Page 47 of Not Made to Last

I notice all of this from the front seat of his car as we make our way up the driveway. Rhys slows while we near the top of the arch but doesn’t stop. As we pass the front doors, I take in the mansion for all its beauty. A mixture of dark wood and light brick makes up most of the exterior, including the two large pillars that bracket the massive double doors to the house.

Four brick steps lead up to the concrete patio by the doors, and aside from all of that, the only major thing of note is the windows. So many windows. All of them with curtains open. Iwonder if they stay open all day and night or if someone goes through the entire house every morning to let sunlight in.

I wonder if Rhys does it.

Unlikely.

And I’d ask, but I don’t know if that’s being too nosy, and besides, Rhys is too busy entering some code into his phone while reversing into the million-car garage. He parks between a yellow Lamborghini, answering my earlier question, and an older Honda Civic that looks out of place in a mansion surrounded by luxury cars.

I step out of the car when Rhys does, struggling with the bag of food on my lap. Rhys takes the bag off me as soon as I’m upright. “I was coming to open your door,” he says, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

He takes my hand and leads the way, my two steps for every one of his. He walks quickly, almost dragging me behind him, and I don’t even have time to register the gym that sits behind floor-to-ceiling glass as we pass it, or the size of it, or the quality of the equipment in there, or what appears to be an indoor pool made to look like a beach that’s on the other side of the gym.

We’ve literallyjustentered his home, and this is what greets me.

This isn’t a house.

This is a hotel.

We continue to walk down a long, wide hallway, and it feels endless. Like too much space and not enough of it at the same time.

I can’t explain it.

The interior is white on white on white—walls, ceiling, marble floors. The only thing that breaks up the starkness is the stunningly bold exposed beams. Those, Ilove. But there are no personal touches, no family photos hanging on walls or on the pieces of furniture I spot here and there. Thefurniture is all decorative, with no real purpose. Modern, shiny black or blindingly white, accented with marble or glass, and I understand that “old” isn’t to everyone’s taste, but they don’t suit the house as much as antique furniture would.

Again, I’m judging. Or maybe I’m just observing.

Regardless, I feel as if you could fill the entire house with wall-to-wall furniture, and it would still feel… empty.

I guess I kind of understand it now—Rhys’s need to be alone, butwantto be with people, because besides our rushed footsteps hitting the floors, the house is silent.

Dead.

Desolate.

I wonder what it must feel like in his head.

Rhys is still grasping my hand as we finally make it to the massive kitchen (white again) and to the large sliding doors that lead to the backyard. Remaining quiet, he opens the door, and it’s only once we are outside does he slow his steps.

It’s almost as if he couldn’t escape the house fast enough.

His backyard seems to stretch as far as the eye can see, lined by lush, tall trees. His pool is exactly how I’d imagined it, and as we walk across light pavers, passing several seating areas made of rattan, he asks, “Should we eat in or out?”

I’m so busy taking in my surroundings that I don’t even realize we’ve stopped in front of the pool house and he’s opening the door. The pool house is designed the same as the main, with large columns bracketing the entrance. The entire front wall is made of glass, facing the pool. Rhys opens the door, holds it open for me, and waits.

I step inside, and that’s as far as I get before an overwhelming sense of recognition washes over me. I’ve never been here before. I know that to be a fact. But I’ve imagined his surroundings when he texts me throughout the day and sometimes late into the night. I’ve pictured him standing in thisexact kitchen, his phone in one hand while holding a fork in the other, waiting for the microwave to finish. And I’ve imagined him sitting on the huge sectional couch with his feet up on the coffee table, watching a game while he texts me the highlights, even though I’m watching the same game only miles away.

“What’s up?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

I drag my eyes to his, but he hasn’t moved far. Only steps away, he rests against the arm of the couch, watching me.

“Nothing,” I say, but it comes out in a whisper. Heat burns in my cheeks, and I know he can see it, because somehow, his smirk gets smirkier. I shift my gaze to the side, embarrassed. I’ve pictured him in this space. A lot. And not all the things I imagined him doing were… family friendly.

He pushes off the couch. “You want a tour?”

“Sure.” Anything to get me out of the images circling my mind.

He takes my hand in his, and the first thing he shows me is his bedroom.

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