Page 36 of Once Upon a Boyband
The kitchen is clean, but it’s not so clean that it looks like someone doesn’t live here. There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter and another bowl by the stove full of onions and shallots and bulbs of fresh garlic. A drawer is slightly ajar, and I pull it out to see the most beautiful spice drawer I’ve ever seen, full of matching glass jars with hand-written labels. The handwriting is masculine, a little slanted, making me think it’s definitely Adam’s, not Sarah’s.
There’s a food scale on the counter next to the gas range and a small notebook with a pen on top, filled with the same handwriting I saw on the spices.
I could be wrong, but I don’t think Sarah lives here. It's not so much that the house seems absent of a woman’s touch. It’s more that the space just really feels like Adam.
I make my way back to the living room, walking slowly past the music room. On the wall just beside the piano, there’s a seven-inch LPElvis Christmas Albumsigned by Elvis Presley himself, framed in a glass case.
I swallow. I don’t know a ton about collecting rare records, but I’ve read about the red vinyl Christmas LP, and it’s worth thousands.
And Adam has one.
It’s all I can do not to sit on the floor in front of his record shelf and see what else he has, but then I hear footsteps on the porch.
My heart starts pounding. It has to be Adam getting home.
Will he care that I’m still here? Will he be surprised to see me hanging out in his music room? I mean, he’ll see my car, but it feels weird to just…behere, in his space.
I scramble to my feet and head into the living room. I can at least look like I’m on my way out and not snooping through his house.
Just before I reach the front door, a knock sounds on the other side.
Goldie stands alert, ears perked, and lets out a lowwoof.
Okay,so…maybe it isn’t Adam getting home. But who else could it be?
That thought makes me nervous. Hope Acres is remote. There are no other houses in either direction for at least a mile, and I am very much alone.
I move to the front window in the living room and peek onto the porch. There’s a man standing in front of the door and a dark sedan in the driveway. The man has shaggy brown hair and is wearing a leather jacket, but from this angle, I can’t see his face.
He leans forward and knocks one more time, and I debate my options.
If I stay still and quiet, he’ll likely just go away. That’s the smartest course of action, right? Then I get to stay safely behind a locked door, and this stranger, whoever he is, can come back another time.
Outside, the man moves to the porch steps and sits down.
I frown. What am I supposed to do now?
I could go out the back door and try to creep over to my car, but there’s no way the guy wouldn’t see me.
I could call the police, but that feels like an overreaction. The guy could be perfectly nice.
He could also be a serial killer.
But honestly, what are the odds? He’s hanging out on Adam’s porch, clearly waiting for him to return, which means he must be a friend. Right?
Maybe I could call Adam and ask if he’s expecting someone?
Or just go back to the barn and lock myself in with the dogs until Adam returns?
I peek through the window one more time. The man is leaning forward on his elbows, looking at his phone. There’s something about his profile that feels vaguely familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.
Hedoeslook pretty harmless. Lean and lanky. Not like Adam, with all his flexing forearms and biceps. I took a couple of self-defense classes in college, and I still remember a few moves. I could probably take this guy.
When in doubt, go for the eyes or go for the balls.
After one more deep breath, I make a decision, then steel myself and open the front door.
The man turns, then stands, a wide smile stretching across his face, and the air freezes in my lungs.
