It’s all I say. I don’t even know if she’s disappointed that I turned her down or if she even knows what I’m sorry for, but she sinks into me a little more.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to want me every second of the day.”

The wind is blowing her hair in her face, so I push it back with my hands. When I do this, I feel something in the strands of her hair. They’re clumped together—sticky between my fingers. I lean in and inspect her head, even though she tries to pull away. Her hair is dark, so I can’t see the blood, but when I pull my fingers back, the tips of them are red. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” She presses her fingers against her head, right over her incision.

The gas nozzle clicks, so I release her and pull it out of the gas tank. “Let me park the car and I’ll come inside and help you clean it up.”

After I park the car, I search the store shelves until I find a small first aid kit. I meet Layla in the women’s restroom with it. It’s a one-person stall, so I lock the door to the bathroom behind me. She faces me, leaning against the sink. I take a cotton swab and some peroxide out of the kit and clean the dried blood out of her hair first, then from around the incision.

“Did you hit your head on something?”

“No.”

“It’s pretty bad.” It should be healed by now. It’s been six months since she got the scar, but every couple of weeks it breaks open again. “Maybe you should get it checked out this week.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she says. “It’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

I finish cleaning it up and then put some antiseptic ointment on it. I don’t press her again about why it’s bleeding. She’ll never admit that she does it herself, but I’ve seen her picking at it.

I clean up the mess and close the first aid kit while Layla uses the restroom. She moves to the sink and washes her hands. I’m leaning against the bathroom door, watching her in the mirror.

What if I’m part of the problem? What if my hesitation to treat her exactly how I treated her before is holding her back somehow?

We make love a lot, but it’s different than it was before. In those first couple of months together, we were a combination of everything that makes sex good. I was sweet and gentle with her, but also reckless and rough, sometimes all at once. I didn’t treat her like she was fragile. I treated her like she was unbreakable.

Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I need to treat her like the person she’s trying to become again. The Layla who was full of strength and spontaneity before that was ripped from her.

She’s watching me in the mirror as I set the first aid kit next to her on the sink. Our eyes stay locked together as my hand bunches up her dress and then slips slowly between her thighs. I can see the roll of her throat when I hook my finger around her panties and yank them down.

I place my right hand on the back of her neck and push her forward while I unbutton my jeans.

And then, for the first time in six months, I’m not gentle with her at all.

CHAPTER FIVE

I enter the pass code given to me by the real estate agent. The gate is wrought iron and shakes as it slides unsure across the gravel driveway, as if it’s struggling to remember how to operate.

The bed and breakfast is a two-story old Victorian-style mansion overlooking acres of dense trees. It’s stark white with a red front door, and from what I can remember, six bedrooms upstairs and a couple downstairs.

At first glance, the property looks the same as it did last year—just more vacant. The parking lot is empty. No guests walking the grounds. The first time I pulled into this place, I remember there being an energetic buzz as everyone was preparing for Aspen and Chad’s wedding. It was in the height of the summer, so the grass was green and the lawn was manicured.

Right now, the grounds look to be in limbo, waiting for spring to bring back all the life that was murdered by winter.

“It looks the same,” I say, putting the car in park, even though it doesn’t really look the same at all. It looks . . . lonelier.

Layla says nothing.

I open my door and can’t help noticing the emptiness in the air. No smells, no sounds, no birds chirping. It’s quiet now, and I sort of like that. I welcome the idea of being in the heart of the country with Layla again, with the bonus of complete isolation.

We grab our suitcases from the trunk. I pull both of them up the porch steps while Layla uses the keypad and the code given to me by the Realtor to open the door.

I step inside first and immediately notice the smell is different. I don’t remember it smelling like mothballs at the wedding last year. Hopefully there are candles we can light to overpower that scent.

Layla takes a step over the threshold, and as soon as she does, she shudders. She lifts a hand to the wall, like she’s trying to steady herself.

“You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah. I just . . .” She closes her eyes for a few seconds. “It’s cold in here. And my head hurts. I kind of want to take a nap.”

It’s not cold. It’s actually kind of stuffy, but her arms are covered in goosebumps.

“I’ll find the thermostat. Leave your suitcase, and I’ll bring it to our old room for you in a second.” I head into the kitchen to search for the thermostat. It’s not in the kitchen, but I’m relieved to see the Realtor delivered the groceries. I wouldn’t normally ask someone to grocery shop for me, but she offered, and I tipped her well.

I wasn’t sure they’d allow us to stay here, so I alluded to the fact that I’m interested in buying the place and wanted a trial run. I haven’t mentioned that to Layla, though. I wanted to check the place out first—see if we love it as much as we did when we were first there.

I’m not so sure the look that’s been on Layla’s face since we pulled into the driveway conveys a desire to live here, though. If anything, she looks ready to leave.

I walk toward the Grand Room to see if that’s where the thermostat is located. I’m relieved to see the baby grand piano is still here. The lid is shut and there’s a fine layer of dust over it, which makes me sad. A piano this beautiful deserves to be played, but by the looks of it, I might have been the last person to have touched it.

I run my finger across the top of the piano, clearing a line of dust away. I didn’t know what to expect when I was told this place was vacant. I was worried that meant the owners moved the piano out, but all the same furniture is still here.

Layla knows this is as much of a work trip as it is a vacation. I have an album to write, so I plan on using the piano as much as I can without making Layla feel like music is my priority these next two weeks.

Hell, she’ll probably make it my priority. She wants me to finish this album more than I want to finish it myself.

I leave the Grand Room after failing to find the thermostat. I glance down the hallway and see Layla peeking into a room. She closes the door and then continues walking and opens the door to a second room. She seems confused—as if she can’t remember where our room was. She starts to close that door.

“It’s upstairs, Layla.”

She startles when I say that, spinning around. “I know.” She points to the room she was about to walk past and heads inside. “I just . . . need to use the restroom first.” She slips inside the bathroom and closes the door.