There were more shouts, followed by the sound of the garbage truck he passed every week as he left.
Gavin sat up, blankets falling to his waist and his brows drawn in confusion, as he stared at the heavy blue curtains across from him, at the sliver of yellow sun slipping in near the carpet. This time of year the giant tree on the other side of the fence outside his window was bare, all spindly branches and arching limbs. It allowed the light from the slowly brightening sky to fill his room each morning, one pastel shade at a time. It was why he never closed the curtains, why he hadn’t closed them last night.
Pushing the hair from his forehead, he reached for his phone, pulling back at the sight of only the empty plug on Table. He paused and retraced his steps from last night, positive that he’d plugged it in before bed.
Gavin swung his legs from the mattress and crossed to the window. The floor was cold beneath the soles of his feet, the air biting against so much bare skin. With each step the curtains looked brighter, the light on the other side confirming his suspicions: At some point during the night, House had closed his curtains and taken his phone.
He pushed the drapes aside and looked down onto the frostbitten street. Up here in the house, he was high enough to see over the vine-covered fence, high enough to note that the driveways were empty, most of his neighbors having long since gone to work, a few stragglers in the distance on their way to school still hung back on the sidewalks.
It had to be almost eight in the morning and Gavin was late. He’d never been late.
“Why didn’t anyone wake me?” he called out.
He pushed off the wall and went to the closet, swearing into the darkness when a light didn’t turn on. “Light!” he shouted. The bulb overhead popped to life, and he began searching through his clothes, pulling a pair of jeans from a drawer, a hoodie from another. He collected a T-shirt and boxers and shuffled into the bathroom.
The shower didn’t start. Gavin turned the knobs one way and then another, tossing his clothes to the floor before trying again.
“What the—?” he started, taking a step back before fingering the knobs again, watching them turn easily while the faucet stayed as dry as a bone. He couldn’t remember a time anything had stopped working in House before. A leg might wobble on a table, a window frame might squeak, but it was always fixed the next day, and Gavin never really put much thought into it.
He checked Sink, even more confused when water ran from the tap, clear and cold. Toilet worked perfectly, too.
What the hell was happening? He’d been so tired when he got home yesterday. After what he’d done with Delilah—finally touching her—he’d wanted to question House somehow, to know what had really happened with Delilah in the bathroom. But House had been strange from the moment he’d walked in the door. Fireplace had roared to life, blazing hot in the hearth. TV turned on and off, and Chandelier over Dining Room Table swung wildly, silently demanding to know where he’d been.
So Delilah had been right after all: House had hijacked a ride, and taking off his clothes had made him invisible.
“I was just making sure she was okay,” he said aloud. “You hurt her. Do you realize that?”
Silence.
The fire dimmed; Chandelier stilled.
“Sometimes I want to be alone with her,” he said quietly. “Not to betray you, but just to be with her.”
He’d climbed the stairs slowly, feeling the walls of the hallway bow inward in silent apology. Lights flickered on overhead, anticipating his path down the hall and into his bedroom, back down the hall and into the bathroom. Piano had even played while he fell asleep, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.