by Sara Ney
I clench my teeth.
We stroll along, and I’ve given up on polite conversation—I’m not entirely sure Kaylee knows what that is given that she’s fixated on my father dying and me inheriting a title I’ll never inherit.
Unbelievable.
Her smile might make it worth the cringeworthy moments.
Kaylee’s hand is back around my bicep, wrapped there for safekeeping as we walk back to her house, and I see it in plain sight, set amongst the administration buildings.
“What’s the history behind this house?”
She shuffles her feet, almost tripping on the uneven pavement. “I don’t know—some friends of ours lived there, then my sister moved in when she was here, then Lilly, Eliza, and I moved in when she and her friends graduated.” Her chin tilts up a notch. “It’s one of those places that never goes up for rent. Everyone wants to live there.”
“It looks old.”
Kaylee sniffs indifferently. “It probably is. The basement is freaky.”
By freaky I’m going to assume she means There’s no wine cellar down under the house.
As we get ready to step down from the sidewalk to cross the street, she looks over at me. “I bet you’ve been inside tons of mansions, living in England and all.”
Mansions? “We call them estates back home. Or castles. Only the Queen has palaces, except a handful of noblemen.” I give her a brief lesson in our culture, though I’m not sure she’s listening. “Most of the big estates name their houses, such as Clarence House.”
Come to think of it, there are so many words for large stately home—Park. Hall. None of them are mansion.
“So have you been in one?”
“Sure. Loads of my chums from school live in old estates.”
She sighs. “That’s so cool. I wish I had friends who lived in palatial estates.”
I shrug, used to going to homes that have been in families for generations. “Britain is the oldest country in the world.” Not really, but it’s not like she’s going to correct me. “Most of the houses are hundreds of years old, or older.”
A fact I probably take for granted.
Everything in America feels so new, with very little historical significance, having only been a country for a few hundred years.
Pfft.
I scoff at the fact and tip my chin up.
There are no lights on inside Kaylee’s house—nothing in the front room and no lights glowing from any of what must be bedrooms—and it’s not terribly late, so I wonder if anyone is home.
Anyone.
Ha.
Anyone being Eliza.
I wouldn’t hate it if we ran into her.
She’s funny and interesting and we have a few things in common: comics and action figures and…breakfast food.
“I have some scones inside if you want one,” Kaylee says as she punches in the keypad code that’s on the door, smiling over her shoulder, pushing it open. “You are coming in, right?”
The kitchen is dark, and she has to flip the switches on.
“Is anyone home?”
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” She turns to face me, looking very much like a femme fatale.
I gulp.
I don’t want to get trapped in the house with her, but here I am, in the house with her, no real reason to flee.
No reason other than: I’m not all that interested in being trapped in her web, not even for a quick shag.
Kaylee does not strike me as the type who is a love ’em and leave ’em kind of girl—she strikes me as the type who’s going to slash my truck tires if she doesn’t get her way, sweet smile or not.
I’m not letting it fool me. She’s been putting off too many gold-digger vibes.
I trust her…but I don’t.
Wondering how the hell I’m going to escape now that it’s been determined we’re in the house alone, I do a once-over of the kitchen before allowing myself to step all the way inside. Glance toward the back of the house to the den—or living room, as it were—listening for any trace of another human.
Of Eliza? Or—isn’t there a second roommate prattling about? Where could she be?
It feels like I’m entering a trap, an elaborate web spun by a pretty college girl and one I have no idea how to get out of.
I’m not that crafty or smart.
A better man wouldn’t have come into the house, but the fact is, I was hoping Eliza would be sitting on the far side of the couch when we shuffled inside.
Behind me, the door closes and clicks shut. Part of me waits for the sinister sound of Kaylee locking deadbolts and sliding chains to keep me in, but none of that comes.
Huh.
Okay, fine.
Perhaps I’m being dramatic.
A tad.
“Tell me more about your family,” Kaylee says as she sets down her small purse, unbuckles her shoes.
I glance around curiously, ignoring her question. She’s asked enough about my family—I have zero interest in entertaining her ideas.
“Where do you suppose everyone is?”
She slithers toward me. “Why? Are you afraid someone is going to walk in on us?”
Yes, but not for the reasons she thinks.
I want to joke around with Eliza and maybe have a good laugh tonight as opposed to…whatever this is.
Kaylee is all fine and good, but she’s not all that fun.
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” I boast, not bothering to take off my trainers, though their little house is very clean and tidy, with a row of shoes by the door.
“No, I don’t suppose you would be,” she practically purrs.
“So where did you say everyone is?”
She sighs. “Lilly is at her boyfriend’s house, and I think Eliza went home this weekend. Something about her cousin’s baby shower?”
Her cousin’s baby shower.
“Does she have a large family, then?” I shake my head. “Never mind, who cares.”
This seems to make Kaylee happy and she nods, shucking off the denim jacket she’s had on.
Beneath it, she has on a tank top and jeans, slightly inappropriate given how cold it was today—sexy, though—and I give her an appreciative once-over.
Never hurts a bloke to look, eh?
Don’t feel like touching, at least not yet. Like I said, Kaylee seems like the sticky sort of girl, one who won’t go quietly if things go sour.
How do I know this when I don’t actually know anything about her? I don’t, it’s just a feeling I get. A vibe.
That look in her eye.
Kaylee is competitive. You don’t make a cheer squad at university if you’re lazy and unmotivated—you set a goal and go after it. I’m sensing she rolls this way in most things, not just sports.
Speaking of Kaylee…
She’s eyeing me up now from the entrance of the living room or den or whatever they call it, wearing just jeans and her little skimpy tank top. She crooks a finger at me so I will follow her into the next room.
Not sure she’s wearing a bra; doubt it by the way her nipples are provocatively poking through the thin fabric.
I hesitate to follow her, I don’t want to lead her on, and I don’t want to be trapped inside the house without anyone here.
I also don’t want to go home alone to an empty house. Nor do I want to go back to the rugby house with all of its chaos and loud noise.
At first I thought I would really like Kaylee’s company. She seemed sweet and kind, but with a little bit of time, the real her has started to show through cracks in her exterior. Her real motivations behind pursuing me.
And pursue me she has…
“Are you coming all the way in?” She is watching me intently even while she flicks on a lamp next to the sofa. “Don’t be scared, I don’t bite.”
“Ha!” I try to make a jest of my actual fears—that she actually does bite and it will hurt.
What a wanker I’ve turned out to be!
My goal when I moved to the States was to not
only get an education but to sleep my way around campus and expel Caroline from my system like an exorcism. That hasn’t happened yet, though, and it won’t if I don’t stop overthinking everything and just enjoy myself.
Maybe I was with Caroline for too long—I don’t seem to know what the fuck I’m doing, though everyone on this bloody campus seems to think I do.
It’s my size.
Half the population here thinks I’m a Neanderthal, the other half just wants to hear my accent.
“Are you always this quiet?”
“Am I being quiet? I hadn’t noticed.” I’ve been rudely lost in thought, apparently, based on the way Kaylee is staring at me. “Sorry.”
“Is something wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…it doesn’t seem like you even want to kiss me, yet you come to my house and flirt. Did I say something to upset you? Guys don’t usually act like this.”
It’s obvious she is confused, and I don’t blame her—I have sent mixed messages, and the main one is I’m coming to the house in the first place when I don’t actually want to be here. I’m using her because I don’t want to be alone.
“I don’t usually like to just dive right into a relationship,” I explain. “I like to take my time and get to know someone first.”
She watches me from her place on the couch. “Are you being serious?”
Not really, but I’m not about to tell her that to her face.
It’s been forever since I’ve actually been in a new relationship, and I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. So yeah, I want to take my time. I have no idea how this works anymore. I haven’t even online-dated, let alone taking anyone out. Or making out with someone in the living room of her house.
“All right,” Kaylee finally says. “If you don’t wanna fool around, what do you want to do? Talk?”
“Yeah, actually—talking sounds great.”
Her face falls. “Okay, uh…this is new territory for me.” She hesitates, and I know she’s waiting for me to say something more. Perhaps pick a topic?
I glance around the room, taking in the well-appointed furniture. It’s much more suited to an actual family—almost similar to my own place. Has me wondering where all the high-end stuff came from and whose parents are paying for it all.
“My parents own a furniture store,” Kaylee admits with a shrug as if it were no big deal.
Oh, that makes sense. I was wondering why everything is so nice when most people live in shitehole apartments and none of their stuff goes together. Almost as if they went shopping out on the curb during trash day.
She laughs. “It was nice moving in and having new stuff. I’m not spoiled or anything though—my mom insisted.”
But she is kind of spoiled—I can tell. Not that I am one to judge given the way I grew up, but I haven’t met many people in America who live the same way I do. They don’t come around very often, these well-to-do peers of mine; this isn’t an Ivy League school. We’re in middle-of-the-road America, not on one of the coasts where people pay forty or fifty thousand dollars a year to send their spawn to college.
“Can I get a tour?” We’ve naught else to do, it seems, and she’s not a great conversationalist. Neither am I in her company.
Kaylee lifts herself off the couch without any further prompting and stretches.
“Sure, of course. Right this way.” She gestures, putting on a show of a grand tour of their small house. “You’ve seen the kitchen. Here is the tiny dining room. Mostly we just toss our shit on the table.”
Off the kitchen through a rounded doorway is a little room I hadn’t noticed, a dining room with a circular table, no chairs. The girls seem to be using it as a makeshift office, with a printer in the corner and stacks of printer paper and office supplies set on the counter of a built-in hutch.
I raise my brows.
Fascinating how other people live. I would never think to use my dining room as a drop zone, but to each his own.
I peel my eyes away as Kaylee leads me to the hallway where the bedrooms are located, accented with another flourish.
She stops in front of the door of the first room on the left.
Bathroom perhaps?
The door is closed, and she slowly turns the knob, pushing it open a few inches; it’s dark so she flips on the light.
“This is Lilly’s room—she’s not here very often. Spends loads of time with her boyfriend.” Kaylee rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
The room is painted a cream color and has nothing on the walls—it’s staid and boring, just a twin bed and a desk. Beige comforter, no throw pillows.
“This room belongs to a female? Huh. Never would’ve guessed.”
“Lilly is an architecture major—she likes things neat and clean. Simple, you know?”
Ah, now that makes sense.
I have a few friends like that, architecturally minded or accountants, who live life a little differently than I do. More structured and finite, whatever that means.
And this room is obviously the bathroom. Kaylee pushes open another door that is partially closed so I can peer inside the water closet; it’s severely outdated with pink tile, a pink toilet, and a pink bathtub—though they’ve tried to make it cute by adding a fun, patterned shower curtain. On the counter are curling irons and flat irons, hairspray, and whatever styling products girls use.
It’s a bit of a mess if I’m being honest.
I also doubt I would fit beneath the spray of the showerhead. It doesn’t look that high, but then again people weren’t as tall as they are now back when this house was probably built.
I nod to signal that I’ve seen enough, so Kaylee shuts off the light and closes the door again.
The next door isn’t her bedroom, either. When she pushes that one open, she says, “This bedroom belongs to Eliza.”
I do my best not to crane my neck to get a better look, do my best not to ogle rudely. Staring at one’s tour guide’s roommate’s bedroom isn’t couth. It’s highly improper and what the fuck am I even talking about—this isn’t 1812.
The bedroom isn’t what I am expecting it to look like, though I haven’t given it much thought, ha!
It’s girly, painted the palest shade of pink, and accented in all white—a stark contrast to the posters and drawings hanging on the walls. If I’m being fair, the bedroom isn’t much different than mine—the feminine version. I am actually surprised Eliza doesn’t have Marvel comic bedding or at least a pillow or two thrown on the bed. But what she lacks there, she more than makes up for with the rest of the decor.
She must really love cartooning.
And based on some of the sketches she has hanging? She’s quite good at it.
Talented.
A natural, some would say…
I feel Kaylee watching me intently, so I shift my gaze and plaster on a smile so she can’t read my mind: Eliza is fucking awesome. And by awesome I mean: she makes me want to be her friend, and I’m only judging her by what’s in her bedroom, and the brief experience we had at the coffee shop when we were having breakfast.
And lunch.
It’s a bloody shame she isn’t home; then again, if she were, I wouldn’t be looking into her room right now, would I?
“You said Eliza was home for a wedding?”
“Baby shower.”
Yes, that’s right—a baby shower, whatever the bloody hell that means.
“Er, Kaylee,” I begin. “What exactly is a baby shower?”
Her eyes widen with surprise, then glee, and she laughs. “You don’t know what a baby shower is?”
I scowl, irritated that she’s now laughing at me, and not with me—another strike against her.
It was a simple question and there’s a bloody cultural difference. Has she not noticed my accent?
“You never know unless you inquire,” I say.
She pats my bicep. “A baby shower is to celebrate someone having a baby—for a pregnant woman. There will be food
and gifts, cake, that sort of thing.”
I nod. “Ah, I see.”
“Do you not have them in England?” She giggles.
My head slowly shakes. “Not that I’m aware of. Sounds…tacky, pandering for gifts. And expensive.”
Kaylee’s face falls but quickly recovers. “Oh, well—they’re a tradition here. They’re fun.”
I nod again. “I’m sure they are.”
Is it just me or do I sound like a prig?
Prudish and snotty?
The last room on the right takes no guesswork; Kaylee is using her index finger to open it, little grin tipping the corner of her mouth.
“And this is my room,” she declares, flicking the switch.
From the hallway, I peek inside.
Ribbons and trophies line a shelf, much like the equestrian ones my friends have from polo or whatever, but I’m guessing that’s not what these gleaming towers of accomplishment are from.
Another thing I notice about Kaylee’s room is that there are stuffed animals on the bed. I don’t know who told this girl those were good decorations or appealing to the male persuasion, but I am about to set her straight.
“So…where did all those stuffed animals come from?”
“I’ve been collecting them over the years.”
She walks into the bedroom and takes a pink stuffed bear in her arms, squeezing it. Then she fluffs the hair behind its ears as if it were an actual animal to be petted.
“This is Pink Bear.” She giggles. “When I was three, my dad gave me this for Valentine’s Day, and that’s what I named it because I wasn’t very original back then.” Another laugh. “I had a dog with spots named Spotty Dog, and a cat named Whiskers.” She demurely glances over at me with a smile on her face. “Did you have any pets growing up?”
“Yes, actually. We had some hounds my father used for hunting in the park.”
“You hunt in the park?”
Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and I give my head a shake. I’d forgotten that the word park means something entirely different in America than it does in England.
“Many times in England,” I explain, “a park is a large piece of land on an estate where there are fowl and stag. When I was growing up, my father used to also hunt fox for sport, but not so much anymore. Not since the animal rights activists latched onto that.” I chuckle. “Been a really long time, come to think of it—perhaps I was a young lad the last time he did.”