I’ll feel safer behind a closed door. Hopefully she doesn’t have a chandelier in there, too, and I can forget that I’m in the house of one of St. Carmen’s most influential families.
I cock my head, watching her. But then… I kind of like that I’m here. In the house of one of St. Carmen’s most influential families.
About to fuck their daughter.
I keep my smile to myself, loving that she’s suddenly nervous like it’s our first time.
Turning, she rounds the table and heads up the stairs, my eyes memorizing her body as I follow. When we reach the top, she veers left, and we head down a hallway, over hardwood floors decorated with white Persian runners and portraits on the walls in silver frames. Two blond kids on a beach, building a sandcastle. A little boy on her dad’s shoulder as Clay and her mom cheer next to him at a Florida State game. The two kids making faces for the camera under the water, in a pool.
Clay stops at the first door on the right, but I’m already staring ahead at the first door on the left, several feet farther down the hall. Dark blue, wooden letters that read HENRY hang on the door above a tin sign warning of “Gamer At Play—Do Not Disturb, No Girls Allowed (Except Mom)”.
She opens her door, but I tip my head toward her brother’s room. “Show me.”
She shifts, looking uneasy, but doesn’t budge.
I study her. “When’s the last time you were in there?”
“I don’t go in there.”
I know I shouldn’t press it. What happened to Clay is devastating and personal, but something pushes me toward her brother’s room, because I want more between us.
“No, just…” She calls, running up to catch me. “Another time, okay? Don’t ruin this. Don’t ruin tonight.”
“You were in my brother’s room,” I point out.
I saw the video. Everyone saw it. Macon wasn’t as livid as the rest of my brothers, though, because Macon doesn’t look for fights with frilly teenage girls who are just trying to get famous.
“Open the door, Clay.”
What happened to her brother had a profound impact on her. And on me, as it would turn out. I need this piece of her.
She opens the door, probably because she knows I’ll leave if she doesn’t.
I step inside, the room dim but the curtains open and shining moonlight on the floor. I walk into the room, keeping the lamps off and my feet gentle, as if too hard a step will be disrespectful.
His twin bed sits made without a single wrinkle on the blue duvet cover, the carpet beige, but everything else matches the bedspread. Light blue walls with white trim. Blue curtains. Bookshelves, posters, a desk with art supplies, and model cars and planes sit on shelves. A PS4 sits on a table under a flatscreen on the wall, and a gumball machine sits on top of his dresser, still half-full. A picture of him and some friends, or cousins maybe, stands next to it, all of them holding a papier-mâché planet they made in class or in summer camp. I lean in close, seeing the same smile on him that I see on Clay’s sometimes.
“He looked like he was going to be Jensen Ackles someday,” she says, sadness in her voice.
I look over, seeing she’s still hovering in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“He was a cute kid,” I tell her.
“Dynamite personality, too.” She sighs, smiling and crossing her arms. “He would draw spiders on the toilet paper and replace my yogurt with mayo.”
I walk over toward the window, checking out his view. “And what did you do to deserve that?” I tease.
As if he was the instigator. If I know Clay at all, he was simply retaliating.
“I may have replaced the filling in his Oreos with toothpaste,” she says.
I grin.
The room is spotless. Tidy, clean, not a speck of dust. Someone cleans in here regularly, and I’m guessing it’s the one room Clay’s mom doesn’t let anyone touch but herself.
“You loved him a lot.”
“I didn’t realize how much.” She nods. “He was annoying and we fought a lot, but when he got sick, I almost couldn’t breathe.” I hear the tears thicken her voice. “It wasn’t fair for him to go through that. I just wanted it to stop.”
There’s no sign of his illness in this room. No medical equipment. No prescriptions. I have no idea if he died at home or passed in the hospital, but I can bet the family was with him every hour.
Clay’s breathing shakes, and I see her trying to hold back the tears. I walk over, taking her face in my hands.
“Why were you so patient with me?” she whispers. “So tolerant? I didn’t deserve it.”
I lean in, her silky hair brushing the backs of my hands. “Happy people don’t fixate on things they hate,” I explain. “They move on. I knew it was coming from somewhere, Clay.” I glide my hands down her body and circle her waist as we hold each other, and I stare into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter how much money we have or don’t have or how stable our home is. Anyone can have problems.”