"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I got here as soon as I could! I'm so sorry," I blurt out, letting myself into Damian's house, where his mother is waiting for me. "We were having Christmas brunch, and Aunt Heather requested that we didn't bring our phones to the table. Silly, right?"
At this point, I'm rambling, but I can't help it. For weeks, my relationship with Layla has been rocky at best. We've barely spoken, and now that she's in the hospital, I don't know what to do or how to feel.
"I'm in the kitchen!" I hear Mrs. Forbes shout.
I find her at the table, a backpack full of Layla's things in her lap. She's been crying—her smudged makeup is evidence of that.
"Mrs. Forbes," I whisper.
"I'm preparing a bag for Layla. She'll want her favorite things when she wakes up," she says, wiping her eyes. "Hospital food is the worst, so I need to pack snacks, too."
Before I can respond, she's in the pantry, taking chocolate chip granola bars and fruit snacks out of a box. She shoves them into the backpack and flashes a smile.
"I think that's every—oh, shoot!" Shaking her head, she adds, "The slippers! I forgot Layla's slippers!"
"Where are they? I'll grab them," I offer, hoping to alleviate some of her stress.
"The basement," she responds. "She wears them every night. They should be right beside her bed."
I venture downstairs to Layla's makeshift bedroom. When she and Damian first announced that she would be moving in, I was shocked, to say the least. There's something very scandalous about two seventeen-year-olds living together, especially in a small town like ours. If the two teens in question weren't my best friend and my boyfriend, I would have assumed they were having sex.
Of course, I still don't know why Layla took up residence at the Forbes'. She sleeps on a pull-out couch in a cellar with concrete floors, exposed joists, and a pungent mildew odor that refuses to go away. She claimed that she and her father weren't getting along but left it at that.
And when it comes to Layla, I know better than to ask too many questions.
I find a pair of fuzzy orange slippers on the floor. Pinching my nose, I bend over to pick them up.
A folded-up sheet of paper catches my eye. Not wanting it to get ruined, I pick it up and place it on the bed.
I have what I came for. I ought to return upstairs, but something stops me. My eyes linger on the paper. It wears the faded lines of age and is wrinkled, which leads me to assume it was previously crumpled into a ball. It's probably a piece of trash that Layla forgot to throw out.
Except Layla doesn't forget things, and she's not into clutter. She kept it for a reason.
