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I check out the east wing first, finding Reese’s bedroom, which is messy and chaotic, stuffed with the most belongings of any of the spaces I’ve seen so far, even though, apparently, he only lives here part-time.
Next door sits a music room full of all sorts of instruments, including an entire wall of electric guitars. Some are signed, but all look battered and well-used, especially the drum set in the corner. There’s a piano, a saxophone, and even an Autoharp, which my mom taught me to play once upon a time.
There’s a gym, also well used, I would assume, from the scent of sweat and all the smudges on the mirrors.
But then, farther down…the main suite.
I noticed that Sullivan doesn’t stay in the main suite himself. His bedroom is a normal-sized room like mine.
The suite is probably three times as large as the other rooms, palatial and beautiful with its big bay windows looking out over what must have been a spectacular rose garden, once upon a time.
But almost as soon as I open the double doors, I close them again, without even venturing into the marble-clad bathroom or the walk-in closet larger than my entire apartment.
The reason I don’t enter is because I can see several sparkling gowns still hanging in the closet. And next to that, a huge portrait of a woman in a wedding dress, her graceful face soachingly familiar that I let out a little gasp when my eyes meet hers, closing the doors quickly in embarrassment.
Sullivan’s mother, Stella Rivas. I’ve seen pictures of her before, like everyone has. She was very famous twenty years ago. Dark haired and dark eyed like her sons, elegant like Audrey Hepburn, but with a dash of slapstick charm like Emma Stone.
This was her room. And the other person who should be living in this suite…apparently stays in the pool house and won’t even come inside.
An image flashes in my head, glimpsed in some long-ago magazine: Sullivan’s mother standing on a red carpet, dressed in a dazzling, gem-draped gown….
I try to remember the man next to her, tall, broad shouldered, sandy haired, smiling with his arm around her waist…
I can’t recall his face, but I remember how perfectly they complemented each other, young and healthy and happy and shining like stars.
I knew Sullivan when his family was at their peak, famous, successful, streaking through the sky…
And I heard when they were struck with tragedy…
But I never saw the aftermath of their fall.
Now here it is, all around me…the dark and silent house. The extreme neglect of the property. The isolation of the remaining members of the family…
They’re not okay and they haven’t been okay.
I saw Sullivan last night in the kitchen when we talked about our mothers. His face was the mirror image of how I feel every time I think of my mom.
Sullivan’s so gorgeous and intimidating, it’s like I didn’t really believe he could feel pain or sorrow or hopelessness like a normal person. He seemed so untouchable.
But now I’m realizing he’s just as vulnerable as me.
The thought is somewhat dizzying.
Sullivan seemed safer when I thought he was just an asshole taking advantage of me. It left me free to resent him, resist him, or scheme against him.
This is a whole lot messier.
I’m creeping down the west wing now, toward his bedroom at the end of the hall.
I hesitate, my hand outstretched toward the doorknob.
Looking in Sullivan’s room seems a lot more invasive than peeking around the rest of the house. He said I could do whatever I wanted, but I’m not sure this is what he had in mind…
On the other hand, the pull to peer inside his secret space is almost irresistible. I get glimpses of the real Sullivan, but he’s careful and guarded. I have to know who he really is if I’m going to trust him…don’t I?
With that justification firmly in place, I crack open his bedroom door and peek inside.
Sullivan’s scent rushes out. It’s like uncorking a bottle of cologne, but this is the smell of his skin, his sweat, his breath, his sheets…I’ve caught it before, when we danced, when we kissed, when I got in his car, but now I step all the way inside his room and I’m swimming in it, taking full, deep breaths that make my head whirl.
