White Noise

20

I was shocked at how large it actually was. From the outside, it seemed much smaller. But in front of me was a decent sized living area—definitely larger than my family room at home, and this was the Whitmore's guest house.

To the left was a pool table. One wall had a dartboard tacked against it. Even from afar I could make out the sprinkled dots where the paint and drywall had been skewered by stray darts.

To the right was a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall with an L-shaped couch and a dark wood coffee table.

"This is the entertainment area," JD said, gesturing to the scene in front of us, his demeanor almost mocking a real estate agent.

He grabbed my hand again and tugged me as we went right, past the L-shaped couch into another room. "And this is the kitchen."

It was small, but still substantial. Decent countertop space with a refrigerator, sink, microwave, and a small round dining table with 4 chairs. I think I spotted a dishwasher under one of the countertops. What caught my eye, though, was the bar at the other side of the kitchenette. It wasn't anything crazy, but there were two bar stools, and it was clearly stocked with a wide variety of liquor and wine bottles.

My hand tingled as JD squeezed it in his. His chest pressed against my back as he pointed to a small door hidden behind the bar. "There's a spare bathroom back there."

I bit my tongue, hard, to hold my laugh. A spare bathroom. In guest house.

JD led me out of the kitchen and back into the 'entertainment area' as he called it. This time we doubled back and walked towards the left side of the guest house.

"And this," JD said, slowly opening the only door past the pool table, "Is my bedroom."

His bedroom.

It was exactly how I imagined it. His king-sized bed, with gray sheets and a charcoal duvet, took up a large portion of the room. The dark wood bedframe was accompanied by two matching bedside tables. To the right was a desk, also the same dark wood, and swivel chair. Both looked unused. There were 2 doors attached to his room. One, in the far corner, was closed and I assumed it to be a walk-in closet. The other was just to my left and in my periphery I could see the outline of a toilet and shower. An ensuite bath. In a guest house.

His room was in a guest house.

No. His room was the guest house.

I swallowed the lump in my throat as my panic rose, wishing I'd taken a drink out of one of the many beverages while we were in the kitchenette for some liquid courage. I removed my hand from his, hating the idea that he could possibly—probably—feel my fear just by touching me. Because I sucked at hiding it.

What I hated more, though, was not touching him anymore. I immediately regretted my decision to step away, but I forced myself to stay focused.

Stay strong. Confident. Independent.

His walls were a light gray, almost translucent. I walked slowly, examining the few pictures that were hung up.

The first was him in a Buckley sports uniform, taking a knee while holding a lacrosse stick. He looked younger—in the picture, his cheeks were rounder and his eyes sockets protruded more. I bit the insides of my cheeks, wanting to tease him.

I didn't though. My tongue felt tied to the floor of my mouth.

I moved on to the next picture. He looked about the same age as the last photo. It was evening and he was seated outside at a restaurant. It was clearly a tropical destination based on the palm trees in the background. JD was sporting a smile that didn't reach his eyes. I noticed that his hand was wrapped around a glass of champagne. Seated next to him was a man and, standing behind him, resting a pair of dainty hands on the man's broad shoulders, was a woman—his parents.