Page 134 of Callan

He cracks a smile, centering his focus on the main door.

“I already have. I’m so smooth, you haven’t even noticed.”

I tilt my head to the side, not entirely amused.

“How am I getting back?” I ask seriously.

He looks at me, a grin on his face, and shrugs a shoulder softly.

“I don’t know. I’ll drive you back… If you behave.”

“If I behave?”

My voice beams with surprise when he pushes the door open and invites me in.

“Don’t worry. You’re mine now,” he says, turning the lights on, still joking––I suppose. “Are you coming in or making a run for the electronic gate?” he asks, not looking at me––focused on setting his car keys and phone on the entryway table as I stare at his back from outside the door.

He shifts his eyes to me before closing the space between us and bringing his hands to my face.

“You’re not going home tonight…” he says quietly, his voice bearing no threat of any kind. “I won’t hurt you or do anything you don’t want me to do to you. You’re just spending Christmas with me. And when we’re done with each other, I’ll take you home.”

Home.

What is home for me right now?

The meaning of the word has changed since I met him.

What if my idea of a home has morphed from a cozy space outlined by silence to a perimeter where we would live together?

And what does he want to do to me?

Does he only want to create some memories with me, get lost in a new world for a few hours––away fromhiscomplicated existence––and then resume his life like nothing happened?

Even if he does––and I do, too––there’snothing wrong with it.

“You all right?” he asks, studying the conflicting emotions on my face.

“Yeah. Yes, I am,” I say with renewed confidence. “Let’s do it… Whatever it is that you want us to do.”

“Good,” he says, satisfied with my answer, and walks me in.

The armored door closes behind us, a swift reminder that there’s no turning back.

He places our coats on hangers in a closet before showing me around the ground floor.

Things are in order, the place is well kept, and you can tell it belonged to a different generation.

Valuable art adorns the walls, and antique furniture blends into the updated, comfortable, modern look.

Every object in his house has a meaning––artistic, decorative, or sentimental. Or all of the above.

They all relay the story of the house––a multi-generational home that has seen births, anniversaries, weddings, and perhaps deaths.

Framed photographs are strewn across the hallway, offering bits and pieces of that history.

He leads me to the dining room, where a working fireplace offers the intimate atmosphere of a house you want to live in.

Lights and shadows flutter across the walls as the logs crackle in the melting hands of fire.

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