Modern furniture that looks like it belongs in a showroom. White walls, white counters, a kitchen that seems like it’s never been cooked in. Art gives me the tour like a Realtor, pointing out the view from the primary bedroom and the wine cellar and the home office where his father “handles business.”
I smile and nod and make the right sounds, and the whole time I’m thinking about a cabin with dog hair on the couch and a pink stuffed duck on the counter and a man who teaches that dog to shake with the wrong paw and makes me bad coffee.
“Make yourself at home,” Art says, setting my bag in his bedroom. “I’ve got some calls to make. Business stuff.”
“Sure.”
I don’t ask if his dad’s here, because the thought of running into Franklin Penngrove is too much for me to handle.
He kisses my cheek and disappears into the office, closing the door behind him.
I sit on the bed. It’s enormous. California king, crisp white sheets, and it’s perfectly made. It smells like Art’s cologne and something sterile, like a hotel room that gets cleaned but never lived in. I unpack slowly, listening to the murmur of Art’s voice through the wall.
An hour passes, and I’m too antsy to sit still, so I try to call my father, my anxiety ratcheting higher when again, he doesn’t answer, and then I wander the house, opening cabinets, learning the layout the way Lance taught me.
Know your exits. Know your space. Know what’s behind every door.
Art’s father’s office door is closed. I press my ear to it, the way I did at Lance’s bedroom this morning, and this time, the voices carry.
“…tonight. Midnight. The usual setup,” Art says and then pauses. “He knows what’s expected, Benny,Christ.”
My spine stiffens.That’s what he was talking to Lance about. A fight.
“Yeah, I called Myrddin, asked him to be here personally for it.”
My hand is trembling against the door. My pulse is so loud I’m afraid they’ll hear it through the wood.
“Don’t fucking worry about, Gin. She’s here with me. She’s not going anywhere.”
I think I might be sick.I back away from the door on silent feet, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Lance is fighting tonight. And Art just talked about me like I’m a problem he’s solved.
I move numbly through the house, and sit on the pristine white couch in the keeping area and stare at the wall.
Patient. Waiting. Then you strike.Lance’s voice plays on a loop.
But I’m not striking tonight. Tonight, I’m going to the Lye, because the man I love is walking into a cage and I refuse to let him do it alone.
I spend the rest of the afternoon performing. I make dinner and I smile, and let Art pour me wine and tell me about his plans for “us” with an enthusiasm that would be touching if I hadn’t just heard him schedule Lance’s beating over speakerphone.
At ten, Art yawns and stretches. “I’ve got to head out for a bit.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Rosebrook never sleeps, but don’t worry, my dad’s out of town, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” He winks. Kisses me. “Don’t wait up. You work tomorrow?”
I nod.
“I’ll take you.”
“I’d love that.”
The door closes behind him, and his car pulls away. I sit on the couch in the dark for ten minutes, and then I go back to his bedroom.
I tell myself I’m just unpacking. Getting settled. Doing the thing a normal fiancée would do when she moves into her boyfriend’s house. But my hands don’t reach for my duffel. They reach for his nightstand drawer, his dresser, the shelf in his closet behind a row of suits that smell like old money and secrets.
That’s where I find the boxes.
