fix everything for her. But I can’t.

  I’ve just made it all so much worse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The bed is empty when I wake up. I touch Layla’s pillow and run my hand over it, as if Willow is still lying there. Maybe she is.

  I sit up to check the time, but I can’t find my phone. I look on the floor. On the bed. It isn’t in here.

  Did Layla take it?

  I rush downstairs to find her, my fear two steps ahead of me as I wonder why she took my phone and what she might be seeing on it. A conversation with Willow, the app for the security system. I rush into the kitchen, but Layla isn’t there. I search the Grand Room, the downstairs bedrooms. I open the back door, but she isn’t out by the pool.

  I run to the front door and swing it open.

  Layla is sitting on the porch steps, staring out over the front yard. There’s a cigarette in her hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  She doesn’t turn around to look at me, which makes me wonder what she found out. There are so many things. The cameras, the conversations on my laptop, the kiss last night.

  I walk tentatively toward the steps and watch as Layla takes in a slow drag of the cigarette. “I wasn’t aware you smoked,” I say.

  She blows the smoke out. “I don’t. But I keep some hidden in my purse for when I’m stressed.” She cuts her eyes at me, looking over her shoulder. I’m not sure what it is that caused that betrayal in her expression, but she definitely uncovered something.

  I keep my voice steady when I say, “What’s wrong, Layla?”

  She looks away from me again. Her voice is flat when she says, “Why didn’t you tell me you were buying this house?”

  I lean my head back and blow out a silent breath of relief. I thought maybe she might have found the security footage. I wouldn’t have been able to explain that.

  But I expected her to be mad about this.

  I’m even okay that she knows about it. I planned to tell her today anyway. “How did you find out?”

  “The Realtor just stopped by.” Layla jams her cigarette onto the wooden step next to her, and it feels like an insult. “The contract is on the kitchen counter. She’d like it back by the end of the day.”

  I’ve never seen her this angry. Her sentences are tight, and she won’t look me in the eye. “Layla. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “The hell it was,” she says. She stands up and brushes past me, then makes her way into the house and up the stairs.

  I follow her, a little confused by her level of anger. I didn’t expect her to be thrilled, but I also didn’t expect her to be this incensed. “Layla,” I say when I reach the top of the stairs. I get her name out, right as the bedroom door closes in my face. I open it and watch as she pulls an empty suitcase from beneath the bed. She tosses it on the bed, opens it, and then walks to the dresser. “Why are you so upset about this?”

  She scoops up the entire contents of the dresser drawer and tosses them into the suitcase. “I don’t want to live in the middle of nowhere. We’re a couple. You should talk to me about things like this, but instead, you went behind my back.” She walks to the closet now and grabs several of her shirts.

  “I wasn’t hiding it. It was a surprise. We fell in love here. I thought this place meant something to us.”

  Her face contorts into a mixture of confusion and anger. “My sister got married here. This place means more to her than it does to me. I don’t even like Kansas. I’ve said it in all the ways I can possibly say it without being rude.” She shoves the shirts in the suitcase, hangers still on them. “What is your ultimate goal, Leeds? To force me to live somewhere I don’t want to live, or were you hoping I’d leave you and go back to Chicago?”

  She’s still packing, and I’m not sure I can convince her not to leave. But she can’t leave. Not after last night. Not after that kiss with Willow. I have to convince her to stay, even if it’s just for one last night. I need a chance to see Willow again. Even if it’s just so I can tell her goodbye face to face.

  I can’t do that if Layla leaves.

  I rush to the closet and dig inside my shoe. I frantically pull out the engagement ring. “I had a plan, Layla,” I say, walking over to her.

  She’s staring at the ring in my hand.

  “I was going to propose tonight and tell you about the house. I had it all planned out. You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”

  Layla has stopped packing. She’s staring at the box, and then she lifts her eyes to mine, but they’re still filled with anger. “I already saw the ring. You realize you left the receipt inside the box, right?”

  I don’t know why that matters. I would have taken it out before I proposed anyway. “Why does that matter?”

  “You bought the ring while I was in the hospital, Leeds. Six months ago. That means you’ve spent the last six months doubting whether you even want to be with me.” She turns and zips up her suitcase. “If you don’t want to leave, fine. Stay and close on your house. But I don’t like it here, and I don’t want to stay here. I’m taking the car.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  If she leaves, I won’t get to see Willow again.

  I run through the bedroom, past Layla. I block the doorway and then kneel in front of her. She stops moving. “This isn’t how I wanted this to happen,” I say. “But I’ve known since the night I met you that I wanted to marry you. I bought this ring six months ago, knowing that once you recovered, we would
come back here. I wanted to ask you to be my wife, but I wanted to do it here. Where we met. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Layla. Please don’t go.”

  Layla doesn’t move. She’s staring at the ring now, less tense than she was a minute ago. Less angry.

  “Please,” I beg.

  She hesitates, her expression still full of doubt. She releases the suitcase. “This is really confusing,” she says. “I want to believe you. Why don’t I believe you?”

  Because you shouldn’t, I want to say. Instead, I stand up and grab her hand. I look at her intently, and with what I hope looks like honesty. Because what I’m about to say is honest. “I knew I wanted to marry you the first night we met. I had never felt more connected to someone like I did to you.” What I follow that up with is a lie, though. “I want to spend my life with you, Layla. Please. Marry me.”

  She believed that. I can see it in her expression. All her anger has turned to relief. “So you haven’t been doubting us?”

  Yes. For six months. “No. Not even for one second.”

  A tear spills out of her right eye, and then she shakes her head regretfully. “I ruined it. Leeds, I’m so sorry. I got angry and I ruined this whole thing.”

  I pull the ring out of the box. I slip it on her trembling finger. She’s full on crying now. “It’s not your fault. I should have planned this better.”

  She shakes her head and throws her arms around my neck. “No, it was perfect.” She kisses me and then pulls back to look at the ring. “And yes. Yes, yes, yes, I’ll marry you.”

  This was not the proposal I had imagined.

  Far from it.

  I try to keep a solid expression on my face, but the bigger her smile gets, the smaller I feel.

  She kisses me again, and she tastes like cigarettes, and I have to force myself through the kiss.

  I’ve done some pretty terrible things in the last year, but this may be the lowest I’ve ever sunk. I just proposed to a girl I’m not even sure I’m in love with anymore.