In the end, he’d been so exhausted he’d had to ignore, for the time being, the disloyal feeling he got when Blanket curled gently around him and Bedroom seemed to search for the perfect temperature that kept him from growing too restless.
House was trying to make amends, but as hard as it was to admit, Gavin knew that wasn’t possible. After what had happened to Delilah, he wasn’t sure he could stay much longer. He’d fallen asleep with a hollow pit of dread in his stomach, the pattern of “Once I graduate/I need to leave” pulsing with every other heartbeat.
Finally dressed—and unshowered, thanks to House—he walked down the hall and descended the stairs, stopping short when he reached the foyer. Gavin knew—he knew—he’d taken his shoes off when he’d come home last night. He always did. There’d been three pairs: the ones he’d been wearing, the ones he wore for gym, and the dark ones he had for work. Now there was nothing.
This wasn’t just another coincidence, and frustration began a steady climb up his spine, humming in his veins. He tamped it down, reminding himself to hold his temper, to breathe. He didn’t know for a fact that his shoes were gone. Maybe they were on the porch, he thought. Sometimes he’d wake to find the floors gleaming in the morning sun, a fresh coat of wax having been put down sometime during the night. On those days his shoes or backpack, or whatever else he’d happened to leave lying around, would be outside, waiting for him.
Gavin wasn’t sure why he was holding his breath as he crossed the short distance to the door, but he was. His socks slipped easily over the polished wood floor.
There was no knob.
There wasn’t even a place where a knob had been, only smooth, freshly sanded wood, freshly sealed wood. He took a step back like he’d been burned, closed his eyes and counted to ten, before opening them again. This wasn’t an accident. Last night House was apologetic. Today it was punishing.
The smell of breakfast wafted in from the kitchen and over his shoulder. His stomach churned. How was he supposed to eat? Did it expect him to go sit like a good boy and stuff his face? Ignoring the fact that he was locked in? That he was essentially grounded without reason?
Gavin steadied himself, straightened his shoulders and spun on his heel, crossing to the kitchen. He ignored the trays of bacon and pancakes, enough food to feed an entire family, and stopped at the back door, heart slamming in his throat. His fingers fumbled on smooth wood, no trace of a patched hole or shadow of where the knob had been. Next he tried the window; there was no latch. And the next and the next, until he was sprinting from one room to the other. He considered breaking the glass, but some instinct wouldn’t let him do it, the same one that kept him from running too loudly up the stairs or roughhousing inside.
He might hurt it.
Gavin slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor.
He spent the rest of the day in his room, and the next. This might have been House’s ridiculous, over-the-top way of grounding him, but he wasn’t speaking to it or even interacting unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t come down for dinner and instead finished off the bag of chips he found in the pocket of one of his jackets, then sketched until he fell asleep, stretched the wrong way across Bed.
The next morning was much of the same—still no way out, no phone or shoes—but he was starving. He cursed his stomach the entire way down the stairs and into the kitchen, more grateful than he wanted to admit at the sight of his favorite breakfast waiting for him on the counter. He ate in silence, brushing off House’s attempts to engage him in conversation or draw him out of his foul mood. But by the end of the day, Gavin was so tired of being inside, was so hungry to see Delilah, he said the only thing he could think—the only thing he knew House wanted to hear: “I won’t go talk to Dhaval. I won’t ask about my mom.”