Layla shakes her head. “No.” She looks up at me. “Why?”

I don’t know why I asked that. I just hate that she’s avoiding most of her mother’s calls. When she does that, Gail starts texting me, wondering what’s wrong with Layla. Then she texts Aspen and worries Aspen. Then Aspen texts me, asking why Layla isn’t answering her phone.

It would just be easier for everyone if Layla updated them more often so they wouldn’t worry about her so much. But they do worry. We all do. Another thing that’s probably a setback for her.

“I wish my mother would get a hobby so she wouldn’t expect me to talk to her every day,” Layla says, dropping her fork to the table. She takes another sip of her wine. When she sets it down, she closes her eyes for several long seconds.

When she opens them, she stares down at her pasta in silence.

She inhales a breath, as if she just wants to forget the conversation.

Maybe she spent too much time with them when she was released from the hospital. She probably needs a nice break from them, much like I need a break from the rest of the world.

Layla picks up her fork and looks at it; then she looks down at her bowl of pasta again. “It smells so good.” She says good in a way that makes it sound like a moan. She actually sniffs the pasta. Leans forward and closes her eyes, inhaling the scent of the sauce. Maybe this is her newest trick to dropping the fifteen pounds she keeps talking about—smelling food instead of eating it.

Layla grips her fork and twists it in the bowl. She takes the biggest bite I’ve ever seen her take. She groans when it’s in her mouth. “Oh my God. It’s so good.” She takes another bite, but before she finishes swallowing, she’s shoveling yet another bite into her mouth. “I want more,” she says with a mouthful. She grabs her wineglass and brings it to her mouth while I take her bowl to the stove and refill it with more pasta.

She practically rips it from my hands when I sit back down at the table. She eats the entire bowl in just a few bites. When she’s done, she leans back in her seat and presses a palm to her stomach, still gripping her fork tightly in her right hand.

I start laughing because I’m relieved she’s finally eating, but also because I’ve never seen anyone so animated while they eat.

She closes her eyes and groans, leaning forward. She props her elbows up on the table and moves her hand from her stomach to her forehead.

I take a bite of my own pasta right when she opens her eyes. She looks straight down at her empty bowl and makes this horrific face like she regrets every carb she just ate. She covers her mouth with her hand. “Leeds? My food is gone.”

“Do you want more?”

She looks up at me—the whites of her eyes more prominent than I’ve ever seen them. “It’s gone,” she whispers.

“Not all of it. You can have the rest if you want it.”

She looks horrified when I say that—as if I’m insulting her.

She looks at the fork still in her hand and studies it as if she doesn’t recognize it’s a fork. Then she drops it. Tosses it, really. It slides across the table, hitting my bowl just as she scoots back and stands up.

“Layla, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m fine,” she says. “Just . . . ate too fast. A little nauseous.” She turns and leaves the kitchen, then rushes up the stairs.

I follow her. She’s behaving like another panic attack might be on the horizon.

When I get to the bedroom, she’s rifling through the dresser drawers, muttering, “Where is it?” When she doesn’t find whatever it is she’s looking for, she opens the door to the closet. I panic a little—thinking maybe she might find the ring by accident. I walk over and grab her hands, pulling her attention to me and away from the closet.

“What are you looking for?”

“My medicine.”

Of course.

I reach into the top drawer of the dresser and pull out her bottle of pills. I open them and hand her one, but she looks like she wants to take the bottle from me and down every single one of them. I have no idea what has her so spooked, but as soon as she has the pill, she goes to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. She places the pill on her tongue and then takes a sip straight from the sink. She tilts her head back to swallow it, and it reminds me of the night in the pool when Aspen gave her medicine.

The thought makes me smile as I lean against the doorway. Layla seems a little bit calmer now that she’s taken the Xanax, so I try to distract her from her own anxiety by making conversation. “Remember when I thought your sister gave me drugs?”

Layla swings her head in my direction. “Why would I remember Aspen giving you drugs?” As soon as she says that, I can see the regret in her eyes. She drops her head between her shoulders and grips the sink. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” She blows out a breath and then pushes away from the sink. She walks over to me and snakes her arms around my waist, pressing her forehead against my chest.

I hug her, because I have no idea what it must be like inside that head of hers. She’s doing her best, so I don’t let her mood bother me. I hold her for several minutes—feeling her heartbeat as it gradually slows down.

“You want to go to bed?” I whisper.

She nods, so I slip my hands up her back and ease her out of her shirt. Somewhere between the bathroom door and the bed, we start to kiss.

It’s become our nightly routine. She stresses out. I soothe her. We make love.

I took a shower after Layla fell asleep. I still couldn’t sleep after that, so I went downstairs and crammed in an entire day’s worth of stuff in the span of two hours. I’ve shaved, washed the dishes, written some lyrics for a new song.

It’s now one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back in the bed with Layla, but my mind still won’t settle down.

I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep, but my mind is racing. I thought today would be different for Layla. Stress-free. I thought maybe it would be like the first time we were here—but it hasn’t been. Today has been like all the other days since the hospital. As much as I don’t want to suggest it again, I really think she needs to start seeing a therapist. The doctor recommended it. Her mother and sister recommended it. But she insisted she would be fine. Until now, I’ve been on her side. I thought if I supported her through her recovery, the anxiety would pass. But it’s getting worse.

I’m staring at the alarm clock when I feel Layla’s side of the bed shift. I hear her stand up and walk across the hardwood floor.

At first, I think maybe she’s heading to the bathroom. But the sound of her walking ceases, and she doesn’t move for a while. I can feel that she’s not in the bed, though, so I turn over to see what she’s doing.

There’s a standup mirror on the wall a few feet away from the bed. Layla is staring at herself. It’s dark in here, other than a little light from the moon shining through the window, so I’m not sure what she’s trying to see. She turns from left to right, inspecting herself in the mirror. It’s strange how long she stares at herself. I wait another couple of minutes, thinking she’ll come back to bed, but she doesn’t.

She steps closer to the mirror, lifting a hand to the glass. She traces her index finger over the mirror as if she’s outlining her body.