Page 32 of Something like Love

There are ten doors on this floor, and I’ve opened all but three.

The first was Polly’s since I’m sure that wouldn’t go down too well, and the second is Cynthia’s, for obvious reasons. However, the third door, which is the room next to Cynthia’s, is the room I desperately want to enter.

All the doors, except this one, are white.

This door is a pale purple, and unlike all the other doors, this door is locked.

I can see by the keyhole that the key that opens this door is a big, old-school brass key, which seems out of place with the modernized home.

Just as I am about to jiggle the handle again, a voice scares the shit out of me, and I yelp, jumping back guiltily.

“It’s locked.”

“I can see that. Why?” I ask, turning to look at Polly.

“I don’t know. It always is,” she replies simply as she glares at me.

“And you’ve never wondered what’s inside?”

“No.” Polly is obviously bored by our conversation as she examines her peach-colored nails. “Besides, whatever is inside can’t be good because every time Mom goes in there, all she does is cry. Then when she emerges, hours later, she looks like shit.”

“Oh?”

“So whatever is in there can stay in there,” she says after ensuring her nails are symmetrical.

I only just suppress the urge to kick down the door as I realize Polly and I are actually having a semi-normal conversation, which is a first.

“So…I hope you don’t mind me staying here?” I say, hoping we can continue to be partially civil to one another.

Polly narrows her icy blue eyes as she kicks off the wall.

She walks over to me, stopping a few feet away, and subtly looks from left to right before she leans forward into my personal space. “Mind? I more than fucking mind.”

Taking a step back, I’m stunned by her hostility, but I allow her to finish.

“I don’t really have a choice now, do I? Mark my words, I’ll doeverythingin my power to make sure you don’t stick around. Welcome to the family,” she mocks inches from my face before turning on her heel and leaving me with a mouth full of nothing.

After my ever-so-pleasant conversation with Polly, I explored the rest of the house and gardens, and I would be lying if I didn’t confess I was considerably impressed with what I saw. However, the bitter cold and snow have me cutting my outdoor explorations short, and I enter through the back door leading into the kitchen.

The instant I’m inside, my stomach growls at the mouthwatering smell of freshly baked sweets. Only then do I realize I haven’t eaten all day. But my appetite is shot when I see Cynthia pulling out a tray of muffins from the oven, looking all motherly in her strawberry-print apron.

“Sorry,” I utter, not really sure why I’m apologizing.

I attempt to duck past her without stopping to talk, but I’m not that lucky as she quickly places the muffins onto a cooling rack and slips off her mittens. “Mia, would you like one?”

As I stand rigid, unsure of what to say, she quickly reinforces, “They’re chocolate chip.”

I can see the hope behind her affectionate blue eyes.

Deciding to try this mother-daughter thing, I nod half-heartedly and pull up a stool at the marbled kitchen island as I watch her hunt in the cupboard above her head for a plate.

“Would you like coffee?” she asks, placing a muffin on a small floral dish.

“Only if you’ve already made some. Don’t go out of your way for me.”

Cynthia cringes at my unintentional, snippy remark. “It’s no trouble, really,” she says, passing me the muffin.

I accept, and she turns on the machine and begins brewing us some coffee.

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