Page 30 of Something like Love

The door opens as we ascend the first step, and Cynthia greets us with a beaming smile. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, opening the door wider for us to enter. “Hello, little guy.”

She bends forward and pats Lucky on the head. He happily accepts her pats as he seems to like her.Traitor.

Quinn stands behind me and practically shoves me through the door. He must be afraid that I’m going to turn away and run screaming bloody murder.

Once inside, every muscle within my body seizes up, and I feel claustrophobic as the walls begin to close in on me. This house is to be my prison for the next God knows how many days or weeks, and I suddenly question my decision to come here.

“Your room is upstairs,” Cynthia says.

She nervously fiddles with her locket before leading the way up the glorious staircase.

Quinn slides my backpack off my shoulder as I remain firmly rooted to the floor, gazing up at the endless steps that no doubt lead to my impending doom.

He lugs my bag onto his shoulder and reaches for my hand, pulling me toward the stairs.

But my hand snags in his because I have no intention of moving.

Turning to see what my problem is, he cocks a brow.

But I animatedly shake my head.

“I can’t go…up there,” I say, raising my eyes toward the stairs.

“So you want to stay down here all night?” he asks with a smile.

I nod because that option is far better than entering a room that will never be mine.

“Well, all right then, but with all the Christmas cheer going on down here,” he says, looking at the front window where I can see the ridiculous Christmas display, “I just may feel the need to break out into song. And I know just the one.”

He takes an exaggerated breath, which puffs out his chest, and he bellows, “Rudolph—”

Before he can continue, I slap my hand over his mouth and smile. “You sing. You die.”

I know what he’s doing, and it’s worked.

Cautiously removing my hand in hopes he doesn’t feel like belting out another carol, I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Quinn.”

“Anytime,” he replies, slowly reaching for my hand, and we take our first step toward what, I don’t know.

I don’t want to be here, but a small part of me does. This is my chance to find out who I am.

The staircase leads up to the second floor, which is just as lavish as downstairs. I almost trip up the last step when I see how many rooms this floor has. Beautiful paintings decorate the white walls, and as I look down the long hallway, I can see they extend all the way down the corridor.

“This way,” Cynthia says, leading us down the beige-carpeted walkway as Quinn and I silently follow.

My shoes squish on the plush carpet, and I look behind to ensure I’m not leaving a mud trail.

We stop at a white door, and inside, I can hear the recognizable voice of Kurt Cobain over the radio.

“Polly?” Cynthia says, knocking softly. “Your sister is here.”

It looks like she’ll be waiting a while as the only response she gets is the volume being turned up all the way and Kurt yelling at us to stay away.

With a sigh, Cynthia rubs her brow as she faces us with a strained smile. “She mustn’t have heard me.”

No one addresses it. This situation is awkward enough without adding Polly to the mix.

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