Chapter 4
Layla
LAYLA
You know it’s bad when Momma Bear Carson is trying to take your phone away
BELLA
still no luck?
LAYLA
not even a rejection letter
I’ve never been so thoroughly ghosted in my life
Clinging to the towel wrapped around my body, the fluorescent lights of my bathroom highlight the water droplets gliding down my skin as I stare at the medicine cabinet lined with endless orange and white-capped bottles.
Twelve years.
Hundreds of doctor appointments.
Thousands of needles.
Endless hospital admissions.
Infinite tests.
Countless doctors shaking their heads in confusion, and an ungodly number of them telling me it was all in my head or that it was simply anxiety or PMS.
Every symptom my body showed was noted, tracked and recorded. My entire existence under a microscope because science for once didn’t have answers.
And if they did it led me in circles.
Until I finally heard the diagnosis that came with equal parts relief and terror.
Lupus.
Incurable.
The diagnosis put the doctors who gaslit me to shame.
Every moment my body failed me, the times I was forced to sit out major life events. Friends birthdays, my own parties, prom, dances, dates…all of the medical trauma I’ve suffered through the past twelve years has come down to one singular white pill.
Bella was right to hope about Berlin and the trial program I was accepted into. It was my sanctuary, my haven, my beacon of light after all these long and dark years. Because for once, the trial medication is working.
And not the type of medication that suppresses everything in order to do so. Not the type to make me borderline catatonic, not the type to ruin my appetite, and not the type that comes with a heavy list of side-effects.
It’s as if I was given a new body—a new chance at life.
A second shot.
Everything feels different. I can practically feel the way the medication courses through my blood. The scars are there internally—I don’t think they will ever leave, not after such misfortune—but on the outside, I look whole.
Then again, I usually did. No one ever knew I had a silent illness, not unless the flare-up was bad enough that the weight dropped off my body like an anchor or that my eyebags looked like black eyes.
I’ve experienced freedom from the shackles of lupus, from the confines the disease wrapped my heart in and tried to bleed me dry…and now that I have I am utterly terrified.
Because I never want to go back.
The anxiety that rips through my body at the slightest change is so powerful I fear I’ll never be able to truly describe it to someone.
If I wake up groggier than usual, it makes my heart rate spike and my thoughts spin.
If my body begins to ache here and there, I call the doctor and book an emergency appointment, because surely I’m out of remission and my lupus is flaring up.
Everyone prays that you get better and yet when you do no one sticks around to help talk you off the mental ledge of terror.
Because what no one warns you of is that once you know how it feels to be well rested, and dare I say healthy, truly anything that feels slightly off will have you Googling if you’re flaring or developing some form of cancer.
Because it has to be something…right? You have to be sick because you’ve never been healthy since you were a preteen, and to be healthy just feels…weird, and yet entirely euphoric.
That is my secret.
My deep, dark secret.
I am utterly terrified to be better because it means I could fall sick again.
I take the pills like clockwork every evening at half past six, no matter where I am. I savor it on my tongue—because if being sick the majority of your life teaches you anything, it’s how to swallow pills like a pro—and say a silent prayer that they continue to work.
Placing the pill on my tongue, I do just that.
Swallow.
Pray.
I’m not even religious, but there’s nothing quite like nearly dying that makes you suddenly turn to the sky and beg for someone or something to heal you.
Wiping the condensation off the mirror, I peer at myself, turning my head this way and that, ignoring the smattering of freckles and my wet hair to look for the relapsing signs.
My nightly checklist.
No bags.
No paleness—beyond my already pale complexation.
No hormonal acne breakouts.
No hair loss.
No brittle nails.
No swelling.
No circulation issues.
As I move down the list, the tightness in my chest eases.
The first day the medication began to take effect, when they upped my dosage after three months in the trial, I thought it was a fluke.
Thought that as I opened my eyes, stretching my body this way and that without pain and stiffness, I was still dreaming.
I even snapped up in bed, peering down at my body as if I suddenly transferred into another one Freaky Friday style, but no. I was still me.
That was the day I began to cling to my health.
Began to beg and plead before I closed my eyes at night that I’d wake up and tomorrow would be the same.
Especially when my parents not only put their lives on hold and spent hours by my side, championing my case against the doctors who gaslit me, but when they gave up the entirety of their retirement fund in the sheer hope and desperation that a medical trial in Berlin would help me.
Heading back to my childhood bedroom, I’m just sliding into my tracksuit pants when my phone vibrates, lighting up on the dresser in front of me with Bella’s name. Her contact photo is one of us at Totti’s, our eyes bleary and red.
A smile spreads across my cheeks as I quickly answer.
“Do you know how good it feels to finally be able to call each other at a normal time?”
I’m greeted by a snort on the other end. “You’re telling me. Those 3 a.m. phone sessions hit different.”
I still don’t know how to repay her for the sleep she sacrificed. Bella was hellbent on me getting a full night’s sleep while in Berlin so I knew exactly what was working in the trial, which meant that Bella had to wake up in the middle of the night just to talk to me.
“Sorry, B.”
I can tell just by her tone she’s flapping away my concerns. “No apology necessary. However, you could make it up to me,” she sings.
Anything.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Dinner tonight? At mine and Grayson’s?”
I can’t stop my smile from stretching. It feels so good to hear those words, not only because I can just pop over and see my best friend whenever I want and not through a tiny phone screen, but the fact that I was right all along on the chemistry between her and Grayson.
I’ve never seen such a perfect match outside of my parents but I knew it the second I saw them together at the charity event.
“Of course! Honestly, anything to distract me from the lack of emails hitting my inbox.”
I knew it would be hard to find a job. I have no experience, never went to college, and barely passed high school.
Not from a lack of intelligence, but no one can do well in school when they miss more days than they attend and they have brain fog so bad it makes them forget how to spell their own name.
That was an embarrassing moment, to say the least.
I’ve been back for two weeks and I hit the ground running. I applied to over thirty-four jobs the week before I left Berlin, only to land in Colorado with a zero response rate.
“Still nothing?”
I sigh down the line. “Nothing.” Quickly changing the subject, I perk up, moving off my bed to get changed into something other than my tracksuit pants. “Nothing that your amazing cooking can’t distract me from. I’ll be over in twenty!”
I all but fly through getting ready, desperate to leave my childhood bedroom.
I’m mentally reviewing other options I should try for work, because paying back my parents’ retirement fund is my top priority, when I come to a dead stop in the entryway of Bella and Grayson’s home.
There’s a tiny human standing in the middle of the hall blinking up at me with big brown eyes.
Before I can stop myself, I’m frowning down at her.
Is this why Bella invited me over? Did they adopt a child without telling me beforehand?
She sucks on her thumb, her clothes far too small for her body. Jesus, why isn’t she wearing clothes that fit her?
Squatting down so I’m at eye line with her, I smooth out my furrowed brows and smile, clocking how she’s watching my every move. “Hi! I’m a friend of Bella’s. My name’s Layla.” I keep imploring her with my smile as she continues to stare. “Do you have a name?”
She shakes her head ever so slowly.
I chuckle softly. “You don’t have a name?”
She keeps shaking her head.
Stumped, I choose to go along with it. “Do you want a name?”
Twin dimples pop out to greet me as she smiles around her thumb.
I tap on my chin, dramatically thinking. “Hmm, what shall your name be? How about…Princess Eddie?”
Her little nose wrinkles and I mirror her, pretending to vomit. “You’re right, not a good name for a princess.”
Flicking my gaze behind her, I can hear faint voices that seem to be coming from the backyard. Maybe I’m not the only one they invited over. I highly doubt Bella adopted a kid without telling me; we tell each other everything. Even I have to admit that train of thought was a bit of a leap.
Looking back down at the girl, I hum under my breath, continuing with this spiel. “What about Princess Mia?” I suggest, thinking of The Princess Diaries.
She shakes her head, far more emphatically than the first time, that smile still shining.
“Queen Lilly?”
A giggle flies past her thumb and a spark of happiness flares in my chest at her adorably soft laugh. I swear, the cutest sound in this world is children laughing.
I chuckle along with her. “You like being a queen?”
Her head nods this time so much I have to reach out and gently cup her arm to steady her before she topples over her own two feet.
Putting on a posh British accent, I ask, “And what is your name, my queen?” I finish with a head bow.