The House

  It was as if before the house had stood straight, paying attention, on its best behavior. Here she saw it as it was: an aberration, come together all wrong, with walls pushed together in wavy lines here, in sharp edges there.

  The thunk of Gavin’s backpack hitting the floor pulled Delilah out of her thoughts, and she blinked hard, looking away from the crooked walls and up at Gavin’s relaxed smile. Behind him, the stems of a plant hanging near the front door began to sway gently, its leaves turning upward, leaning toward him.

  “It’s happy to see you,” Delilah noted flatly, handing her jacket to Gavin with slightly shaking hands. She’d made the observation before, but somehow, this time, the house’s reactions to Gavin felt syrupy, and—Delilah hated to admit it—pointed. As if it were reminding her what it had said the day before: But he’s ours.

  He looked around for a moment and shrugged. “Yeah.”

  They walked through the living room and into the bright kitchen. Gavin reached into the refrigerator to grab a pitcher of milk, setting it down next to a plate of cookies on the table.

  The chair next to Delilah slid back, its feet barely making a sound against the wood floor. She sat down gingerly, almost as if she expected it to be pulled from beneath her at any moment. “So this is just waiting for you every day?” she asked.

  Gavin poured milk into the two waiting glasses. “Pretty much. Or a sandwich.”

  Delilah took a cookie, finding it still warm. “Crazy,” she said.

  Gavin laughed and took the seat next to her, tossing an entire cookie into his mouth, saying, “I guess so,” around it.

  “And it’s just always been that way?”

  “For as long as I can remember, yeah.” Gavin stood and they made their way into the dining room, where he pulled a pad of paper from a stack near the door. “I think I’ll draw you in here, by Piano,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. “This room has the best light.”

  Delilah had to focus on not becoming distracted by the sight of him with his sketchbook, the way his fingers looked with the dark piece of charcoal clenched between them. He sat down next to her again and flipped to a blank page. “Look at me,” he said, voice quiet and a little scratchy, sounding like his short fingernails might feel if he dragged them slowly down her bare back.

  Blinking up to his face, Delilah felt her heart squeeze, wringing tightly.

  “You’re so pretty,” he said to her mouth, and then he looked down, starting his drawing with the simple bow of her bottom lip.

  Her “Thanks” came out tight and nearly silent.

  “Wonder how I got such a pretty girlfriend,” he murmured, looking up to study her again before starting to draw the heart-shaped outline of her face.

  The room cooled in a silent rush, but Gavin didn’t seem to notice, and Delilah had to wonder whether it was her imagination. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t be a baby.

  “I know you had a friend over that one time, when we were eleven. Just before I was sent away. But how many people have you had over here your whole life?” she asked, looking out the kitchen window. She felt like the trees were all leaning in close to get a look inside. Purple figs and red cherries blocked the late-afternoon sun.

  Gavin shrugged, scratching his cheek with a charcoal-covered fingertip. It left a soft bruise of black on his skin, and Delilah reached forward, wiping it away just as he said, “Maybe two other people.”

  “And it was weird?” She could see how it would be weird now. She could barely see how it would feel normal. For a tight pulse, Delilah wanted the delirious, giddy thrill to return. She wanted to be enamored with the house again.

  But Gavin didn’t answer aloud. He just nodded, lost in drawing the determined point of her chin.

  “And you’re never lonely?”

  This time she knew it wasn’t her imagination when the room grew cold. Even Gavin looked up at the ceiling, at the walls, saying with quiet emphasis, “Sometimes for people but not for company.”

  The room warmed again. But it was as if her brain were on a roll and her mouth couldn’t slow down the momentum: “So what does happen when you leave?”

  Gavin stopped with a cookie perched at the edge of his mouth. “Leave?”

  She nodded, wary of the way the walls seemed to be slowly pressing in. But it was as if she’d loosened a boulder and no longer had control over the course it would take crashing down the hill. She felt a little reckless, a little angry. Maybe her mother was right after all.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes widening slightly as if to warn her.

  “Well, this is our last year of high school,” she said. Delilah blinked up to the window and swallowed, gathering courage to finish her thought. There was some tightness inside her, an itch to make the point. Maybe to provoke and see if she really was imagining things. Even though the itch was chased with an uneasy chill, she couldn’t help herself: “What happens next year? Where will you live when you’re at college or when you get married or whatever?”

  This time the room cooled so quickly her breath puffed out like a cloud of smoke in front of her.

  Gavin’s brows drew together, and he looked up toward the ceiling again, his eyes narrowing at the chandelier that had started to sway above their heads. Abruptly, a great crack sounded through the entire house, and the walls of the kitchen began to pulse and throb, the house shaking so violently that Delilah braced a hand over each of her ears to muffle the sound.

  “What’s happening?” she shouted, looking around wildly.

  “I. . . I’m not sure!” Gavin stood from his chair, and it toppled over behind him. “Stop it,” he yelled. “She didn’t mean anything!”

  Delilah pushed herself from the table and began walking backward. “Gavin! What’s going on?”

  His eyes were wide and dark, his pupils so large they eclipsed the slightly lighter brown of his irises. “I think you better go,” he shouted above the noise. “It’s just upset. I need to talk to it.”

  The rug rolled beneath her feet, causing her to stumble, and she gripped the edge of the piano for balance. It shook her off, but Delilah managed to right herself again. The ceiling began to heave, and Delilah didn’t need to be told twice. She ran instinctively for the door.

  The handle wouldn’t turn under her wildly shaking hand, and she stood there, madly rattling the knob until Gavin’s hand wrapped around hers, gently prying it away.

  He opened it easily enough, and with his house rocking all around him, Delilah raced out the door.

  • • •

  She didn’t stop running until she was almost home, until the sun had fallen behind the houses and the light posts had flickered to life up and down the empty street. She pressed her back against the trunk of a large tree and looked back the way she’d come. The sidewalk behind her was empty, but it didn’t feel abandoned. The street had an eerie feeling of fullness, as if the awareness of the house had somehow followed her all the way here.

  Delilah closed her eyes and tried to still her shaking hands. Her lungs burned with each gulp of icy air. Her heart was pounding; her breath pushed from her chest in heavy gasps.

  Gavin hadn’t followed her. She began to pace up and down the sidewalk, occasionally glancing back in the direction of his house. Where was he? Why hadn’t he followed her? Wasn’t he scared? Wasn’t he worried? Hadn’t he seen the way the walls had bowed and shook, like someone taking a deep breath before bellowing out in rage?

  She wondered briefly if she should go back for him, but her feet felt planted to the spot like they were encased in cement. She didn’t want to go back, but she couldn’t leave him there, either.

  She’d left her coat at Gavin’s house but had luckily kept her phone with her. She heard Gavin’s familiar text tone from the front pocket of her skirt and fumbled to reach it. Her fingers were cold and numb, and she almost dropped it twice in her haste to read his message.

  I’m ok, but it won’t let me out. I promise I’ll see you tomorrow. H
ouse is just upset, and I need to calm it down. I’m sorry.

  Delilah wasn’t sure what to do. Did she leave him there to fend for himself? Should she call someone? Who would she tell? Her parents? The police? As if he could read her mind, a second message appeared on the screen.

  Don’t worry about me, Delilah. House loves me. I’m safe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Him

  Gavin wondered how long it would take for Delilah to find him.

  He knew she was probably confused, or worried, or maybe even a little mad, having not found him waiting at their usual spot before school. In truth, he’d felt a bit like a criminal as he’d slipped out the front door, the sky still dark and the school halls still empty, early enough that he could escape into a windowless practice room unnoticed.

  The music buildings were essentially a row of temporary trailers lifted from the ground by ugly blocks of cement and connected to an unreliable, rickety generator. The district had always intended to build a more permanent arts building—or so they said—but Gavin liked the hollow sound of his footsteps as he walked up the ramp to the doors, and the way the quiet seemed to seal him in when he closed the aluminum door.

  For the past three and a half years the practice rooms had provided an odd sort of sanctuary: soundproofed and separated from the main buildings of the school by a long stretch of grass used for phys ed classes, it was where Gavin would go when he was mad at House for one reason or another, when he’d broken up with a girl or she’d broken up with him, or when he simply found people and their general assholery too much to bear and needed to really feel alone. Even now, when he was starting to suspect he wasn’t ever really by himself, it was quiet enough inside the practice rooms to feel as if he were.

  It wasn’t that he was avoiding Delilah exactly, more that he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know what had happened yesterday. He was still reeling himself and couldn’t quite get past the look of terror on her face, the way she’d been so scared she couldn’t even turn the doorknob to get out. Gavin wanted to apologize, and he wanted to explain.

  The problem was, he had no idea what to say.

  It was only a matter of time before Delilah realized he wasn’t coming to class and would slip out, determined to find him. Which wasn’t a bad thing, really—Gavin couldn’t think of much he’d enjoy more than getting a few moments alone with her, but he was no closer to an answer now than he’d been last night.

  Had House ever reacted that way before? Gavin tried to think back but couldn’t recall anything. Neighbors had always steered clear of House; trick-or-treaters walked straight past its gate. Door-to-door salespeople might stand on the sidewalk outside, narrowing their eyes as they peered up through the wrought-iron bars and tangle of vines, but they never came any closer. The only people who came to the door were deliverymen bringing packages, the occasional doctor making a house call, Dave with his grocery delivery, and now Delilah. Gavin’s friends were the kind he would talk to in class occasionally, or stand near during PE. He didn’t have any who would think to come over after school or on the weekend; he didn’t have relatives to speak of. It had been only him and House for most of his life. It had never seemed strange until now.

  He’d never imagined when or where he would move someday. At nearly eighteen, he barely thought beyond the next week. But he also never believed House expected him to live there forever, alone.

  After last night. . . he wasn’t so sure.

  Gavin didn’t know much about religion—it seemed a thing people pulled out when they needed and disregarded when it suited their purpose—but he remembered finding an old Bible wedged under a loose board in his bathroom. A marble had fallen to the floor and rolled beneath the wooden armoire before he could reach it. It was his favorite—an oxblood swirl—and so he’d crawled over to get it, cheek pressed to the cool wood and arm stretched into the dusty shadows. His fingers had stumbled along the groove where two planks had lifted, and he’d felt the worn leather and embossed pages. He’d marveled over his secret find, somehow knowing he wasn’t supposed to have it. The paper was so thin, like flower petals, and he wondered how something could seem so sturdy and also so delicate.

  Over the years he’d read a few passages at a time, alone, sitting on the edge of the tub. “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,” Song of Solomon 6:31. Few passages had stuck with him, but that one had. He had likened it to how House felt about him and how he felt about it in return. They belonged to each other. And so Gavin had sensed the change—the slight shift in the air—long before Delilah had, and had known that something bad was about to happen. He’d felt it in the pit of his stomach, in the way the hairs on the back of his neck had prickled and risen along his skin. Fear inched up his spine, not for himself, but for Delilah. For a flash, he’d been afraid for her. And now he had to face her, wanted to see her, but how could he explain something he didn’t quite understand himself?

  Now, hunched over the piano in the music room, he pressed a few keys before erasing a series of notes on the sheet music in front of him. Penciling in a few more, he tried the combination again. It wasn’t exactly what he heard in his mind’s ear, but he was satisfied he was on the right track. Gavin had always had a knack for the arts, and his hobbies—music and sketching—filled most of his free time. Though he had a perfectly good instrument at home, he preferred the quiet solitude of the soundproof room when composing to sitting with Piano, who seemed to anticipate his moods and know what he was going to play before even he did.

  Gavin’s hands stilled at the sound of the door opening and closing behind him. Footsteps moved across the carpet and stopped a few feet away. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting Delilah’s eyes.

  He’d known that she would be worried about him, but he was unprepared for the wave of guilt as he took in her appearance. She looked tired. Her eyes were heavy, smudged with dark circles beneath. Left out of its usual braid, her light brown hair hung in thick waves that framed her face. His fingers itched to push it back, to feel it wrapped around his fist. He wondered if she had any idea how much older she looked right now—not a teenager but a woman, with passion and fire and a protective streak that rocked him—or how much it made him want to kiss her. And more.

  Obviously uncomfortable under his gaze, Delilah gathered her hair over one shoulder and began to braid it. “I was in a hurry this morning,” she explained.

  “I like it down. You look pretty.”

  Delilah shook her head. “I don’t feel pretty,” she replied. “I feel sick to my stomach.”

  Gavin moved over on the bench and motioned for her to sit next to him. “I think that’s my fault.”

  “Maybe a little. Were you avoiding me this morning?”

  He considered his answer before saying it. He knew enough about girls to know they thought differently from boys and that Delilah might read into what he said. He wasn’t avoiding her exactly, just trying to gather his thoughts.

  “Yes,” he said, before quickly adding, “and no. I wasn’t sure what to say to you. How to explain what happened.”

  “It was scary.”

  “I know.”

  “Did it eventually calm down?”

  “Yeah.” What Gavin didn’t say was that it had calmed down almost as soon as she’d vaulted out the front door, though it had taken hours before the strangeness had stopped entirely. The floors vibrated gently, and random doors opened and slammed themselves shut again for the rest of the night. It was like watching a parent rumble and grouse about a misbehaving teen. “It didn’t mean to scare you,” he explained, although the words felt a little sour on his tongue. “It’s just how House. . . gets upset.”

  Delilah digested his answer, her eyes moving over his scribbled sheet music. He could feel the obvious question bubbling up inside her. “Has that ever happened before?” she asked.

  “No. . . ,” he hedged. “But I’ve also never brought a girlfriend home before, remember?”

  It was such a
n odd feeling to be so protective of House and also of his relationship with Delilah. The warring feelings made him faintly nauseous.

  “Then how do you know why it was like that?”

  Gavin lifted one shoulder in a slow shrug. The casual gesture felt wrong, dishonest somehow. “I just do. House is as much of a parent as I’ve ever had. It got upset when you brought up the idea of me moving away. It would never hurt anyone. It’s not bad, Delilah. Just. . .”

  “Just afraid of you leaving,” she finished for him. She said it like it was a fact, as if she’d spent some time with this particular thought before.

  “I suppose so. This is all new—this meeting new people. It’s never had to share me before, not really. I’ve never brought up wanting to leave. I guess House isn’t sure how to deal with it yet.”

  Delilah ran her finger along the glossy keys, applying just enough pressure to feel the smoothness against her fingertip, not hard enough to play a note. “Don’t you ever wonder what happened to your parents? It’s weird, after what happened yesterday, that we never talk about why it’s just you and that house.”

  Gavin plucked at a few keys, absently, the F and G in six slow beats, then the E and G. The subject just sort of made him. . . tired. Delilah couldn’t know how many hours, how many days or weeks or even months of his life he’d spent thinking about parents, about a mother to wrap her arms around him when he was sick or a father to help him build his airplanes, play music, just. . . talk to. “I used to think of them all the time. I went through an obsessive find everything stage when I was about seven, but I only have one picture. She had brown hair. That’s literally the extent of my knowledge.”

  Delilah slid her hand over his knee and midway up this thigh. “Maybe you look like her.”

  It was only the solid weight of Delilah’s hand on his leg that anchored Gavin to the room and kept him from slipping into that place he rarely let himself go, where he thought—really thought—about his mom. Gavin did have her hair. He had her pale skin and wide, dark eyes. He had the same nose he’d seen mirrored in a faded and crumpled photograph. She had a heart-shaped face—he remembered that much—and a guarded, wary smile. Gavin thought he shared that with her too.