The spine on the novel is cracked and worn, the back cover nearly torn off. In the bottom right hand corner is a name scrawled in barely legible pen. I have to examine it pretty closely before I can make it out. When I do, it surprises me to find that it does, in fact, belong to Vance. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who would read books like this. I feel awful thinking that, but he doesn’t strike me as the literary type. I brush off the thought and stuff the book in my bag, figuring I can drop it off on my way to work.
When I arrive at Vance’s house an hour later, the door is wide open. I peer in then knock on the screen a few times. A man who I assume is Vance’s Dad, with whiskey-colored hair and a sharp black suit, addresses me.
“Oh, hello… who might you be?”
“I’m Ember. A friend of Vance’s?”
Friend is definitely too strong of a word.
I sound as unsure as he appears, standing there as if my words stunned him before he snaps out of it. “Sure, sure. Come on in for a sec.” I step inside as he hurries around the living room, scooping up paperwork and his briefcase. Once again I notice the house is incredibly neat; not a pillow out of place nor a speck of dust to be found. It’s comfortable, but it doesn’t appear lived in, not like our house. There are no pictures on the stark white walls. No indication of their past or who they are. Then again, they did just move in. “Vance isn’t here,” he supplies. He pulls on the lapels of his suit jacket then straightens his tie in the mirror.
I retrieve the weathered book from my purse and hold it up. “That’s okay. He left this at the mall so I only wanted to drop it off.”
“Yes.” He pauses with a strange expression before heading to the door in a rush. “Would you mind leaving it in his room?” I hesitate and he adds, “Up the stairs. Second door on the right. Just lock up when you leave.”
Then he’s out the door. Well, that was perfectly odd. It’s almost as if he didn’t want me to dirty up the room with this book. Plus, he left me standing alone in his house and he doesn’t know me. I shrug it off and make my way up the stairs.
Upon reaching Vance’s room, the door is partially closed and I suddenly feel as though I’m trespassing—which I guess I am. But I can’t deny I’m curious. Vance Davenport peaks my curiosity. Still, I stand in the hall for a full minute before deciding to push the door open and walk through it.
I blink twice, taking in his room and thinking this can’t possibly be the same house. Another galaxy, maybe. Walls painted in a serene ocean blue and, unlike the rest of the home, covered in photographs. Not an empty space to be found. On an adjoining wall is a plain oak bed frame and a bed that’s clearly been slept in. Above the bed is a quote in white brushstrokes—“I read like the flame reads the wood.” It stop me momentarily, because it seems… deep, and unexpected. My eyes move to the third wall where two wooden shelves are crammed with books. Another shelf is stuffed with computer equipment. My mouth falls open. Unable to decide where to go first, the pictures win out.
As I get closer, I discover that many of them are of Vance as a little boy. I only know this because he has that same mussed dark hair and penetrating blue eyes. A woman with those same eyes is crouched next to him—his mother I presume. With flowing dark hair, high cheekbones, and a wide smile, she is the mirror image of her son. There are also several photos of Vance and Julian, the four of them, and many with just his mom. I can’t stop staring at the pictures because the resemblance is striking.
While I know I should leave, I bite my lip and glance over my shoulder at the books. There must be hundreds. I walk backwards then turn around until I’m standing in front of them. My fingertip rolls over the spines; Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Orwell, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Steinbeck, Tolstoy, and so on. And on the bottom shelf—Dr. Seuss. I smile when I see Oh, The Places You’ll Go! My father used to read that to me before bed in his animated fashion.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
I freeze at the sound of Vance’s voice, gnawing on my lip as I slowly turn around with my palms up and an apologetic smile on my face. “Um.” I point to the book on his desk. “You left that at the restaurant and I was dropping it off.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive posture. “It looks like you were doing a lot more than that.”
“I was….” I pause, staring at the carpet before meeting his eyes. “I was admiring your books actually. You read.” Oh my God. I meant to say it as a statement but it came out like a question. My cheeks warm and I avert my gaze again.
“Yes. You sound surprised.” His tone is accusatory, hard. “Did you think I was illiterate?”
“No, not illiterate.” I let my eyes reach his face again. “Just not this well-read.”
“Judgmental much?” He pushes off the wall and brushes past me to drop a bag on his desk.
“I wasn’t trying to judge you,” I quickly counter, attempting to deflate the tension flying around us. “I was just being honest.”
He puts his hands together in a slow clap and couples it with a bland expression. “Good for fucking you.”
“Okaaaay.” I huff out a breath and make a beeline for the door. “I’ll be going now.” His room may be comfortable but nothing about him makes me feel that way.
He mutters a curse before his voice finds me. “Hey.”