Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,25
like someone put a fist right to the center of it. “What happened?”
Layla shakes her head. She looks from the broken mirror to all the glass in the sink. “I . . . I don’t know. I was just washing my hands, and the mirror shattered.”
There’s an obvious indention in the mirror, as if someone punched it, but I can’t imagine why Layla would do that. Maybe it was already broken before she started washing her hands and the movement jarred the glass out of place.
“I’ll grab the first aid kit out of the car.”
She’s in the kitchen when I return from the van. And just like earlier, I care for her wounds. I don’t ask her questions. She seems shaken up. Her hands are trembling. When I’m finished, I take the first aid kit with me and grab one of our suitcases. “I’ll email the Realtor about the mirror,” I tell her. “That could have done some serious damage.”
She grabs the other suitcase and follows me upstairs. I can tell she’s rattled from that incident.
I have to stop treating her like she’s incapable of caring for herself, though. She’s capable. She’s strong. She’s incredible. And I’m going to be the one to remind her of that, because she seems to have forgotten.
CHAPTER SIX
If I weren’t striving to be a musician, I’d be a chef.
There’s something calming about cooking. I never was much of a cook before Layla’s surgery. She taught me a few things when she moved in with me, but after she got injured, I didn’t feel comfortable with her exerting too much energy, so I started doing the cooking. I’ve mastered soup, mostly because it was all Layla was ever in the mood for while she was recovering.
She’s upstairs unpacking. I made sure to unpack my shoes myself and put them in the closet so she won’t see the ring. I came downstairs to start dinner. I wanted to try and start this trip out right, so I’m making pasta e fagioli. Her favorite.
I’ve learned a lot since she’s been out of the hospital. Mostly from her mother, Gail. She stayed with us for the first few weeks after Layla’s release. She wanted to take Layla back to Chicago with her, but thankfully Layla didn’t want to go. I didn’t want Layla to go. I felt like it was on me to help her recover since what happened to her never would have happened had I been more protective of her.
I have to admit it was an adjustment. I had only met Layla two months before she spent a month in the hospital. Right after that, her mother temporarily moved in to our already cramped, new apartment. In less than three months, I went from always having lived alone as an adult to living with my girlfriend, her mother, and a couple of times, her sister, Aspen. The apartment I leased was only one bedroom, so the couch was always occupied, and an air mattress took up most of the rest of the living room.
I was glad when her mother finally went back to Chicago, but not because I didn’t like her. It was just a lot. Everything we had been through, not really feeling like we had our own space, and then watching Layla struggle to fall back into step with her life—I just craved normalcy. We both did.
But it wasn’t all bad. I got to know Layla’s family, and I quickly became aware of why I fell in love with her in the first place. They’re all very charismatic, open people. Hell, I even kind of like Chad Kyle. I’ve only seen him once since the wedding, and like Layla suggested, he’s a bit of a douchebag, but he’s funny.
I’m kind of looking forward to their visit on Friday.
Once I get all the ingredients into the pot, I dry my hands on a dish towel and then run upstairs to check on Layla. She was unpacking when I decided to start cooking, but that was over half an hour ago, and it’s been quiet upstairs since then. I haven’t heard her walking around.
When I open the door, I find Layla asleep on the bed, the unpacked suitcases still open. She’s snoring lightly.
It’s been a long day. This is her first trip since being released from the hospital. I can imagine it’s taken a toll on her, so I start quietly unpacking the suitcases while she sleeps.
Every now and then I’ll glance at her, and I’m