Chad laughs and picks up her hand, kissing the back of it. Aspen seems to melt a little with that action.

Layla is still holding her fork, cringing at Chad.

“How’s the stay been so far?” Aspen asks. “It’s kind of weird seeing this place so empty.”

“It’s been good,” Layla says, seeming relieved by the change of subject. “Having the pool to ourselves is my favorite part, even though I’ll probably start blistering if I don’t stay inside.”

“It’s crazy the place is for sale now,” Aspen says. “How cool would that be to own a bed and breakfast?”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Layla says.

I sink a little at that reply, wondering if Layla really feels that way now. She cuts a tiny bite of her pizza. It’s a homemade pizza—Aspen cooked it. Layla used to make it, but she hasn’t cooked since her surgery. The crust is thick, and the toppings are an inch high, so it’s hard to eat with your hands. Chad is the only one at the table not eating it with a fork.

“I’d hate to live here,” Chad says. “Do you know how far away the liquor store is? Far. And we’re out of beer.”

Aspen grips the bottle of wine sitting in the center of the table and slides it over to him. “There’s a few of these left,” she suggests.

“I’d rather you not drink all my wine,” Layla says. “There’s a liquor cabinet above the sink.”

Chad perks up at that comment. I wish she wouldn’t have said that. Chad reached his limit about three beers ago, but he stands up and heads straight for the liquor anyway.

Aspen pours herself more wine.

I’m staring at Layla, because she just stiffened in her seat. Sometimes when that happens, it’s because of the anxiety.

I stay focused on her, watching her every movement, hoping she’s not experiencing the onset of a panic attack—but something about how she’s holding herself now is concerning me.

She sets down her fork and picks up her slice of pizza with her hands. She takes a huge bite of it. Then another. She holds the pizza with her right hand while she picks up her wineglass and sips from it.

“This is so good,” she says, her voice on the edge of a moan, like she hasn’t eaten in days. It catches everyone’s attention. She shoves the rest of the pizza in her mouth.

Aspen looks at her like Layla was looking at Chad earlier—with a little bit of disgust. Layla lifts out of her chair and reaches toward the pan of pizza, picking up another slice with her hands.

She plops back down in her seat and stuffs as much of the pizza in her mouth as she can. She’s doing that thing again—eating like her life depends on it. Aspen just continues to stare at her in horror as she shovels half the slice of pizza in her mouth.

“Gross,” Aspen says. “Use your fork.”

Layla pauses and looks at Aspen; then she gives her attention to me. Her eyes are suddenly apologetic. Embarrassed. She takes another quick, huge bite and then downs her entire glass of wine in one go.

As soon as Layla sets down the glass, she hesitates. Then her hand goes to her forehead and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh, God. My head hurts.” She massages her forehead and then lowers her hand, opens her eyes, and . . . screams.

The unexpected noise makes all of us jump in our chairs.

Her scream makes Aspen scream. “What is it?” Aspen says, pushing back from the table. “Is it a spider?” She crawls up into her chair. “Where is it?”

Layla is shaking her head but doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at her empty plate of food. She stands up and backs away from the table—a look of sheer terror on her face.

“Get her some water,” I say to Aspen as I stand up. I walk over to Layla, and her back is flat against the wall now, her body trembling. She breathes in and then out very slowly, but still hasn’t taken her eyes off the table.

I place a gentle hand on her cheek and pull her gaze to mine. “Layla, are you okay?”

She nods, but her hands are shaking as she grasps for the glass of water Aspen brings her. She downs it all and then almost drops the glass as she hands it back.

“I don’t feel well,” she says, turning to exit the kitchen.

I follow her up the stairs, and as soon as she gets to our room, she goes straight to the dresser and fumbles with her bottle of pills. Her hands are unsteady, and she spills some of the pills when she gets the lid open.

I bend down and pick them up, then take the bottle from her and put the stray pills back inside. She’s crawling into the bed when I close the dresser drawer.

I sit down next to her, and she’s curled into a fetal position in the center of the mattress. I pull the covers over her, running my hand soothingly through her hair. “What happened down there?”

She shakes her head, dismissing my question. “Nothing. I just don’t feel good.”

“You think you ate too fast?” I suggest.

She rolls over and pulls the covers up to her chin. “I didn’t eat,” she says. Her words come out clipped—full of anger and confusion. I want to ask her what she means by that, but part of me already knows.

She’s having blackouts. Silent seizures, maybe? She’s had one before—in the hospital. But it was just the one, so they decided not to put her on medication for it. I should call her neurologist tomorrow.

I turn off the lamp beside the bed and then kiss her. “I’ll come check on you soon.”

She nods and then pulls the covers over her head.

She’s been sleeping a lot. More than usual. Coupled with the blackouts and the strange behavior—I really do think she needs to see a neurologist.

But I’m also afraid it has nothing to do with her head injury.

I sit by her side for a few minutes, hesitant to go back downstairs. Part of me doesn’t want to leave her alone, but I need to go clean up the kitchen.

The wheels are turning in my mind as I make my way downstairs.

Aspen is in the process of loading the dishwasher when I rejoin them. Chad has face-planted on the table, a glass of some kind of liquor in his hand. He isn’t fully passed out because he’s muttering something unintelligible.

“She okay?” Aspen asks.

I don’t even try to cover for Layla because I’m confused and full of questions. “I don’t know. She says her head hurts.”

“I’m sure she’ll have migraines the rest of her life,” Aspen says. “Side effect of getting shot in the head, unfortunately.”

Aspen would know. She is a nurse, after all. I’m sure she’s seen a lot worse recoveries than what Layla is going through.

Aspen puts the last plate in the dishwasher. “I need to get Chad upstairs. Can you help me?”

I shake Chad until he opens his eyes, and then I pull on his arm and say, “Let’s go to bed, buddy.”

He groans. “I don’t want to go to bed with you, Leeds.” He tries to push me away from him, but I wrap his arm over my shoulders.

“I’m taking you to your wife’s bed.”

He stops pushing me away at that comment. He lifts his head and looks around the room until he finds Aspen on the other side of him. “Am I too drunk to fuck?”

Aspen nods. “Yeah, babe. Way too drunk. Maybe tomorrow.”