Page 9 of Finding Delaware

“We can run to the store later for cat stuff,” I say as I lead him into the foyer. A mahogany staircase rises before us, leading up to the second level, living room on the left, and dining room on the right. Taylor takes in everything—the cream-colored walls and swirling lights that dangle from the ceiling. He looks less than impressed.

We cut through the dining room, where a large table sits with eight seats, tall-stemmed calla lilies taking up the center. Maisie’s favorite flower, I guess, according to Dad. I walk into the kitchen but stop when I see Taylor eyeing the photos that line the mantle above the fireplace.

“Cute.” He snickers at a picture of me with the Easter bunny when I was five, and I roll my eyes.

There are other pictures, one of Mom and me on Halloween when I was Buzz Lightyear and another of a family vacation to the beach in California, where Mom’s parents live.

He picks one up. “These all gonna go in the trash now that Maisie is moving in?”

“What, no,” I frown, noting how he calls his mother by her first name. “Why would they?”

He shrugs, staring at the photo momentarily before gently setting it down. “You look more like your dad.”

A chuckle leaves my throat. “Yeah, I know. Same hair color.”

“But not the curls, though,” he replies softly, skirting by me into the kitchen. I cast one last glance at the picture of mymother, long curls blowing in the wind as she smiles at the camera, the sun glowing off her dark skin and a calm ocean behind her.

“Yeah. Not the curls.” There’s an ache in my chest as the memories of the day we lost her two years ago threaten to pull me under, but I shake my head quickly to dispel them.

Not right here. I will not fall apart in front of Taylor.

“So, does being a Bishop pay bank or something?” he calls from the kitchen, and I clear my throat to steady myself before following him in.

“No, Bishops don’t get paid. It’s voluntary only. Dad’s still a realtor. Guess that’s how he met your mom, she’s a receptionist at his brokerage.”

Taylor shifts the cat into his other arm to open the fridge, the entitlement of the act making my fists clench. Technically, this is now his house, too, but my brain is taking this invasion of my space as a threat.

“Figures,” he mutters, slamming the door shut. “Not a drop of booze in sight.”

“Well, my dad is a Bishop, so…no.”

He scoffs before turning away, and I follow, unsure what to say. The vibe he’s giving off right now reminds me of an animal stalking its cage. I don’t want to provoke it.

His eyes light up for half a second when he spots the eighty-five-inch flat-screen in the living room, but he deflates instantly at the painting of Dad and Maisie hanging on the wall. Some artist friend of Dad’s made it for them, but it always gave me the creeps.

Leading him up the stairs to the second level, I start down the hall. “Your room’s the one at the end.” But then I hear thehinges groan from my bedroom door, and I spin around to see Taylor’s form disappear into my room. “Hey! What the hell?”

Quickly following him, I stop inside the doorway to see him snickering up at the mini statue of Cloud from Final Fantasy sitting on top of my trophy case.

“This your crush?” He snorts, and I choose not to respond because, well...yes.

“Get out of my room, Taylor.”

Instead, he drops his cat on my unmade bed and studies his surroundings, taking in the sports posters and medals lining the walls. My shoulders are tense as hell while I watch him, my jaw tight enough to crack a molar. This ismyspace, and he doesn’t belong in it.

His fingers brush along my desk, where the sketchpad I doodle on rests beside a pile of colored pencils. “You still draw?”

“When I have time.” I shrug with an exasperated sigh. “Can I please show you your room?”

Before I can register what he’s doing, his hand is on the drawer handle of my nightstand, and he’s yanking it open.

Momentarily, I’m stunned becausewhat the actual fuck?Who does that?! But when his hand reaches inside, I lunge at him, planting my hands on his chest as I shove him back into my bookcase. A few die-cast cars I’d made with Dad clatter onto the ground at our feet, and I’m in Taylor’s face before he can even blink.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Haven’t you ever heard of personal space? Get out of my shit!”

He flashes me a Cheshire grin. “Don’t worry, bro, I wasn’t going after your lube. What’s this?” An orange pill bottle shakesin my face, and I blink, still pissed off at him for snooping. And yes, if I’m being honest, completely mortified at the bottle of lube he saw sitting in the drawer. He’ll definitely find a way to use that against me later. Pun unintended.

“Lortabs,” I grit through my teeth. “From when I got my wisdom teeth out in May. I never finished the prescription.”

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