She just used the restroom twenty minutes ago at the gas station.

Sometimes I feel like her memory loss is worse than she admits. I’ve thought about testing her—maybe bringing up something that never happened just to see if she’d pretend to remember it.

That’s conniving, though. I already feel enough guilt as it is.

I hear the water begin to run in the bathroom just as I locate the thermostat next to the stairwell. It reads seventy-one degrees. I’m not sure I want it warmer than that, but I bump it up a few degrees for her so that the heat can eat away whatever chill she’s feeling.

I make my way to the living room, if only to inspect all the areas of the house I never entered last time I was here.

It has a very unwelcoming feel—as if the room isn’t meant for living at all. A light cream-colored sofa and matching love seat are angled toward a fireplace. A stiff brown leather chair sits next to a table strategically piled with books.

There’s only one window in the room, but the curtains are drawn, so the room is dark. I passed by this room a few times when I was here last, but I never utilized it. There were always people in here, but now those figures are replaced by shadows.

I don’t necessarily like this room as much as I like the Grand Room. Maybe because Layla and I connected in the Grand Room. There’s history for us in there.

This room feels unconnected to us. If this house is the heart of the country, this room is the gallbladder.

If we end up buying this place, this would be the first room I would strip bare. I’d knock out part of the wall and add more windows. I’d fill it with furniture that Layla could spill cereal on, or red wine.

I’d make it livable.

Nothing has felt like home to us since Layla was released from the hospital. Neither of us wanted to go back to my place in Franklin. Understandably. But I didn’t feel right getting a new place without Layla having a say, so I leased a temporary apartment near the hospital, and that’s where I took her when she was discharged. I’ve been dragging my feet on buying something permanent. I’m not sure I want a place in Franklin. Or Nashville, even.

I look at houses a lot, but until I saw this place for sale, I hadn’t felt drawn to anything.

There’s something about this place, though. Maybe it’s because I met Layla here. Maybe it’s because being in the literal heart of the country really is grounding in some way. Or maybe it’s because it’s an entire day’s drive from Nashville, and I really like the idea of getting out of that town.

Whatever it is, I’m not here just because I wanted a vacation. I’m here because I want time to focus on my music and I want Layla to find peace. I feel like this is the only place that can give us that. The seclusion would be perfect for us. She’d feel safe.

I spin around at the sound of Layla screaming.

I immediately run across the room and toward the bathroom when I hear glass shattering.

“Layla?” I swing open the door, and she looks at me with two fearful eyes. I immediately reach for her hand because there’s blood on her knuckles. Shards of mirror line the bottom of the sink. I glance up, and the bathroom mirror is shattered. It looks like someone put a fist right to the center of it. “What happened?”

Layla shakes her head. She looks from the broken mirror to all the glass in the sink. “I . . . I don’t know. I was just washing my hands, and the mirror shattered.”

There’s an obvious indention in the mirror, as if someone punched it, but I can’t imagine why Layla would do that. Maybe it was already broken before she started washing her hands and the movement jarred the glass out of place.

“I’ll grab the first aid kit out of the car.”

She’s in the kitchen when I return from the van. And just like earlier, I care for her wounds. I don’t ask her questions. She seems shaken up. Her hands are trembling. When I’m finished, I take the first aid kit with me and grab one of our suitcases. “I’ll email the Realtor about the mirror,” I tell her. “That could have done some serious damage.”

She grabs the other suitcase and follows me upstairs. I can tell she’s rattled from that incident.

I have to stop treating her like she’s incapable of caring for herself, though. She’s capable. She’s strong. She’s incredible. And I’m going to be the one to remind her of that, because she seems to have forgotten.

CHAPTER SIX

If I weren’t striving to be a musician, I’d be a chef.

There’s something calming about cooking. I never was much of a cook before Layla’s surgery. She taught me a few things when she moved in with me, but after she got injured, I didn’t feel comfortable with her exerting too much energy, so I started doing the cooking. I’ve mastered soup, mostly because it was all Layla was ever in the mood for while she was recovering.

She’s upstairs unpacking. I made sure to unpack my shoes myself and put them in the closet so she won’t see the ring. I came downstairs to start dinner. I wanted to try and start this trip out right, so I’m making pasta e fagioli. Her favorite.

I’ve learned a lot since she’s been out of the hospital. Mostly from her mother, Gail. She stayed with us for the first few weeks after Layla’s release. She wanted to take Layla back to Chicago with her, but thankfully Layla didn’t want to go. I didn’t want Layla to go. I felt like it was on me to help her recover since what happened to her never would have happened had I been more protective of her.

I have to admit it was an adjustment. I had only met Layla two months before she spent a month in the hospital. Right after that, her mother temporarily moved in to our already cramped, new apartment. In less than three months, I went from always having lived alone as an adult to living with my girlfriend, her mother, and a couple of times, her sister, Aspen. The apartment I leased was only one bedroom, so the couch was always occupied, and an air mattress took up most of the rest of the living room.

I was glad when her mother finally went back to Chicago, but not because I didn’t like her. It was just a lot. Everything we had been through, not really feeling like we had our own space, and then watching Layla struggle to fall back into step with her life—I just craved normalcy. We both did.

But it wasn’t all bad. I got to know Layla’s family, and I quickly became aware of why I fell in love with her in the first place. They’re all very charismatic, open people. Hell, I even kind of like Chad Kyle. I’ve only seen him once since the wedding, and like Layla suggested, he’s a bit of a douchebag, but he’s funny.

I’m kind of looking forward to their visit on Friday.

Once I get all the ingredients into the pot, I dry my hands on a dish towel and then run upstairs to check on Layla. She was unpacking when I decided to start cooking, but that was over half an hour ago, and it’s been quiet upstairs since then. I haven’t heard her walking around.

When I open the door, I find Layla asleep on the bed, the unpacked suitcases still open. She’s snoring lightly.

It’s been a long day. This is her first trip since being released from the hospital. I can imagine it’s taken a toll on her, so I start quietly unpacking the suitcases while she sleeps.

Every now and then I’ll glance at her, and I’m taken back to the days we first spent here. Every single second with her felt like an awakening. Like I’d never really opened my eyes until she came along.