I’m not sure how much time passes when I hear the creak and gentle closing of the front door, followed by footsteps too heavy and fast to belong to my grandparents.
“Hello?” a voice calls.
Sitting up, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and brush the hair from my face, knowing damn well there’s no hiding my current state.
The footsteps grow louder by the second until the door to the bedroom swings open and Thayer’s muscled frame fills the doorway.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks.
I rise from the bed and slide my hands in the back pockets of my cutoff shorts. “I just needed a minute to myself.”
He studies me.
“There are just so many people … everywhere …” I continue.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shrug. “I … don’t know how to answer that.”
“I’m sorry.” He lifts a hand. “That’s a horrible question and I shouldn’t have asked. Obviously you’re not okay. I mean. You’re okay. But you’ve been through a lot. And … I’m going to shut up now.”
He smiles his perfect, straight, bright white smile and it instantly makes me reciprocate, almost like I have no control over my facial expressions. But it doesn’t stick for long.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“I saw you heading west after breakfast this morning. There’s really nothing on this side of the island except this cottage.”
“Oh. So you came looking for me? Like on purpose?”
He laughs under his breath, an easy, relaxed sort of chuff, like he finds my question adorable.
“I guess so,” he says. “Yeah. Guess I wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost or anything.”
“Appreciate it.” I don’t buy it for one second. “I should probably get back. It’s almost time to prep lunch.”
I squeeze through the doorway and make my way down the hall when I hear him say my name. Nothing else. Just … Lila. Turning back, I see he’s standing still, feet planted, in no rush to go anywhere.
“Yes?” I ask.
“If you ever want to talk …” he clears his throat. “I’m sure you miss your friends. And I know you’re going through a lot right now …”
There’s a gentleness about him, an easiness that I didn’t anticipate. It’s in the smoothness of his voice, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He never talks about himself—even during meals. He’s always asking everyone else what they’re doing or what’s going on in their lives. And it’s plain to see he’s the clear favorite among the three grandchildren. He’s the apple of Howard Bertram’s eye.
And I get it.
So far … he seems like a nice guy—a good person.
I almost wish he wasn’t.
I almost wish he fulfilled every stereotype I conjured up about someone with his name and his background and his family and his privileges.
But now all I feel is guilt and an onset of extreme self-awareness, suddenly second-guessing the placement of my hands or the puffiness of my eyes.
“Does this house have a name?” I ask, changing the subject because I feel another wave of emotions about to wash over me when I think too hard about his unexpected kindness.
“What?”
“You know. Like your house is The Ainsworth,” I say. “And Grandma and Grandpa’s house is The Hilliard. What do you call this one?”
Thayer shrugs before shaking his head. “Nothing. I guess we mostly pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“That’s kind of … sad. Is it weird that I feel sorry for this place?” I half-laugh.
He smirks. “Yeah.”
His on-the-spot honesty makes me respect him that much more.
“Back home, my mom had this friend, and she was always talking about how everything had a soul. People, animals, plants, even inanimate objects. Mom said even if that isn’t true, it doesn’t hurt to treat everything with respect, like it has feelings. I thought they were out of their minds, but I guess a little bit of them rubbed off on me.”
“You think the house’s feelings are hurt?” He scratches at his temple.
“Maybe. Sort of. So what if I do?” I bite my lower lip for a flash of a second. I’m teasing, flirting, and I shouldn’t be.
He doesn’t say anything, which makes this moment as awkward and nerve-wracking as possible. I swear I hear my heart beating in my ears—that, or it’s the whoosh and crash of the ocean outside. I’m too distracted right now to differentiate.
My mom’s crazy friend always talked about auras. I never saw them, never believed in them, but she claimed mine was dark red, which meant I was self-sufficient and able to persevere anything.
She also told me that at my mother’s funeral, so she might have simply been trying to comfort me.
If Thayer had an aura, I bet it would be light blue. The color of the sky. Serene and calm.
“You want to name the house?” he asks.
“What?”
“This cottage.” He glances up at the ceiling. “Give it a name. It can be your house. What’s your last name?”