I stare at that comment for a moment, allowing it to get tangled up in all my other thoughts. “I’ve never thought of it like that.” I lean forward on the table, bringing my fingers to a point against my chin. “Maybe you’re right—maybe we’re both where we belong. But if that were the case, why would you be crossing into this world? You’re the one who misses things I still have. Food. Water. Sleep. You’re never satiated where you’re at. Everything tangible is in this realm, and it seems like you miss those things, which means maybe you had them at some point in the past.”

My laptop slides several inches across the table until it’s sitting directly in front of me. The sudden movement causes me to flinch.

“Why’d you let me sleep so late?” Layla asks. My eyes dart up, and she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, stretching her arms above her head. She yawns as she heads for the coffeepot.

“It’s not that late,” I say, slowly closing the lid to my laptop.

Layla pours coffee into a mug. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“The deadliest time of day,” I say teasingly.

She eyes me curiously. “It’s what?” She has both hands wrapped around her coffee mug now as she sips from it. I walk over to her and kiss her on the forehead.

“Eleven in the morning—the deadliest time of day,” I say, repeating one of the many facts she’s told me.

Her eyes squint in confusion. “Weird. You’d think it would be nighttime.”

A blanket of guilt feels like it drapes over my shoulders. There are so many things I take for granted that Layla is still slowly recovering—the conversations we’ve had, the memories we’ve made, all the perfect moments we’ve spent together. It’s like someone took a pair of craft scissors and cut slivers of her life out of her mind, leaving them in scraps on the table.

I feel like I sometimes don’t appreciate the severity of her injuries. I’ve spent the last six months since it happened walking on eggshells, trying not to point out the obvious, not wanting her to feel like she’s lost as much as she has. But what if indulging her desire to avoid talk of that night has inadvertently made it all worse?

A brain injury has to be similar to a physical injury. You exercise a physical injury. You work harder to gain back all the strength you lost. I went through three months of physical therapy for the wound to my shoulder, but we did the exact opposite with Layla’s injury.

We didn’t exercise her brain . . . we put it on bed rest.

We’ve avoided the damage—put her wounds on respite in the hopes everything would heal on its own. But it hasn’t. Physically, yes. But mentally—I’m not so sure.

“Were you on the phone just now?” she asks.

“No. Why?”

“I thought I heard you talking when I was coming downstairs.”

“I was,” I say quickly. “To myself. Not on the phone.”

She buys my explanation and walks to the refrigerator and opens it. She stares at the shelves, but grabs nothing before closing the door.

“Want me to make you some breakfast?” I ask her.

She groans. “I’ve gained two pounds this week. I’m not eating breakfast anymore.”

“We’re on vacation. You still have at least eight more pounds left to gain before we can even consider this a successful trip.”

She smiles. “You’re sweet. But eight more pounds on me would mean no more naked pool days. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself.”

I walk over to her and pull her against me. I don’t like hearing her talk like this. I don’t like that something as simple as a little weight gain on vacation would even stress her out. I try to think back on our relationship—recall anything I might have said that would make her think I care about her body more than I do her. I do tell her she’s sexy a lot, but I mean that in a positive way. But maybe reinforcing my attraction to her looks is causing her to put more importance on her appearance than she should.

I take her face in my hands. “I love you, Layla. That love doesn’t fluctuate with numbers on a scale.”

She smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know that. But I still want to be healthy.”

“Skipping meals isn’t being healthy.”

“Neither are Pop-Tarts or Twinkies, but this kitchen is full of nothing but junk food.”

“It’s vacation,” I say. “That’s what you do on vacation. You eat crap that’s bad for you while being lazy and sleeping too late.” I kiss her. “You need to get in vacation mode before our vacation is over.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her forehead against my shoulder. “You’re right. I need to relax and enjoy this next week.” She pulls back. “You know what I can’t say no to? Mexican food. Specifically tacos.”

“Tacos sound good.”

“And margaritas. Where can we go around here to get tacos and margaritas?”

I fill with hesitation when she suggests leaving the house. I do want to get her out of here, and I like that she seems excited about the idea of tacos, but I also have fifty thousand questions left for Willow. I won’t be able to ask her those questions if we leave and I’m driving and preoccupied with Layla.

“You sure you want to leave? It’s at least sixty miles to the nearest restaurant.”

Layla nods emphatically. “Yes. I need out of this house.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. “I’m gonna go shower.”

She walks out of the kitchen, and I head straight for my laptop and open it.

“Are you still here?” I ask, hoping to get some kind of response.

I stare at my laptop, but nothing happens. I wait patiently until I hear the shower running upstairs. I repeat my question. “Willow? Are you still here?”

The seconds are slow as they pass without action. But then the keys begin to press down, and I breathe a sigh of relief as she types something out.

Sorry. I’m here now. I left the room when Layla got down here. It feels weird watching the two of you without your permission, so I don’t.

“Where do you go when you leave the room?”

I was in the Grand Room.

“Do you ever go upstairs?”

Sometimes. Not when you’re both up there, though.

That’s not entirely accurate. “You were upstairs the night you slipped into her and got out of bed to look in the mirror.”

I thought you were both asleep. I try not to spy on you when you’re together. It feels wrong. But I have weaknesses . . . like when I smell the food you’re eating.

“But you spy on us when we’re alone?”

Spy is a strong term. I’m curious. Lonely. So yes, sometimes I watch you live your lives. There’s nothing else to do around here.

“What will you do when we leave next week?”

Sulk. Maybe try to beat my eight-day record of staring at the clock.

I don’t laugh at her self-deprecating joke. The thought of her being completely alone makes me feel bad for her. It’s weird—feeling sorry for a ghost. A spirit. Whatever she is.

I wonder what happened in my childhood that makes me take on so much guilt, even when I’m not responsible for whatever is wrong. I take on the weight of Layla’s sorrows. Now I’m taking on the weight of Willow’s.