Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The mansion appears through the windshield like a hallucination. Four stories of limestone and glass, perched above the frozen creek, flanked by a sweep of manicured hedges and naked rosebushes bristling with old thorns. I roll to a stop at the curb, engine humming in the cold, and just sit. The manor is silent, lights off except for the faint gold glow leaking from the library window.
I carry my bags up the walk. The chill air is so thin and dry that it burns inside my nose. My hands, already numb, fumble for the key that’s always tucked in the flowerpot. The lock sticks, as if the door is trying to hold me outside.
Inside, the silence has teeth. No echo of TV from the den, no clatter from the kitchen, no Jeannine clacking around in high heels, commanding the cleaning service. Just the creak of my boots on Italian tile, the faint smell of lemon polish, and the distant hush of the heating system. There are still faint scratches on the doorframe from where Kent’s old dog, Basil, used to paw for attention, but the pooch’s been dead for years.
I drag my bags into the foyer, letting the wheels rattle over the grout lines. The art on the walls is still the same: a cold watercolor of the Amalfi coast, a moody oil portrait of a woman with a broken nose and piercing blue eyes. There’s an absurd amount of space, as if the house is built for a family of twenty. The emptiness breathes around me, making every movement a performance for an invisible audience.
I call out, “Mom?”
No answer. Just the click of my own voice ricocheting through the front rooms. I check the time—only four-thirty. Jeannine said she’d be here after five. She had some kind of luncheon to attend, although why those things end so late, I have no idea.
I drag my suitcase to the grand staircase. The steps are wide enough to land a plane on, each one trimmed in dark cherry wood and thick, soundless carpet. I feel ridiculous, a college girl in a battered sweatshirt and leggings, hauling a Target suitcase up a luxurious staircase.
At the top, I pass by Kent’s office—door closed, totally silent. He’s not home, but there’s a subtle shift in the air here, as if the molecules themselves are under stricter supervision. I move faster, shoes muffled by the carpet runner, until I reach the third-floor landing and the hallway I used to call home.
My room is exactly as I left it when I moved out for college. Pastel blue walls, the corkboard still pinned with AP exam schedules and a wrinkled Taylor Swift poster, the shelf above the window lined with a military parade of cheerleading trophies and three years’ worth of Show Choir ribbons. My old twin bed is dwarfed by a headboard upholstered in cream velvet, the comforter pulled tight and perfect as a hotel suite. The desk holds a single bottle of perfume (Juicy Couture, half-empty) and a stack of SAT prep books.
I set my suitcase down and look at myself in the mirror. The girl in the reflection is an older version of the teen this room was built for: a half-inch taller, blonde hair grown out in luscious waves, hips and bust that don’t fit the memory of my cheerleader body. The old pink desk lamp is still shaped like a daisy, and it throws a petal-shaped shadow across my cheekbones.
I stand for a while, unzipping my suitcase but not unpacking it, letting the new version of myself leak into the static air of my old life. The feeling is so dissonant it makes my teeth ache.
After a minute, I start refolding my sweaters and stacking them in the closet, which still smells faintly of last spring’s dryer sheets. The action is pointless—nobody will see them—but I do it anyway, arranging the knits by color, then by thickness, then by how likely I am to wear them in the coming week. With each pass, the stack becomes more orderly, and my breathing slows.
Once, I pause, holding a tattered copy of the Rick Steves guidebook to my chest, thumbing the creased cover as if it might still open a portal. I picture Kent standing in the library, reading over a patient chart or scrolling through Italian phrases on his phone, dark and handsome, with a gleam in those blue eyes. The image makes my mouth go dry.
The silence of the house isn’t peaceful though; it’s the kind of silence that swallows up all attempts at noise. Even with the heating running, even with the ticking of the hallway clock, every sound I make is immediately absorbed, leaving nothing behind.
After I finish arranging the closet, I sit at the edge of the bed. The mattress is unfamiliar, plush yet firm, the opposite of my broken-down mattress at the apartment. I slide the Rick Steves guidebook under my pillow, as if it’s a forbidden diary, and open my laptop to check on a class discussion board. The Wi-Fi here is faster than god, but I can’t focus on the screen.