Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,42

in the dark. The dinner where Layla ate more carbs in two minutes than she’s eaten in six months. Her behavior at dinner tonight.

None of those moments were Layla.

How many other moments weren’t Layla?

My heart begins to pound harder. Not necessarily faster—just harder and louder, making me aware of its beat in more than just my chest. I feel like I should be scared, like my heart rate should be out of control, but I’m not scared. If anything, I’m angry. Whatever this is—whoever this is—I don’t like that they’ve used Layla like they have.

But I’m also angry at myself, because I need to see it again. I need to know that this isn’t Layla going crazy. I need to know that this isn’t me going crazy.

I need answers to every single question I never knew I had.

I want you to do it again, I type. I want to be able to have a real conversation with you.

I close the laptop, not giving whoever I’m speaking to a chance to refuse my request. But I also don’t move. If this is really happening—I want them to prove their existence in some other way. I want to see the change in Layla with my own two eyes while I know exactly what’s happening.

I don’t go upstairs. I want whoever this is to come to me, so I remain seated in the kitchen for several minutes. My heart just beats harder and harder as I wait.

I don’t hear a door open, but I do hear footsteps as they begin to descend the stairs. It’s a slow descent, with each step cracking beneath the weight of whoever is approaching the kitchen.

I don’t look behind me as whoever it is enters the room. My gaze remains transfixed on the table in front of me.

I smell Layla’s perfume before I see her, so I know it isn’t Aspen or Chad. Chills crawl up my spine and spread out over my shoulders and arms as she walks around me. I still don’t look at her. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly afraid since this began because I don’t know what to expect.

Is it Layla? Did she come downstairs with strangely impeccable timing?

Or is Layla asleep somewhere in there?

I finally make eye contact with her when she pulls out the chair to sit down. It’s Layla.

But it isn’t.

There’s something different about her—as if she’s staring back at me like she’s just as unfamiliar with me as I am with her. She looks scared. Or maybe it’s curiosity rather than fear.

She pulls a leg up and places a bare foot on the chair, wrapping her arms around her knee. She lays her head on her knee and just stares at me.

“Layla?” My voice is a whisper, but not because I’m trying to be quiet. I just don’t have much of a voice right now because there’s more trepidation caught in my throat than air.

She shakes her head.

“Willow?”

She nods.

I lean forward over the table and blow out a deep breath, massaging my forehead with my hand. What the fuck?

“You aren’t going to run?” she asks. Her voice is Layla’s voice, but it comes out different. Her voice sounds full of amusement, unlike Layla’s voice.

“Should I?”

“No.”

This is so strange. How can I be looking at Layla while seeing someone else entirely stare back at me?

I’ve officially lost my mind. Isn’t the average age of onset for schizophrenia in males the early twenties? Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just schizophrenic. I’d believe that before I’d believe I’m witnessing a spirit possess a body. “Am I going crazy?”

She shrugs. “You’ve asked that before. I still don’t know the answer.” She looks over her shoulder at the refrigerator. “Can I have some juice?”

Juice?

She wants juice?

I nod and start to scoot back in my chair, but she holds up a hand. “I can get it.” She walks over to the cabinet and grabs a glass. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of orange juice. I just watch her, kind of captivated by the whole thing. She carries herself differently than Layla. There’s almost a whimsical way to how she moves, as if there isn’t an ounce of anxiety holding her back.

She leans against the kitchen counter and downs the juice. She sighs, pressing the glass against her cheek for a moment when she’s finished with it. Her eyes are closed as if she’s savoring the way the juice tastes on her tongue. “This is so good.” She washes the glass