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.
I was blind but now I see.
That’s how Layla made me feel. It was like someone let all the air back into my life when I had no idea I was even suffocating.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to that feeling before we were unfairly robbed of it. We were comfortable in my house in Franklin. Layla didn’t have trouble sleeping at night. She wouldn’t look over her shoulder every time we were in public.
I walk over to where Layla is asleep on the bed, and I touch her hair, pushing it gently behind her ear. They had to shave a section of her hair during the surgery, so she wears her hair parted now to cover up the regrowth. I brush her hair away and look at the scar.
I’m thankful for it.
I know she hates it and she does everything she can to cover it up, but sometimes I look at it while she’s asleep because it’s a reminder of what I almost lost.
Layla flinches a little, so I pull my hand away, just as the smell of something burning enters the room. I look toward the doorway, confused,
because there’s no way the soup could already be burning. It’s been less than ten minutes since I turned the gas stove top on.
I walk to the top of the stairs and see a dark cloud of smoke drifting out of the entryway to the kitchen.
As soon as I start to descend the stairs, I hear a crash come from the kitchen.
It’s so loud; I feel it in my chest.
I rush down the rest of the stairs, and when I get to the kitchen, soup is everywhere. I scan the stove, the floor, the walls. I wave the smoke out of my face and try to figure out what needs saving first.
There’s no fire, though. Just a bunch of smoke and a huge-ass mess.
I’m staring at it all in shock when Layla runs down the stairs.
She pauses in the entryway to the kitchen and takes in the mess.
“What happened?”
I walk to the stove to turn off the burner, but when I reach for the knob, the burner isn’t even on. It’s been switched to the off position.
My arm falls down to my side. I look at the burner, then look at the pan on the other side of the kitchen.
“Why is the sink on?” Layla asks.
There’s a stream of water running from the faucet. I don’t remember leaving the water on. I walk over to it to turn it off and notice something in the bottom of the sink.
A burnt rag.
The same rag I wiped my hands on right before running upstairs.
The rag obviously caught fire, because it’s burnt to a crisp, but how did it end up in the sink? How is the water on? Who turned off the stove?
Who knocked over the pan of soup?
I immediately walk to the front door, but it’s locked from the inside.
Layla follows me. “What are you doing?”
I know there’s a back door, but if someone knocked the pan off the stove as I was descending the stairs, I would have seen them heading toward the back door. There’s no other exit to the kitchen.
I walk back to the kitchen and look at the window. It’s also locked from the inside.
“Leeds, you’re scaring me.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, Layla,” I say reassuringly. I don’t want to worry her. If I act like I can’t explain this, it’ll cause unnecessary concern.
“I caught the rag on fire. Accidentally knocked the soup off the stove trying to put it out.” I rub my hands up her arms. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“I’ll help you,” she says.
I let her. I’d rather her be in the same room because I’m not sure what the fuck just happened.
