Blinking back into the present, Delilah said, “It just feels safe in here.”
“That is—” He stopped himself just short of saying “crazy” and instead ended awkwardly with, “Really freaky, Dee.”
Taking a deep breath and ignoring the bell signaling the end of lunch, Delilah told him about the day she met the house, about what it looked like, how it felt. She described how it loves Gavin, how it seems impossible that these hard, inanimate objects could be so, well, so animated, but it’s true.
“I’d never seen anything more amazing,” she admitted.
But then she recounted the afternoon she’d spent kissing Gavin in the park, the branches creeping beneath his shirt, trapping her wrists. She told him about the house reacting to her questions about the future, about how it felt like being thrown into a blender when it trembled and lurched beneath her feet.
Dhaval looked less skeptical this time and far more ashen.
“After that happened, Gavin wanted to make me dinner,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I think he wanted me and the house to make up, or something. I could feel how angry it was at me. Some things—like the fireplace or the things in the living room—seemed to want to make nice, and so I thought maybe I just had to hang in there a little.”
“Like, win it over,” Dhaval added.
“Exactly.” She told him about the plan to go for a walk, about washing her hands, and seeing her mother’s figurine. She told him about turning, about her focus snagging on the small, seemingly innocent bubble of paint.
She told him, with growing hysteria, about everything that happened afterward: the roaches, the way the house taunted and played with her as she tried to escape. “I got in the shower, trying to wash them off. I threw my clothes across the room, and the roaches were coming for me and the shower curtain slid up my legs and wrapped around me and—” She hiccupped, squeezing her eyes closed. “It tore at my arm. When I screamed, Gavin burst into the room finally, but when I looked down. . .” She opened her eyes to look at Dhaval, and she could see in his expression that he already knew what she was going to say. “When I looked down, there was nothing there. No bugs, no crazy possessed shower curtain, no statue. Just the skin torn off my arm so it looked like I did it. Or Gavin.”
“Dee, this is. . .” He swiped a shaking hand down his face. “I don’t even know what this is.”
“I know.”
“And his mom?” Dhaval asked.
Delilah stared at him for several thundering heartbeats, finally answering truthfully though vaguely, “I don’t know.” Was there really a mother? If so, where in the hell was she? Scooting a little closer, she asked, “Dhaval, do you know his mom?”
He shook his head. “I told Gavin my mom does, sort of peripherally.”
“He asked you?”
“Yeah. Mom answered some questions about blessing their house, a way long time ago—like when Gavin was tiny—and I only know that because she mentioned it to me the other night after you came over.”
Delilah felt her brows pull close and tight. “What?”
He seemed oblivious to what had tripped her up. “She hasn’t seen Gavin’s mom in years. I get the sense that Mrs. Timothy is. . . a little eccentric. Mom wants to give her privacy, so she didn’t ask you about her.”
“Dhaval? Your mom didn’t even ask why I came over so late. She didn’t let me say a word. Do you remember? She told me to breathe, told me everything was okay.”
“Yeah?” he said, confused. “So?”
“So,” she said slowly, hoping he would understand, “did your mom know that I’m dating Gavin, or did you tell her that later?”
He paused, seeming to consider this for a beat before shaking his head. “Neither, actually.”
“Then why did she bring up Gavin with you at all?”
“She said Hilary’s son always has that same sizzled look you had.” He looked at her with amused, incredulous eyes.
“Dhaval?”