“Maybe the house has always been doing that with you, or maybe it hasn’t. But since things started with us. . . I get the sense that it’s always nearby, hijacking onto you whenever you leave.”
Gavin nodded as if he had that sense, too.
“The other night at Dhaval’s?” she began. “I fell asleep and had a dream that I was holding a hand. Like I was holding someone’s dead, rotting hand. When I woke up, screaming, it was just my sweater, the one I’d been wearing when I walked you home. But I knew I hadn’t been dreaming. The sweater really did. . . do something.”
“Jesus,” Gavin said, knees feeling weak enough that he had to sit back down. “I can’t believe it would. . . ,” he started, and then glanced down to the new clothes he’d put on. “But these are from my house. I washed them there.” He plucked at the collar of his shirt.
“I think we have to hope it has a purpose when it does it. What would be the point in attaching itself to your gym clothes? It wouldn’t worry about that at the time.”
“But why? Why would it follow me?”
“Why does any parent follow their kid? To watch them. To keep them safe. It’s just. . . It’s gone too far.”
“But you think we’re okay here?” he asked.
Delilah looked around the room. “I think so. I think the house can possess people too—maybe.. . . My dad was acting so weird that night after he pulled into your driveway. And Dave the grocer? You said he comes every week but then didn’t recognize you later?”
“Anyone who comes to the house,” Gavin whispered. “They all get this glazed look.”
“But it can’t do that with me and you. Maybe because we know.”
Gavin seemed to take several quiet minutes to absorb what she was saying.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” he said, carefully pulling her down to sit beside him. “For bringing you into this mess. For this.” He brushed a thumb over the edge of her bandage.
Delilah was tempted to wiggle her arms playfully to show him that she really was fine, but he didn’t look very lighthearted at the moment. She dropped the half smile and lowered her voice. “Honestly, I’m okay. I’m pretty hard to scare off.”
He groaned and rested his head dissonantly against the keys. “I know how it looks. I can’t even fathom hurting you.”
“Of course you can’t. None of this is your fault.”
“Your dad thinks I did that to you. God, Delilah, I could never. I love you.”
Everything else was forgotten—the pulsing pain in her arm, the fear of what would happen to their relationship, the terrifying unknown of the house—as her face exploded in a grin. “I love you, too.”
He lifted his head, realizing what they’d both just said. Allowing a small smile, he said, “I do, you know. I have for, like, forever. And I usually don’t care what anyone thinks, but it’s different with you. I don’t want anyone to think I could be violent with you. Especially your parents.”
“Well, let me assure you that their opinion does not carry the same weight with me. But I’m pretty sure I convinced them you didn’t do it. Look at your giant hands, Gavin. You’d have left a handprint twice this size on my skin.”
He stared down at his fingers propped on the keys and visibly relaxed. “Good argument, if not a little disturbing.”
“Hardly,” she said, grinning. “I spend hours thinking about your big hands.”
He turned so he was straddling the bench and spread his fingers across his bent knees.
“Yeah? Tell me.”
Delilah was so distracted by the sight of his long limbs, his enormous hands, the ends of his dark hair brushing the tips of his impossibly thick black lashes, that she forgot what she’d even said. “Tell you what?”
Swallowing, Gavin reminded her, “What you think about my hands.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re looking for distraction.”
He smiled a little sadly. “Maybe.”