“It is," he replied and unlocked the door on the right. He gestured for me to enter, "After you."
I stepped into the dark house, and as he illuminated the room, I could not help the gasp that escaped my lips. The foyer was big and breathtaking. I cranked my neck so I could appreciate the twenty-foot-high, pointed ceiling. Large skylights framed the center beam. I imagined the afternoon sun soaking through would provide a heavenly warmth. Polished marble glistened beneath our feet. The foyer extended forward. Leading toward a spiral brass staircase that led up and around to a hidden destination. I was entranced.
Bryce turned and looked at me, dropping his keys on a circular wooden table in the center of the room. "It was designed to be a church," he said, answering one of the many unasked questions the space inspired. "It was left abandoned when the coal mine closed in fifty-six, or so I've been told."
“It's beautiful,” I marvelled as I followed him.
"The guy who owned it before my parents gutted everything but the outer shell. Then built the rest of the house around it. The stairs here lead up to where the bell tower used to be. It's an office now. There’s another set of stairs in the back, through the kitchen, those lead up to the bedrooms. The living room and dining room is through here," he said, gesturing to the archway to his left. "And to the right, there's another bedroom, the laundry and a half-bath."
“How did I not know this house was here?" I pondered to myself. Especially considering how small the community was.
Bryce must have recognized my inquiry as rhetorical, for he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he offered, "You can have your pick of bedrooms for the night."
I turned to him and, with slight annoyance in my voice, said, "I'd like to finish our earlier discussion."
Bryce continued walking towards the kitchen, unfastening his belt as he went. "We will, but not tonight. It's late, and I'm beat. Besides, you're also a little drunk, and I doubt you'll remember most of the conversation anyway. Tomorrow morning, we can discuss anything you'd like over coffee and breakfast. I promise." I followed him up the stairs, and he showed me to one of the spare rooms, down the hall from the master suite. "This used to be my room," he revealed, flicking on the overhead light.
The room was simple; plaster walls, in hues of camel and pale blue. There was little furniture other than a large iron bed with embroidered country blankets, and a small nightstand to the left of the bed and then a mid-size wooden dresser by the door. I searched for evidence of his childhood self. I hoped to find insight into the attractive, almost-brother-in-law who charmed and infuriated me. I found nothing. It had all been cleaned out and replaced by sterile decor; things void of personality and history. "The linens are clean, and there are extra pillows and blankets in the closet." I nodded understanding. "My room is at the end of the hall, so if you need anything, just give me a shout."
I nodded again. "Thank you," I said. "This will be fine."
Bryce shrugged. "Well, if you think of anything, you know where I am."
I nodded and watched him back out of the room; I shut the door behind him. For a moment, I contemplated sleeping in my clothes. I knew that it would be too uncomfortable to accomplish any sleep. So, I slipped off my shirt and was about to take off my jeans when I remembered that I had neglected to put on underwear. Fuck it. I stripped nude and flicked off the light.
I collapsed on the bed, my body drunk and tired, but unable to keep my mind from roaming. The entire night had been strange and turbulent and had left me feeling very confused. Despite the confusion, I had enjoyed myself. Even the argument with Bryce had been somewhat enjoyable. I wished I knew what Bryce had thought of the evening. I wished I knew what he thought of me. Had he meant what he had told the others? I wished I knew anything about Bryce's thoughts at all. The guy frustrated and excited the hell out of me.
Maybe tomorrow I would get some answers. I cringed at the idea of what he might say. Not that it mattered. If he was disingenuous, so be it. I was used to fake people. I dealt with celebrities, after all. I didn’t understand why I felt so invested. I'd only known him a few days, and it wasn't like there were any romantic inclinations, the guy was straight for God’s sake.
I closed my eyes. Sleep tugged at my consciousness, and I began to drift off. My final thought before the fog claimed me was our game of pool and how close Bryce had stood behind me. I could still smell his cologne. I smiled.
FIVE
My eyes were shut, but I was conscious. I could feel the warm morning sun caressing my face through the open curtains. I opened one eye, then the other, and was blinded by the golden rays. I shielded my eyes with my right hand. Keeping my head down, I walked naked to the window and slid the drapery closed. The room looked different though sober lenses. Brighter and less sterile. I still thought the decor very simple, but it was warmer and more welcoming than it had seemed the night before. I wondered what the room had looked like when Bryce had lived in it. I imagined a ten-year-old Bryce, kneeled on the grey carpet, building model cars or Lego castles. I would have smiled at the thought, but my mouth was dryer than dust. When I ran my tongue over the front of my teeth, they felt fuzzy. Between that and the pressure thumping at my temples, I knew I needed water.
I hadn't slept well, even though I had fallen asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow. The bed had been more comfortable than the one at the motel. But the evening had been such a strange emotional roller coaster that I had been too wound-up to sleep sound. All night my thoughts balanced between remembered hatred and intense attraction. There was also the frightening notion that my father had petitioned for my childhood torment.
I slid on yesterday's clothes. They were now horribly wrinkled from when I'd discarded them in a crumpled pile on the floor. Cheap fabric never held its shape for long, so I was not surprised by their state. As taught to do by my mother, I stripped the bed of its linens, folded them, and placed them on the foot of the bed. The door groaned as I pulled it open. I could smell something lovely and fattening wafting up from the kitchen. Wandering down the narrow stairs, I yawned and attempted, in vain, to calm my wild hair with my fingers.
The kitchen was sunny and happy, filled with sweet scents. The sound of country music played from a small countertop radio. Bryce hummed along to the music as he poured batter onto the griddle, his back to the stairwell.
"Morning," I said with another yawn, making my way to the small breakfast nook. I took the first seat and turned it so my back would face the window, not sure my head could stand the gleam.
"Good morning," he drawled, glancing over his shoulder in my direction. "There's water and Aspirin on the table for you. I figured you'd need both."
I had never been more grateful for anything in my life. I reached for it immediately. Fumbling with the childproof lid, I spilled two pills into my hand. I chased them with the glass of water and refilled the glass from the clear pitcher in the center of the table.
"How are you feeling this morning?" He inquired with a ribbing tone.
"Like there's a tiny tribe of indigenous people beating war drums in my head."
"That sounds uncomfortable -- and mildly racist." He placed a cup of coffee in front of me. "I hope you like waffles. I assumed you wouldn't be in the mood for eggs." His assumption was correct.