"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.
"Jess, did you find the slippers? We have to go!"
Quickly, I shove the sheet into my coat pocket and sprint back upstairs.
<><><><><><>
"Thank god you're here." Damian's arms wrap around me as soon as I enter the waiting room, crushing me in a python-like embrace.
"I'm here, babe." I rest my head on his shoulder. "How's our girl doing?"
"I don't know. I'm not family, so they won't tell me anything."
"The hell they won't." Mrs. Forbes emits rage as she storms forward and begins to pester the poor girl behind the front desk.
Damian and I sit down. He introduces me to Effie Holt, the girl who found Layla and effectively saved her life.
"It's nice to meet you, Effie," I say, admiring her pretty reddish-brown curls and chocolate-colored eyes. "Do you go to Starkton High?"
She nods her head. "Yeah, I'm a senior."
"So are we," Damian pipes in. "I'm surprised I haven't seen you around before."
"I was actually home-schooled up until this year. I had some... medical issues," she informs us. "This hospital is like a second home to me."
I have more questions for Effie, but before I can ask them, Mrs. Forbes returns, a triumphant smile on her face.
"If anyone wants to know, I'm Layla's mother," she mutters, claiming the seat beside me. "Anyway, Layla is in surgery right now. After that, she'll be moved out of the ICU and into the recovery room. Once she wakes up, we can see her."
"Surgery?" Damian and I exclaim at the same time.
"About that...." Mrs. Forbes' grin fades. "Have you ever heard of cerebral edema?"
The medical jargon goes in one ear and out the other. Layla would understand this perfectly. I, however, do not.
Cerebral edema, a.k.a brain swelling, is what my best friend is being treated for. I don't know what that entails. Mom made it sound serious, although not fatal, so I guess that's a good thing.
But what I can't get past is that her father did this to her. She merely wanted to pay her respects to her grandmother, and that good-for-nothing bastard almost killed her.
I so badly want to kill him.
"Babe, are you okay?" Jessi whispers, hooking her arm through mine.
It takes her a minute to shake me out of my introspection, but she finally grabs my attention with a kiss on the cheek.
"I'm okay." I press my lips to hers quickly before rising to my feet. "I need to use the restroom. I'll be right back."
I race to the bathroom, lock myself inside, and then teleport to Layla's old bedroom.
I creep down the hall and find Hank on the sofa, an empty beer bottle in his hand. His gaze doesn't leave the bright TV screen. He's likely too drunk to realize someone is standing behind him.
It would be so easy to put him in a chokehold and squeeze the life out of him. I'd watch him breathe his last breath, satisfied that he'd never lay a hand on Layla again. Yes, it would be murder, but I'd be doing my best friend a favor. Heck, I'd be doing the world a favor.
But I don't do that. I don't even touch him. I can't. If I started to hurt him, I wouldn't be able to stop.
Once back in the hospital bathroom, I take a few deep breaths before rejoining the others in the waiting area. The hours drag by. Effie finally says goodbye, and I make sure to give her a hug before she leaves. I meant what I said earlier. I owe her everything.
Jessi falls asleep on my shoulder. I kiss the top of her head, thankful for her presence—and for her. Our relationship isn't perfect, especially not in recent weeks, but she always comes through when I need someone to lean on.
It's almost nine o'clock when a white-clad doctor approaches us. He introduces himself as Dr. Ford, the surgeon who operated on Layla.
"She's stable. She's doing well," he says, smiling, "but the battle isn't over yet. She has a long recovery ahead of her. She'll require another week in the hospital, plus regular visits with a neurologist. She might suffer from mild amnesia, as well as headaches and occasional dizziness. If it becomes too severe, I suggest bringing her in immediately."
I squeeze Jessi's hand as relief washes over me. Layla is okay. I feel like I can breathe again.
"However," Dr. Ford continues, "I have other... concerns." He clears his throat before adding, "On her upper arm, there are bruises—finger-shaped bruises. I hate to jump to conclusions, but based on those abrasions, as well as other scarring on her body, it's likely that Layla has suffered from some sort of long-term physical abuse. Do any of you know anything about that?"
Mom and I stare at each other, both at a loss for words. I half-expect her to stand up and confess everything, but Jessi beats her to it.
"If I had to guess," my girlfriend says, "it was her dad who gave her those bruises."