Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,28
“It smells so good.” She says good in a way that makes it sound like a moan. She actually sniffs the pasta. Leans forward and closes her eyes, inhaling the scent of the sauce. Maybe this is her newest trick to dropping the fifteen pounds she keeps talking about—smelling food instead of eating it.
Layla grips her fork and twists it in the bowl. She takes the biggest bite I’ve ever seen her take. She groans when it’s in her mouth. “Oh my God. It’s so good.” She takes another bite, but before she finishes swallowing, she’s shoveling yet another bite into her mouth. “I want more,” she says with a mouthful. She grabs her wineglass and brings it to her mouth while I take her bowl to the stove and refill it with more pasta.
She practically rips it from my hands when I sit back down at the table. She eats the entire bowl in just a few bites. When she’s done, she leans back in her seat and presses a palm to her stomach, still gripping her fork tightly in her right hand.
I start laughing because I’m relieved she’s finally eating, but also because I’ve never seen anyone so animated while they eat.
She closes her eyes and groans, leaning forward. She props her elbows up on the table and moves her hand from her stomach to her forehead.
I take a bite of my own pasta right when she opens her eyes. She looks straight down at her empty bowl and makes this horrific face like she regrets every carb she just ate. She covers her mouth with her hand. “Leeds? My food is gone.”
“Do you want more?”
She looks up at me—the whites of her eyes more prominent than I’ve ever seen them. “It’s gone,” she whispers.
“Not all of it. You can have the rest if you want it.”
She looks horrified when I say that—as if I’m insulting her.
She looks at the fork still in her hand and studies it as if she doesn’t recognize it’s a fork. Then she drops it. Tosses it, really. It slides across the table, hitting my bowl just as she scoots back and stands up.
“Layla, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m fine,” she says. “Just . . . ate too fast. A little nauseous.” She turns and leaves the kitchen, then rushes up the stairs.
I follow her. She’s behaving like another panic attack might be on the horizon.
When I get to the bedroom, she’s rifling through the dresser drawers, muttering, “Where is it?” When she doesn’t find whatever it is she’s looking for, she opens the door to the closet. I panic a little—thinking maybe she might find the ring by accident. I walk over and grab her hands, pulling her attention to me and away from the closet.
“What are you looking for?”
“My medicine.”
Of course.
I reach into the top drawer of the dresser and pull out her bottle of pills. I open them and hand her one, but she looks like she wants to take the bottle from me and down every single one of them. I have no idea what has her so spooked, but as soon as she has the pill, she goes to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. She places the pill on her tongue and then takes a sip straight from the sink. She tilts her head back to swallow it, and it reminds me of the night in the pool when Aspen gave her medicine.
The thought makes me smile as I lean against the doorway. Layla seems a little bit calmer now that she’s taken the Xanax, so I try to distract her from her own anxiety by making conversation. “Remember when I thought your sister gave me drugs?”
Layla swings her head in my direction. “Why would I remember Aspen giving you drugs?” As soon as she says that, I can see the regret in her eyes. She drops her head between her shoulders and grips the sink. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” She blows out a breath and then pushes away from the sink. She walks over to me and snakes her arms around my waist, pressing her forehead against my chest.
I hug her, because I have no idea what it must be like inside that head of hers. She’s doing her best, so I don’t let her mood bother me. I hold her for several minutes—feeling her heartbeat as it gradually slows down.
“You want to go to bed?” I whisper.
She nods, so