Clearer (J.HALE)

06

I'd never seen a house that big.

More glass than brick, timber cladding and boxy exterior, elevated from the gravel driveway almost as if it were floating. It both seemed out of place in the woodland clearing, and yet fit right in. Carlisle opened the front door for me and stepped back, gesturing for me to head into the pristine, miniature foyer.

"Wow," I murmured under my breath as I slipped my jacket from my shoulders, Carlisle whisking it away and hanging it up somewhere. "I can't believe this is your house."

He chuckled. "My wife designed it."

I gawped at him and he laughed.

The inside was immaculately clean—the kind of clean where touching anything feels like a federal crime—and minimalist. White walls, simplistic furniture, expensive-looking art on the walls and fresh flowers on the table. I slid my shoes off without thinking and left them by the door, unaware of Carlisle's confusion until I looked up at him.

"It's so clean," I defended.

I followed him into a large living room partially split by a large wooden staircase, attached to an open kitchen. It was empty and just as aggressively clean as I'd expected.

"Make yourself at home," Carlisle said.

I didn't move. Even the cushions on the couch were beautifully organised.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Do you have coffee?"

He nodded and headed toward the kitchen.

I looked around the living room. There were a few framed photos on the mantlepiece, and the occasional book left lying around, but otherwise the space looked strikingly un-lived-in. It felt like a show home.

"So, who am I meeting?"

"Jasper," Carlisle said, pouring hot water into a cup. "My other kids are at school."

I nodded, turning my attention to the sliding glass doors and the trees beyond.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll get along just fine."

I offered a meek smile. "I hope so."

He returned to the living room and handed me the coffee, expression warm. "It's decaf."

"Don't remind me," I grumbled, relishing the warmth of the cup. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We stood a metre or so from each other for a little while, avoiding each other's eyes. I liked Carlisle—he was gentle, unassuming, kind—but I still didn't really know him. Plus, he was my doctor. I didn't really know how to talk to him.

"Oh. You're back."

I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the voice, meeting the eyes of a boy close to my age. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand resting lazily on the banister, the other hanging by his side. He was tall and lean, blond, and the more I looked at him, the more beautiful he became. He was pale—almost luminous—and if I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that he and Carlisle were blood relations. Beauty like that had to be genetic, and the boy seemed too young to have had much plastic surgery. I was momentarily paralysed.

"Ah, Jasper," Carlisle said, smiling as the boy walked forward. "This is Imogen."

I watched the boy as he halted about an arm's length from me, seeming wary. "Hi."