Page 31 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
My skin prickles, but I shake it off.
I step inside, quickly turn on some lights, and move through the foyer.
“It is odd the lights work, isn’t it? Like, still, after all this time.” I feel relieved about it, but I’m shocked.
“I guess,” Shane agrees. “Hopefully, you won’t get an electricity bill for that.”
Keeping my eyes away from the second floor, I check every lingering shadow around me.
Everything is as it should be, aside from the spray paint on the walls and doors.
It sounds like Mom’s home as I click-clack into the reading room, taking another glance around. The sound of the wooden floor beneath my heels brings tears to my eyes.
Her ornaments still sit on the shelves. Those flying horses are probably worth quite a pretty penny now. Each one stands proudly on the built-in bookcase that has no books. They look a little different from how I remember, a little more worn, and my favorite horse is missing, probably taken by whoever wrote the slurs of hatred on the walls.
But at least the majority are here, untouched.
All hate on the walls is directed at Ambrose. Slander over his feelings toward me. Insinuations of the horrible things he’d done to me.
None of it is true.
The one with questionable feelings back then…was me.
But that was then.
A sigh escapes because god, when Shane sees this shit, he isn’t ever going to look at me the same.
Footprints break through the dust as I take another step and pull myself from my thoughts. I stop at the bookcase, its dark wood still sturdy.
My fingers skate along the wings of a white horse with golden wings. Its beauty is enchanting as it twinkles the same shade as my nails. It pulls a fleeting smile to my lips. I take a step back, leaving the Pegasus behind.
A stab of pain echoes in my chest when the click-clacking of my heels greets my ears again.
I can’t take it.
I kick off my boots, opting to dirty my perfect white socks rather than hear that sound again, and I step back into the foyer.
“Finally, got the door to close.” Shane’s pulled-down brows say he’s as happy to be here as I am.
“It always got stuck. My parents changed the locks twice. Nothing ever worked. If you push into the handle, it closes more easily, but it’s still fussy.”
I open the front door and show him what I mean, but he doesn’t look, ignoring me while moving deeper into the foyer to inspect the place. He should have looked, saving us both the misery when he moans about his struggles again tomorrow.
“Is this the den?” His hand rests on the doorknob to our music room.
“No, that’s at the back of the house.”
He freezes. Normally, he’d be the type to investigate, but driving for hours has taken its toll.
“And how on earth do I get to the back of the house?” His eyes fix on the mass of bookshelves between the two staircases blocking the entry.
“There’s a door under the left staircase, or you can go through the reading room into the dining room, which also leads to the kitchen. The living room is just off that.”
I show him with a finger pointing to the left. And then I cringe because of the writing all over the walls in that direction.
“Reading room, huh? Plus, these massive shelves. Parents were bookworms, too?” He kisses my head. The affection gets lost in my messy topknot.
“They actually hated books. All these were here when we got here, and they never got around to throwing them out. I read a few of the classics in my teens and really fell in love.”
