Page 93 of Falling for Grace

Mine.

Still nothing.

If I were Brandon, what would I put in? My hands shake as I press 13415, Maya’s date of birth. I push Enter and look up, waiting. The gates open to the sound of gears grinding, allowing me to see into the world of Hollywood hearththrob Brandon Holder. The drive continues a little further, and hedges run adjacent, framing the concrete driveway and drawing my eye towards the house. Standing proudly ahead of me is a building that takes me straight back to my childhood, to my little front bedroom and my computer.

And I giggle. I’m standing frozen to the spot, staring at a house that I designed when I was 14 years old.

He made it.

I can’t believe he made it.

When I was young I was obsessed with a game calledThe Sims, where you create little people and progress them through life—building them houses, getting them promotions, just going through the motions.

I had created us. Me, Danny and Brandon. All little miniature Sim versions of ourselves. I designed a house, and we all lived in it. Brandon was an actor in the game, Danny a fashion designer and I was an astronaut. Even though the thought of physically going to space made me want to puke.

The house was one of my favourite things to design in the game. I spent hours making it perfect. Seeing it now in real life takes my breath away. Although the plot is huge, the house isn’t. It’s modern architecture full of sleek lines, bright smooth white concrete on the ground floor walls, with the second floor covered in beautiful cedar cladding. Feature columns made of stone to add texture and contrast. My eyes are drawn to all the different layers, and the large windows pepper the outside breaking up the different surfaces, but they are all blacked out with whatever technology allows the glass to be dimmed to prevent people from looking in.

I walk the small distance up the driveway to the front door. Music is blaring from inside, Silverchair’s “Emotion Sickness.” The lyrics fill me with apprehension.

Distorted eyes when everything is clearly dying.

“Brandon!” I call, even though I know he won’t be able to hear it over the music.

I step onto the porch and get ready to bang my fist against the door, but I don’t have to. It’s already open, the sunlight casting a beam of light inside. I push the door forward, the lyrics growing louder.

I tentatively cross the threshold and close the door behind me. I take off my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the darkened room. I’m standing in the foyer and in the middle is a centre table that isn’t exactly the same as the one I had in my design, but the placement is, and on top is an ornament made of glass, tendrils wrapping around each other.

I look to my right and know that there will be a hallway that runs the front of the house to the garage, the windows huge and running along the front. I still can’t believe that even after all these years he built the very house that I designed. We both carry such a huge part of each other.

“Brandon.” The lyrics drown out any reply, as the song builds to the chorus.

I walk through the foyer into the main living room, taking in the sunken sofa area in front of me, with double aspect windows and a double height ceiling. The space is terrific and a part of me is desperate to see it all. But I’m not here for that.

I’m here for Brandon.

I start searching the house for signs of life. Bottles of booze pepper the floor, along with rubbish and plastic cups from the last party he threw. I trip over a half-empty bottle of vodka, which I pick up and place on the table, making a mental note to pour out the contents.

The backdoor is open, and I walk out into the garden, my eyes burning from the sunlight. Brandon’s half-naked body is slumped haphazardly over a sun lounger in the shade beside a pool. A bottle of vodka lies on the deck next to him.

“Fucking hell, Brandon.”

I push his shoulder roughly and want to celebrate when he groans. He’s breathing.

“What have you done to yourself,” I mutter.

His face is covered in stubble and I touch his cheek, the hair tickling my palm. He groans again, and I can see he’s trying to fight his way to consciousness.

“I can’t believe you made the house.” I look round the garden and can see that even the pool placement is the same. I take his hand. “You used to rip the piss out of me something rotten playing that game, and Danny. I knew deep down you secretly loved the house.” I run my hand through his hair and he moans again. “I’m so sorry, Brandon.”

“Grace.” His throat sounds dry. He must be so dehydrated.

“I’m here.” I sit on the lounger next to him and his eyes open. They are hazy and bloodshot. He blinks away the sleep, his head clearly pounding as his face pulls into a grimace.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to help, Brandon.”

“You want to help?” he asks incredulously. “Leave.” He shifts and turns away from me, coming up into a sitting position.

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