Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,21
her in my arms. I felt helpless. I always feel helpless now when it comes to her, which is why I go out of my way to make sure she’s okay.
And she is not okay right now.
“Do you want to go wait it out in the bathroom?” I ask her.
She nods, so I grab Layla’s hand and help her out of her seat. When we get to the front of the cabin, I lean in to the flight attendant. “She’s having a panic attack. I’m going in with her until it passes.”
The flight attendant takes one look at Layla, and her expression immediately turns sympathetic. She closes the curtain to block off the view of the bathroom door from the first-class cabin.
There’s no room for us to move once I close the door. I wrap one arm around Layla’s waist and pull her face to my chest. With my free hand, I wet a paper towel in the sink and then press it against the back of her neck while I hold her.
She told me last week that my arms work better for her than her weighted blanket. I don’t know how I feel about that—being the one thing that seems to ease her panic. I’d like for her to figure out how to fight these without my help. I can’t always be here with her, and I worry about what will happen if she has one when I’m not around.
I hold her for a moment, feeling her body trembling against mine. “Want me to tell you where we’re going?” I ask her. “Maybe not knowing is making your anxiety worse.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to ruin your surprise.”
“I planned to tell you after takeoff anyway.” I pull her face from my chest so I can see her reaction. “We’re going to the Corazón del País. I booked it for two whole weeks.”
There isn’t an immediate reaction. But then, after a few seconds, she makes a confused face. “Where?”
I try to hide my concern, but this has been happening a lot. Things she should easily remember take a moment to come back to her. The doctor said it’s normal after brain damage, but it’s still jarring every time I realize just how much she lost.
That took a long time to accept—that she has brain damage.
It’s minor, but noticeable. Especially when it takes her a little longer to recall things that were huge for me. For us. I don’t take it personal, but I still feel the sting.
“The bed and breakfast,” I say.
Familiarity eases back into her expression. “Oh yeah. Aspen’s wedding. Garrett’s shitty band.” There’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes. “The breakfast.”
“Actually, it’s not a bed and breakfast anymore. The place is up for sale now; it shut down three months ago. I emailed the Realtor and asked if we could rent it for a couple of weeks.”
“We have the whole place to ourselves?”
I nod. “Just me and you.”
“What about the cooks? And housekeepers?”
“It’s not a business anymore, so we’ll cook ourselves. I already had groceries delivered.” I can tell she’s still trying to overcome the minor panic attack, so I continue talking to keep her mind off it. “Aspen and Chad want to come stay a night. It’s only a couple hours from Wichita. They’re thinking Friday.”
Layla nods and then presses her cheek against my shirt. “That’ll be nice.”
I hold her for another couple of minutes—until she’s no longer shaking. “You feeling better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I run my hand over her hair and kiss the top of her head. “We should go sit back down. Everyone on the plane will be talking about the couple who joined the mile-high club.”
She doesn’t release me. Instead, she brings her mouth close to mine and her hand begins to crawl down my chest, all the way to the button on my jeans. “Let’s not make them liars.” She stands on her tiptoes until her lips are pressed against mine.
I know she thinks this is probably some fantasy of mine—I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t—but not right now. Not after she just came down from a panic attack. It feels wrong.
I take her face in my hands. “Not here, okay?”
She deflates a little. “We’ll be fast.”
I kiss her. “Not right now. Tonight.” I back away from her and open the door, stepping aside to let her walk out.
She waves me out and shakes her head. “I want to use the bathroom first,” she says with a weak voice. Her