Silas laughs too, his deep voice filling the car. His lips curve, and I can’t help but notice them, remembering the kiss he gave me a week ago. The fire he sparked in me, the way my body responded as if I were tuned to him in a way I’d never been with anyone else. That same pull I felt the day we almost?—
“My mom only dressed up to leave the house,” he says, cutting through my thoughts. “At home, she was always in sportswear.” He pauses, his voice tinged with bitterness. “And yeah, she doesn’t smile much because she’s terrified of wrinkles. It’s ironic, really, considering how much time she spends in a surgery room.”
I can hear the irritation in his tone when he talks about her, a tension I wasn’t expecting.
“Do you think anyone will recognize me?” I ask, half-joking but still curious.
He glances at me, studying my face like he’s searching for something, though I’m not sure what. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding less certain than I expected. “I wasn’t exactly open with my parents back in school. They didn’t really know my classmates.”
“Neither was I,” I murmur, more to myself than him, but it slips out aloud. This happens often around Silas—I can’t seem to keep my thoughts in check when we’re in the same space, or, in this case, the same car.
I shift my focus to the road ahead, reflecting on the past. My parents were always involved in school events—fairs, parties,—but they never really knew what went on. They didn’t know my friends either, or lack thereof.
“Are you still in touch with anyone?” Silas asks, his eyes on the road but glancing at me with fleeting curiosity.
I laugh, surprised by the question. He knows I didn’t have any real friends in school. “No, but I did run into Mateo about two years ago.”
At the mention of Mateo, Silas’s body tenses, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“He was with his wife and daughter,” I continue, as casually as I can, “just sightseeing in Central Park.”
Silas’s knuckles remain white for a beat longer, but then he relaxes, his hold loosening. “Daughter? Wow,” he mutters, his voice distant. “I guess everyone’s living the adult life now, huh?”
His words trail off, and I can tell he’s checked out of the conversation, lost somewhere else. His eyes seem to drift beyond the road like he’s caught in his own thoughts. I know the feeling. It happens to me all the time—my mind will seize on a thought, lock onto it like a predator, and suddenly the rest of the world fades. Conversations dissolve into background noise, and all I can do is chase that one idea to its end. I wonder wherehe’sgone, what thoughts have him so far away.
“Yeah, everyone seems to have their life together.”
Except for us.
Silas glances at me, catching the thought before I can stop it. “Well, maybe we just need more time.”
I whip around, horrified. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
His eyes glint with amusement. “Yep, you did.”
“Ugh, Ihatewhen that happens.”
He laughs, the sound warm and rich, and before I know it, his hand is on my knee, a gentle pat that sends a rush of heat through my body. It feels too intimate, too comfortable, but I don’t pull away. “I don’t mind,” he says, his voice soft, casual. “It’s like I can read your thoughts sometimes.”
“Yeah, but that’s not fair because I can’t read yours!” I protest, sounding more like a sulky kid than I’d like to admit.
“Oh, my mind’s wide open to you, Lauren.” He leans in just slightly, his voice dropping lower. “It’s just that you don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”
I fall silent, his words cutting through the lightness of the moment. He might be right. Something changed between us after his near-heart attack. There’s a part of Silas that seems unlocked now, and I’m scared to find out what’s behind that door. I’m scared because I need to control what I feel around him, and right now, control is slipping away. If I had to draw it, I’d picture a black knot tangled inside me, each twist and turn representing something dangerous and real:
Love.
Hatred.
Lust.
Admiration.
Each strand pulling me in a different direction, all leading back to him.
Silas’s parents' house is breathtaking—a stunning beach house with white and light wood paneling framed by Maple trees. It exudes understated wealth, the kind that’s so ingrained it doesn’t need to boast. As Silas pulls my suitcase from the trunk, the door swings open, and his mother, Mary, steps out. There’s a smile on her face—or at least whatshouldbe a smile. The tightness in her cheeks suggests she's spent more time with a surgeon than with a mirror. Silas wasn’t exaggerating when he said his mother practically lives in the surgery room. Her sharp cheekbones and wide eyes give her an oddly sculpted look.
“Silas!” she calls, her voice trying to sound enthusiastic as she descends the three steps to greet us.
