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“Stop in front of the gate,” he tells me, and when I do, he gets out to open the thing. It’s not locked. I know that firsthand. He swings the gate open and motions for me to drive on in. I do, and he shuts the gate and ducks back into the car.
“You’ll drive on down this little dirt road. You see the house?”
I can feel his eyes on my face, and I wonder when he’ll realize this is where I parked my Jeep the day we met. I nod, because I can see the old house from here. “Yeah, what is this place?” I ask him.
“The old Isabella mansion. A man built it for a woman—first name Isabella—back in the 1800s. It’s been almost fifty years since someone lived here, so it’s gotten more and more run down. You’re supposed to keep away unless you have a key to the gate from the historical society. There’s a cemetery back here that they hand it out for—you know, so tourists can see. But they leave the gate open most of the time.” He shrugs.
The house looks like a red-brick dollhouse. It’s two stories with a dark roof, lots of iron accents, and a tower up top that’s got a little roof shaped like a witch’s hat. The building’s on the verge of being more ruin than house, with boards missing up near the roofline and big chunks of the shingles gone.
Still holding my hand, DG waves right. “I know the pebble path goes left, but veer to the right into this grass so no one sees my car from the road. Doesn’t matter about trespassing—my mom’s friend is in charge of the keys to this place—but just…you know. Common sense and all that.”
Yes. Because Miller is my stepbrother, and once we’re out of the car, odds are good I’ll end up with my arms around him.
My heart races a little, wondering again when he’ll realize that I parked here to reach the trestle bridge the day I moved here. But I try to stay in the moment. I’ve realized I’m pretty shitty at it, but I’m trying more—for Miller. So he won’t have to spend time with a zombie who’s always stuck in a loop in his own mind.
Mills tilts his head at me, like he can hear me thinking. Then he’s unwrapping his biscuit, and I’m doing the same.
“Fuck. This tastes like heaven,” I say, between chewing.
He grins. “I know.”
I polish off a few bites and turn my wide eyes on him. “Why’s it so good, dude?”
“I don’t know. Some magic shit.”
It feels good to be full—yet another thing I’m working on.
“Whatchu thinking?” Miller murmurs, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
I shift my gaze to his. “You.”
His cheeks color. He gives me a goofy smile. “What about me?” He looks so shy right now.
I reach out and cup his jaw. “Just you.” I rub a finger over his brow. “Blue eyes.”
He shuts them, and I lean over, kissing his eyelid.
“Sorry.” I smile, rubbing at his brow. “Might have gotten grease on your face.”
“Grease me up.” He gives me a heavy-lidded little grin that makes my dick throb. Then he’s getting out his car door. I adjust my peach ball cap and step out, feeling so damn hungry for him.
His eyes are sparkling, and he holds a hand out for me. I thread my fingers through his, squeezing, loving how damn warm and big and soft his hand is.
“Let’s go up the side steps,” he says. “They’re more sturdy than the front ones.”
I’ve been watching Mills for weeks now—every chance I get, almost obsessively. So I know his face. Which is how I know he’s nervous right before he catches his lip between his teeth. His eyes fly to mine, then flit down to the grass. Then he brings my hand to his chest. Mills adjusts his grip a little, and my stomach tugs from somewhere down low. He’s not just holding my hand—he’s hugging it.
When he catches my eye as we approach the house’s side steps, I can’t breathe for all the things that’re tumbling through my head. I want to say something to him, to say again how much I love him.
Hi, no one’s held my hand since I was like six.
No one’s touched me in a few years except nurses and a lot worse.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
My throat tightens unexpectedly as he leads me up the lichen-covered cement steps.
“This door is kinda hanging off its hinges… Just be careful and don’t bump it.” I figure he’ll drop my hand as we go up the steps, but he doesn’t. His thumb strokes over my knuckles as we step up into…
“Oh wow.”
I think there are Tumblr pages for this sort of stuff; urban decay, but in this case, I guess it’s rural Southern mansion decay.
