Chapter Ten
IT’S DARK BY the time we arrive at the house. The tree-lined driveway provides no insight into where we are. All I can see is a blurry outline of a building against a night sky. A floodlight activates when Oliver pulls up to the garage, so bright it’s nearly blinding.
I’m out of the SUV as soon as he cuts the engine, desperate to stretch my legs. The last two or so hours of the drive have been devoid of any real conversation; once we lost daylight, I couldn’t read from the script. Rather than talk to me, Oliver turned on NPR while I scrolled on my phone.
We remain silent as we grab our stuff out of the back of the car. I follow Oliver through a door, dragging my bags behind me, my nervous system on high alert as he calmly flicks on switches in a short hallway. I blink to adjust to the lights.
The house is beautiful.
We’re standing in a den, a huge but comfortable room lined with bookshelves bursting with tomes, a squishy gray couch, and two wingback chairs that look as if they were pulled directly from a Victorian library. There’s a staircase tucked into one corner and three different sets of doors.
“That’s the studio,” Oliver says as he sets his suitcases against a chair and points to a glass interior door.
“The other two go to the back deck and the first-floor bathroom. That staircase leads to the owner’s suite upstairs and downstairs to the basement.
There’s another bathroom downstairs. The other bedrooms have a separate wing. ”
A giggle bursts out of me. “A separate wing. Okay.”
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. “I told you that you’d have plenty of space. Do you want to leave your stuff here while you pick out a room?”
I nod and follow him deeper into the house, where he leads me to an enormous open kitchen, which is clearly meant to be the heart of it all.
There’s a marble island larger than my bed back home, plus a big dining room table off to the side made from real dark-brown wood.
It opens to a living room decorated in soft creams and blues, complete with a fireplace and flat-screen TV.
You could fit two of my Manhattan apartments in this living space alone.
“These stairs lead to the other bedrooms,” Oliver explains as I trail after him. He continues turning on lights as we go up another set of ivory-carpeted stairs and into a long second-floor hallway. There are four closed doors up here.
“I feel like I’m in a carnival fun house.” I can’t help but huff out a shocked breath. “What happens if I pick the wrong one? Do I get pied in the face or something?”
“Yes, actually,” he deadpans as he looks at me. “It’s a family tradition.”
When I laugh, a smile blooms on his face. Not a full one, but still, his eyes brighten and it looks like he stands a little taller. Like he’s proud or something.
Warmth spreads across my skin. I ignore it, too overwhelmed to process what that means. “Which room should I take?” I ask instead.
“Whichever you’d like.”
He stands in the hall while I open the various doors and poke my head in.
One leads to a bathroom with a buttery yellow theme, while the other three lead to said bedrooms. Each one has a distinct but related color scheme, which seems to be “coastal forest chic”; there’s a pale-green room, a soft-blue room, and a creamy-white room.
They’re all decorated with lovely touches like gauzy curtains, landscape paintings, and comfortable furniture, but they’re absent of any personal mementos.
No family pictures, no posters of favorite childhood movies, no old soccer jerseys in shadow boxes mounted to the wall.
“Which one was your room?” I ask.
“The green one,” he replies. “If you want to take the owner’s suite, you can. I’ll take my old room.”
“No, it’s fine. I like the blue room, but where is your stuff ? You said you spent your summers here as a kid. I want to see some Oliver baby pictures.”
“I came out of the womb just like this,” he says, his tone tinged with what I think is slight bitterness, but I don’t miss how his face reddens when he diverts his gaze to the circular window over the stairs.
“I’d believe that if I hadn’t witnessed your glow-up,” I reply with a smile. “I knew you at eighteen, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he asks distantly, but the question isn’t really directed at me. It’s barely a whisper said to the night sky outside. He beelines for the stairs, careful not to brush against me in the hall, leaving me standing there awkwardly, framed by a bunch of open doors.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he calls as he descends from view. “I’ll bring your bags up.”
His abrupt dismissal cools me off immediately. All of a sudden, I’m aware of how chilly it is in this big house. I clutch my arms to my chest as goose bumps raise all over my skin.
Oliver delivers on his promise while I’m in the upstairs bathroom. I can hear his footsteps as he drops my stuff into the blue room, then again as he retreats downstairs. That night, I never go back downstairs.
When I open my eyes the following morning, it takes me a full five minutes to remember where I am.
Brilliant sunlight streams in through the French doors to the left of my bed, bathing the entire room in a glow so bright it’s nearly blinding.
Squinting through sleep-dusted eyes, I realize that I did not close the thick navy curtains before climbing into bed last night.
They hang to the side of the doors that lead to the small Juliet balcony, framing the picturesque view.
I can just make out the green canopy of trees and bright-blue sky beyond the metal railing.
Grumbling to myself, I haul my tired body to a sitting position and glance at my phone.
It’s just after 10:00 a.m., meaning I slept in much later than intended, but I decide then and there to give myself some grace for this.
I stayed up super late to finish reading the script, then struggled to fall asleep for what felt like hours.
When my teeth are brushed and my face slightly more awake from a splash of cold water, I run a comb through my unruly hair and change into the first athleisure outfit I find in my suitcase.
This is my half-hearted attempt at maintaining some professional boundaries between myself and my new roommate.
It would be utterly bizarre to face Oliver in my old pajamas on the first day.
The house is silent on my way downstairs, save for the songbirds chirping in the woods outside.
I head straight for the kitchen, where I’m delighted to find a bag of fresh coffee grounds next to a stainless steel machine that looks like it can make any number of caffeinated beverages.
It takes me a second, but I figure out how to brew a small pot of coffee, then explore the kitchen while the machine gurgles to life.
In the new light of day, I take in the space with fresh eyes.
It occurs to me that everything in the house—from the kitchen appliances to the built-in bookshelves flanking the fireplace—is spotless.
There isn’t a hint of dust or dirt anywhere that I can see.
Even the sheets on my bed were clean last night; everything, including the blankets, smelled freshly laundered.
How long did it take Oliver to get this house ready by himself ?
Was he running around here for hours trying to get an empty house fit for two people?
My questions are answered when I see a handwritten note affixed to the side of the fridge with a Harvard magnet:
Amelia (cleaning)—207-455-1090
John (gutters/yard)—207-455-8512
Fred (fireplace)—207-577-1466
Pete (piano tuner)—207-901-2294
DO NOT CALL BOB, ONLY PETE
Oh, that it explains it. This house, his family—it comes with an outsourced crew. That is not a life I know.
When I pour myself the first cup of coffee, I hear it—a creaking sound, almost a squeak, coming from somewhere not in the kitchen.
The rest of the house is so quiet the sound seems abnormally loud.
My ears strain to identify it, but short of recognizing that it’s got something to do with wood flooring, I come up short.
It’s not the sound of a house settling; it’s too measured, almost rhythmic, in the way the wood whines.
It has to be Oliver doing something, somewhere in this house.
Either that or we have a very specific type of ghost. I’m almost afraid to find Oliver doing some kind of weird morning what have you, but I’m too curious to resist. With my coffee mug clutched carefully in my hand, I tiptoe out of the kitchen, across the expensive-looking rug in the dining room, and down into the den.
This room leads to the three-season porch that wraps around the part of the house that faces east. Last night, I didn’t bother to look out in the dark, but I can see it clearly now through the French doors.
It’s a sprawling, ambling sort of outdoor room, airy and open, encased by mesh screens to keep the bugs out.
In which Oliver is currently in a downward-dog position, ass up, fingers and toes spread on a yoga mat, while he stretches his feet.
This is the last thing I expected to see.
Transfixed, I stare at the flexing of his shoulders, courtesy of the blue workout tank top he’s wearing.
He’s facing toward where I hover on the other side of the door, so I have a clear view of the slope of his back.
His bottom half is clad in a pair of gray shorts; I can’t really see his legs at this angle, but I can see the pert globes of a tight, round butt as he lifts and lowers one foot at a time.
Oh no. Oliver Barlowe has a very nice body. I should not be noticing this.