Maybe I should buy this house. I know Layla wouldn’t want to live here full-time, but we could come here for vacations. That way Willow wouldn’t always be alone.

“We’re leaving soon, but we’ll be back this evening.”

Where are you going?

I guess she really wasn’t in here for Layla’s and my conversation. I find it humorous that a ghost has morals in the same way humans do. She doesn’t want to be intrusive, even though we wouldn’t be aware of her presence.

“Layla wants tacos. And I’m sure she’ll want to shop while we’re in town. We’ll be gone all afternoon.”

Tacos sound so good.

“Want me to bring you some?”

It’s a nice gesture, but I think you forget that I can’t eat.

“You could tonight. After Layla goes to sleep.” There’s a moment of stillness before she begins typing again.

You’re okay with me using Layla again?

I shouldn’t be okay with it, but it doesn’t seem to be harming Layla in any way. If anything, she’s getting some much-needed calories from it. “Sure. Tacos are important. You want beef or chicken?”

Surprise me.

I close the laptop and head upstairs, skipping every other step. I’m looking forward to spending the day with Layla. But I think I’m looking more forward to talking to Willow again tonight.

There’s definitely some deceit going on here—I’m fully aware of that. But it’s hard to know where to draw the line when the lines aren’t even in the same world.

CHAPTER TWELVE

There were more options in Nebraska than anywhere within an hour of Lebanon, Kansas, so we crossed the state line and went to a city called Hastings.

I was starving by the time we got there, but Layla wanted to shop first, so we went to a few boutiques before going to the restaurant. It was a smart choice on her part, because she had four margaritas with just one taco, so she was barely able to stand without assistance by the end of dinner.

She wasn’t too drunk not to question why I wanted to order tacos to go. I told her it was because she didn’t eat enough at dinner, so I wanted to take food home in case she got hungry later.

When I said that, she smiled and leaned across the table to kiss me but knocked over one of her margarita glasses. It went crashing to the floor, and she was so embarrassed she was apologizing to everyone in the restaurant while they cleaned up her mess. She even apologized to the glass she broke. That’s when I knew she’d exceeded her limit.

It was only an hour’s drive back, but Layla had to stop twice to pee because of all the margaritas. I kept talking to her in an attempt to keep her awake. It was still fairly early in the evening on our drive back to Lebanon, so I didn’t want her sleeping in the car and then staying up late.

I felt a twinge of guilt for that—being excited for her to go to sleep at the house so Willow could take over.

But not guilty enough to stop myself from doing everything I could to keep her talking.

We arrived back at the house right as the sun was setting. Layla wanted to sit outside and watch it, so that’s what we’re doing right now. Sitting on the grass near the pecan tree, watching as the sun is swallowed up by the earth.

It’s a painfully slow process.

I keep checking the time on my phone as if I have somewhere to be. I have nowhere to be, but I’ve never wanted Layla to want to go to sleep as much as I wish she would right now. But she’s still drunk. Still laughing at nothing and at everything.

I have so many questions for Willow, and I just want to go inside, but Layla has other plans.

She places her hand on my chest and pushes me onto my back as soon as the last sliver of sun disappears. She leans over me, dropping her hand to the button on my jeans, just as she lowers her mouth to mine. The sour taste of lime still lingers on her tongue.

I kiss her back because that’s what I’m supposed to want to do. I’m supposed to crave her, to want her tongue in my mouth, my hands on her body, to push myself inside her. But it’s not what I want right now. All I feel right now is overwhelming impatience.

I don’t know how to separate my desires now. I came here so Layla and I could regain our footing, but I have a feeling our worlds are going to grow further apart the longer we stay here. I’m becoming too fascinated with the world we aren’t in, and that’s going to affect us. Somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I know what I’m doing is wrong. Allowing Willow to use Layla’s body is a terrible form of deception. Yet, it’s a deception I find myself justifying every time I start to question it.

Layla’s hand slips between my jeans and my stomach. I can feel her deflate when she grips me and finds that I’m not nearly as into this as she is right now.

“You okay?” she asks. This normally doesn’t happen. When she wants me, all she has to do is kiss me, and that’s enough to make me hard. But right now it’s not enough. My mind is everywhere but here, and I can tell in her eyes that she feels it’s somehow a reflection of how I feel about her. It’s not. I’m just preoccupied.

I bring my hand up to her cheek. “I’m good,” I say, brushing my thumb over her mouth. “There’s just a rock or something digging into my back.” I roll her over so that I’m looking down at her now. “Maybe we can finish this later tonight. In our bed.”

She smiles. “Or right now in our bed.” She pushes me off her and then stands up. She’s wobbly when she’s on her feet, so I stand up and steady her. She brings a hand to her forehead. “Wow. I am so drunk.”

I help her back to the house, hoping she’s too drunk to want to continue this upstairs.

She doesn’t forget, though.

She starts kissing me as soon as we’re inside the house. She tucks her hands into my jeans and tugs me toward the Grand Room. “Let’s just do it on the couch,” she says.

I pause, wondering where Willow is right now. It feels weird, knowing she can see this.

I don’t want to fuck Layla in the Grand Room. I don’t want to fuck Layla at all right now. It feels awkward, knowing someone else is in this house with us. Layla is loud during sex when she thinks we’re alone. And yes, technically we’re alone, but we’re not.

Our vacation here isn’t over, though, and I can’t avoid having sex with her for the remainder of our trip. She’ll know something is up. She’ll take it personal. And the last thing I want is for her to start feeling like I made her feel in the airplane bathroom.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I say, pulling her away from the door to the Grand Room and toward the staircase. She pouts, but lets me take her hand. She holds on to the railing all the way up the stairs. I hold on to her because I don’t want her to fall.

When we get to the bedroom, I close the door, confident that Willow remained downstairs.

Layla takes off her jeans and kicks them toward the bed. She pulls her shirt off, but gets caught up in it and almost falls. I help her out of her shirt. She’s laughing when I toss it to the floor.

That’s when Layla gets my full attention. She’s in a good mood. She’s laughing. She’s drunk and carefree in this moment. It’s very rare that Layla lets loose like this anymore. I can count on one hand the times I’ve heard her giggle since her surgery.