“You look so pretty tonight,” he whispered once he reached the other side.
Delilah’s insides melted, and she felt warm and heavy in her relief. She nodded when he tilted his head, silently asking if she was ready to come fully inside.
But the sense of relief evaporated as soon as Gavin’s hand let go of hers and he moved purposefully toward the kitchen. More than she ever had before, Delilah understood the term “walking on eggshells.” Of course, there weren’t literal eggshells beneath her feet, but every time she took a step, the placement of her foot seemed to be a critical decision. One floorboard groaned when she stepped on it—low and splintery and the exact sound wood would make if it was displeased—and she very quickly skipped to the board beside it, which, thankfully, remained silent and sturdy. Another board pushed the wood nail up as she stepped down, poking her on the bottom of her foot through her wool sock. Delilah bit back a sharp cry and limped quietly behind Gavin. She felt as though the hallway was shrinking in on her, inspecting, expecting to be disappointed in whatever action she took. She was surrounded by hundreds of parts of the house every moment she was inside, and some seemed to have forgiven her while others clearly held a grudge.
In the kitchen, Gavin dished spaghetti into two bowls, handed one to Delilah and then grabbed a basket of garlic bread. With food in hand, they walked to the dining room. Delilah found herself glancing at everything on the floor, everything on the wall, every fixture hanging from the ceiling. Everything—even the paintings—remained suspiciously still, but the dining room was absolutely freezing when they sat at the table to eat.
Looking around the room, Gavin asked, “Is it cold in here?”
She shrugged. “Maybe a little. It’s okay.” But her shiver revealed the lie.
Gavin looked up at the ceiling. “Are you trying to kick us out of here?” Beneath their plates, the table shook, and a wintery gust blew through the room. Delilah interpreted it as a clear yes.
With an irritated little growl, Gavin grabbed his bowl and the basket of bread and stood, saying, “Fine. Let’s go,” to Delilah, and led her into the living room.
It was much warmer here, and as soon as they settled down on the floor and set their plates on the coffee table, the fire roared to life in the fireplace.
Gavin seemed to be starving and, with this clear welcome from the room, immediately dug into his dinner. Unfortunately, Delilah’s appetite was nonexistent. The fire popped enthusiastically in the fireplace and a few pillows slid across the floor to rest behind her, but Delilah couldn’t take it as a sign to let her guard down.
She scoured her mind for a safe topic. Clearly anything having to do with the future was off-limits, even though most kids in their class would begin to hear back from college admissions offices soon. No doubt any discussion of their relationship was off-limits, too. School was an easy topic but also the last thing Delilah wanted to think about at the moment. She wanted to escape into the space they created together and lean in to him while he ate his dinner and run her hand over his thigh. She wanted to hear him tell her stories about junior year and his first kiss and what was his most fervent wish for life.
Studying her as he chewed, Gavin swallowed before saying, “You’re so quiet.”
“Am I?”
He gave her a playfully exasperated look.
“I’m just. . .” She trailed off.
“Nervous?” he offered.
“Yeah, a little.” Glancing up at the ceiling—always as if the heart of each room was hovering above her—she whispered, “I don’t want to do anything wrong.”
“Tell me how it would go if you invited me to dinner at your place.”
She smiled, pushed some noodles around on her plate, and said, “My father would be mute and weird.”