That evening, when the first day of school was finally, blissfully behind her, Layla went out to the deck. When the Realtor had shown her the house, there were so many things she’d loved about it, among them its smaller size and rustic charm and, most importantly, the fact that it was ten thousand dollars below her budget. When they’d made their way around to the back and Layla had seen the covered deck, she’d turned to the Realtor and said, “Sold.”
Layla had created a sanctuary for herself with comfortable all-weather furniture and a large gray-and-cream-striped outdoor rug that felt soft under her bare feet and would be protected from the elements by the deck’s roof. She’d placed lanterns in each corner, and the flameless candles inside them were on a timer that turned them on at dusk. She’d spent most summer evenings here with her guitar and a glass of wine and her journal. She strummed and she sipped, and she poured her thoughts and fears and dreams into the creamy white pages. She made lists and set long-term goals, and those nights on her deck were cathartic in the exact way she needed them to be. She felt energized, alive, and the guitar and the journal lifted her spirits in a way that nothing else had in an awfully long time.
The night she left Liam, between bouts of crying, she’d scribbled a few things down on the hotel notepad at the Holiday Inn Express where she’d fled, too ashamed at first to let anyone know she was there. Too afraid she’d see it on their faces: I told you so. Over the summer, she transferred those thoughts into the journal and added to them, jotting down the things she’d always been too ashamed to vocalize. Things Liam had done and said that she’d allowed. Things that she’d even made excuses for. Writing them down was her way of working through them, and her journal had become her therapy. She’d never shared these things with anyone—not her mom, not her sister or brother, not Tonya—because she feared their judgment: Why didn’t you leave him a long time ago? they might wonder.
Yeah, why hadn’t she?
But now, reading the things she’d written over and over desensitized her and gave her the courage, the strength, to realize that every mistake she’d made was a blessing and a lesson. Layla wasn’t perfect. She was human and she’d made a few wrong turns. It was time to forgive herself and get her life back on track. But sometimes, when she’d had one glass of wine too many, she retraced her relationship with Liam in an attempt to figure out how it had happened. Where it had started to go so wrong. Wondering what he’d done that had led to her falling so hard for him, because for many years, she had loved Liam Cook fiercely.
* * *
The band was headlining at a bar called Connie’s, where they played so often the customers had started referring to them as the house band. Layla had majored in music, with an emphasis on performing, and she’d met the other three band members when they were still in college. Kevin played drums, Rick played bass guitar, and Sam played the keyboard. Layla played a variety of instruments, but she was the band’s lead guitarist, and handled most of the vocals. What had started as a drunken jam session at Kevin’s off-campus house her junior year had slowly and steadily turned into a viable source of income. There hadn’t been much Layla could do with her music degree unless she wanted to teach somewhere, and she absolutely did not want to do that. Layla wanted to be the lead singer in a band, and that was exactly what she’d become. She dyed her shoulder-length hair a vibrant shade of neon pink and stood before the microphone front and center, basking in the glow of the lights. She had been born with a natural flair for performing, completely devoid of anything resembling stage fright. The others, who enjoyed the band perks like free beer and an endless supply of adoring women almost as much as they enjoyed playing, were happy to let her take the lead, and she capitalized on it, because under the spotlight was where she shined.
One year after graduation, the four of them—now known collectively as Storm Warning, their nod to Minnesota’s frequent inclement winter weather—had started rising through the ranks of the local music scene. Layla also gave guitar lessons on the side, and her earnings, combined with her cut of the band’s profits, were enough to live on. It wasn’t a great living, but it was enough for a twenty-three-year-old to get by on if she was frugal, which she was.
The crowds had gotten bigger, more enthusiastic, which only fueled her desire to keep on doing it. Her parents had not been thrilled, and they told her it was time to get serious about finding a real career before it was too late. Her friends were the only ones who were supportive, but that was mostly because they didn’t quite have their lives figured out, either.
Layla refused to be swayed by anyone’s opinion of what she should have been doing with her life, and there wasn’t a lot anyone could say, since the money she earned paid the rent on her studio apartment with just enough left over to cover her basic needs.
She had her guitars and she had her freedom and that suited Layla just fine.
That night at Connie’s, the crowd cheered when she launched into the opening riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” The band seldom performed the actual song, but Layla loved how the crowd understood why she played the iconic intro. When their first set ended, a sea of enthusiastic fans—most of them male—surrounded her. One thrust a beer into her hand; another asked her to pose for a picture, and he slung his arm around her shoulders as she looked into the camera and smiled.
Liam had bumped into her as she was making her way back from the bathroom. “Oh, hey. Sorry,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “Great set.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re really talented,” he said, resting his arm against the back of a nearby barstool, creating a protective little bubble around her. “I’m Liam.”
“Layla.”
“Ah, now I get it,” he said. “I’ve never heard you play before. Clearly I’ve been missing out.”
“Well, we’re about as local as you can get. I think we’ve played every bar in this zip code.”
“I just moved back home. Graduated from Colorado State a month ago and started a new job. I’m in sales.” In time, Layla would learn that it had taken him five years to graduate. He’d flunked out his sophomore year and had had to return home with his tail between his legs and work for a year while he saved up the money to return to school after his parents refused to pay his tuition. “Show us you can pay for it yourself and we’ll reconsider,” they told him. Liam could be very successful when he wanted to be, and he’d shown them all right. He’d worked at a used car dealership for nine months and had made so much money he seriously considered not going back to school at all. But the hours were long, and Liam had his sights on selling something a lot more glamorous than used cars. The big money, he told anyone who would listen, was in medical devices, software or telecommunications, and pharmaceuticals.
“So, were you named after the Clapton song?” Liam asked.
Layla smiled and shook her head. “No. I was named after my dad’s sister. She died when my dad was—”