I walk in. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Her stuff is gone. Cleaned out. No laptop on the desk. No books scattered. No vanilla candle burning. No trace of her except the faint ghost of her perfume hanging in the air—sweet, floral, like she just left.
“Layla?” I say, voice cracking, louder than I mean. Walking down the hall to her room, boots loud on the hardwood, heart slamming against my ribs.
“Layla? Hello?” I say again.
This place is empty. What the fuck?
I can feel my blood boiling but at the same time my stomach sinking, cold, sick dread spreading like ice waterthrough my veins. Did she leave? I walk over to the desk she sits at every day. A stack of papers sits neatly in the center. Manuscript pages. Her book. On top, a sticky note in her neat handwriting: “Thank you for being an inspiration.”
Is this her book? Did she leave without saying goodbye? I sit down in the computer chair, still warm from her, leather creaking under me, completely speechless. She left. She left me. She left us. No goodbye. She said she loved me. She said she loved it here. I should’ve made it right. I should’ve said it back. I should’ve grabbed her and kissed her until she understood she was never temporary.
Maggie knocks on the front door that’s open, sharp raps that make me flinch.
“Hey, is she okay?” Maggie asks, stepping inside, rain dripping from her hat.
“She’s gone,” I say, voice flat, dead.
“Gone? What do you mean—” She looks around, realizing what I’m saying is true. Her face falls, eyes wide, mouth open.
“She left her book. Told me thanks for being an inspiration,” I say, throat tight, fingers brushing the top page like it might still hold her warmth.
“She wants you to read it,” Maggie says, softly, certain.
“Why would she leave? Did something happen between the two of you?” Maggie asks.
“She told me she loved me,” I say, looking down through the printed papers, ink still fresh, words she wrote while sitting here, thinking of me, of us.
“And you said?” Maggie asks, voice quiet, dangerous.
“Nothing. I said nothing.”
Maggie scoffs, sharp, disappointed. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you!”
She yells now—voice echoing off the empty walls. “You’re such an idiot sometimes. Read the fucking book, Cole. Hell,read the damn room. She didn’t just walk away. She left you something. Maybe answers. Maybe a goodbye. Maybe a chance to fix it. But you won’t know if you keep sitting here pretending you don’t care.” She slams the door, hard, leaving me in the guest house alone without Layla.
It feels empty. I feel empty. I can still smell her, vanilla, faint shampoo, the ghost of her perfume clinging to the chair, the air. The room is too quiet, no tapping keyboard, no soft humming while she writes, no rustle of pages. Just rain on the roof, steady and sad.
I flip the page. Chapter 1. The title hits like a punch and I fall back onto the couch.
Chapter 34
Sleepless in Seattle
Layla
It feels weird to be back in Seattle now. The city noise hits me the second I step off the elevator, distant horns, the low rumble of buses on the street below, someone’s muffled TV through the wall. It’s familiar, but it feels like someone else’s life. I walk down the same hallway as ever before, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the faint smell of carpet cleaner and someone’s burnt toast lingering in the air.
The key sticks in the lock like it always did, but tonight it feels wrong, like the door is resisting me. I push it open. The apartment is cold and plain. No warmth from a wood stove. No scent of hay or pine drifting through an open window. Just stale air, the low hum of the fridge, and the gray Seattle light filteringthrough half-closed blinds. I miss all the loud farm decor, the mismatched quilts and the horseshoes nailed to the walls like they were art. Never thought I’d ever say that, but here we are. The ranch felt cluttered and chaotic in the best way.
This place feels sterile. Empty.
Surely they’ve noticed I’m gone by now. But my phone is silent. No calls. No messages. I don’t expect one from Cole, honestly. He’s never been the type to chase. I set my suitcase by the door, the wheels leaving faint tracks of dust and walk to the kitchen. The counter is bare except for a single coffee mug I forgot to wash before I left. I fill the kettle anyway, just to have something to do with my hands.
Unpacking all of my crap makes me ill. I don’t really want to be back here. Yeah, it’s nice to be back with all my things—I did miss my bed, the guest house mattress was a little too firm for me—but the closet smells like mothballs and old perfume, not cedar and leather. My books are still stacked on the shelf, spines worn from rereading, but they look lonely now.
I start the shower to try and kill this jet lag, maybe it will wake me up. The water pressure is weak compared to the ranch’s strong stream, but it’s hot, steam filling the tiny bathroom, fogging the mirror. I stand under the spray, letting it pound my shoulders, washing away the last traces of Tennessee dirt and smoke. My skin still feels tender from the sunburn, faint pink lines across my collarbone. I close my eyes and see the willow tree, the pool lights, Cole’s hands on my hips. I turn the water colder. It doesn’t help. I shoot a text to Tina.
Me:Back in Seattle. Meeting Friday?
