Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,67
couch and wrap my hand around Layla’s ankle. I drag it slowly up to her knee. “Still trying to finish that same book.”
“What book?”
“The one about the game show host who thinks he’s an assassin.”
She shakes her head a little. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
I start to say, “I told you about it,” but then I remember that was one of the last conversations we had before she got shot. She has no memory of that entire day, or the week that followed. No memory of our conversations that day leading up to the moment she got shot. Sometimes I fill in the holes for her, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’d feel bad for bringing up something that could trigger her anxiety.
“It’s just some novel,” I say, adjusting myself on the couch so that I’m lying next to her. She cuddles against me, pressing a kiss to my neck. I take in the scent of her shampoo. It’s tropical—mangoes and bananas—and it reminds me of everywhere that isn’t Lebanon, Kansas. Everywhere Layla would probably rather be than right here.
What will she think if I buy this house?
Should I even buy it?
Or should we just pack up and leave before every line I’ve already crossed becomes a wall so high we can’t climb over?
“Leeds.”
Layla’s voice is a distant whisper, hanging in the air as I struggle with whether I want to leave my sleep and follow that voice.
“Leeds, wake up.”
Her hand is on my cheek, and we’re pressed together. We’re still on the couch. It’s not surprising we fell asleep, considering all the nights I spend awake with Willow. I’ve been getting just as little sleep as Layla gets.
I slip my hand inside the back of her silk shirt and run my palm up her skin. When I do this, she presses her hands so hard against my chest she propels herself off the couch and onto the floor. Her sudden movement, followed by the thud, forces my eyes wide open. I lean over the couch in search of her. She’s on her back, staring up at me.
It’s Willow. Not Layla.
“My bad,” I say, scrambling to help her off the floor. “I thought you were Layla.”
When she stands up, she looks down at herself—at the clothes Layla put on earlier. Or lack thereof.
My voice is rough when I say, “You should probably go change.” I clear my throat and walk into the kitchen while she runs up the stairs.
I make us a pot of coffee because Willow feels Layla’s exhaustion when she’s inside of her. I certainly feel the exhaustion. It’s late, and the last thing I need is coffee. The last thing I need is an excuse to stay up and chat with someone who isn’t Layla. But when Willow comes back downstairs and enters the kitchen, I’m relieved to see her, and I instantly forget how wrong this is.
She threw on a T-shirt and a pair of Layla’s pajama pants. She nudges her head toward the coffee. “Good idea.”
When it’s finished brewing, I fill two cups with coffee and slide one over to her. She’s standing next to me at the counter. We’re shoulder to shoulder as I pour cream into my cup and she stirs sugar into hers.
“Did you know in ancient Arab culture, a woman could only divorce her husband if he didn’t like her coffee?” Willow asks.
I lean against the counter. “Is that true?”
She nods, leaning against the counter next to me, facing me. She sips slowly from her cup and then says, “I read it in one of those books in the Grand Room.”
“How many have you read?”
“All of them.”
“What other random facts have you learned?”
She sets her cup down and then pushes herself up onto the countertop. “The most expensive coffee in the world is made in Indonesia. It’s expensive because the beans are eaten and digested by a cat before they’re used to make the coffee.”
I wasn’t expecting a fact like that. I look down at my coffee and grimace. “What do they do? Dig the digested beans out of cat shit?”
She nods.
“People pay more money for coffee made from cat shit?”
Willow grins. “Rich people are weird. That could be you someday. Drinking cat shit coffee on your mega-yacht.”
“I hope to hell not.”
She presses both hands into the counter at her sides. She leans back a little, swinging her legs back and forth. “What’s your mother like?”
That question throws me for a loop. “My mom?”
She nods. “I hear you