Rider let go of my hand and opened the door, holding it for me so I could step through. Inhaling, I immediately caught the scent of apples and cinnamon. My gaze was darting everywhere as he closed the door behind us.
The brick row home was very much like Carl and Rosa’s, except older and smaller. Across from the front door were stairs that led to a second floor. The two bottom steps had an array of sneakers tucked against the wall. An old table was by the door, covered with unopened mail.
Rider stepped around me. “Want something to drink?”
I nodded and followed him through a rounded archway and into a living room. A coffee table was covered with magazines. A decent-sized TV sat on a stand, across from a comfy couch and recliner. Framed photos of Jayden and Hector covered every square inch of the wall behind the couch. There were several photos of an older man who reminded me so much of Hector. I guessed that was Mr. Luna.
The next room was a small dining area and then we walked into a surprisingly large kitchen that looked like it still had the same appliances it had when originally built. Cabinets were stained dark and the countertop a smooth tan surface.
“I think there’s some Coke in here. That cool?” Rider asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I think the milk might be expired.”
“Coke is fine.” I watched him open the fridge, and hand to God, I could’ve cried. The fridge was full of food—Tupperware with leftovers, eggs, cases of soda, packs of lunchmeat and even a veget
able or two.
Looks could be deceiving. I was smart enough to realize that. Sometimes, clean floors and a stocked fridge were nothing more than a facade.
But the hopefulness was growing.
Rider grabbed two sodas out of the fridge. “Is going upstairs to my bedroom okay?” His cheeks flushed pink. “If not, the attic has been converted into a chill spot.”
It was sweet that he asked and even sweeter that he blushed. I nodded, feeling my cheeks heat also. “Bedroom...is fine.”
His lips twitched as he handed me the Coke.
Upstairs was just as homey and warm as the downstairs. We walked past two closed doors and a bathroom. Rider’s room was next to the last, and when he opened the door, he flipped on the light.
Only a small window cast light in the room—a surprisingly neat room. Like crazy neat. My eyes were wide as I looked around. A narrow twin bed was made or never slept in. A clutter-free, small desk butted up to a dresser.
Walking around me, Rider placed his soda on the nightstand and my bag by the foot of the bed as I turned in a slow circle. Nothing was on the walls. No posters or pictures. In the corner of the room was a bookshelf. I roamed over to it, fingering the tab of my soda. I knelt down and started checking out the spines. There was a complete set of Harry Potter, all in hardcover, and a bunch of thrillers by authors I recognized.
“Yours?”
Rider sat on the bed. “Most of them. The Harry Potter books were here when I came.” The half grin appeared. “But I read them.”
Smiling, I turned back to the books. There were a few Stephen Kings, ones I hadn’t read. Actually, I hadn’t read any of his books. I wasn’t a big horror fan. One of the titles, a thin book, snagged my attention. It was smaller, square-shaped. My hand jerked as recognition dawned.
Oh my God.
I pulled it out and stood, placing the Coke on the desk as I faced the bed.
He saw what I held and he started to smile, but it seemed to get stuck. His face blurred a little, and I blinked rapidly.
“Aw, shit,” he said gruffly, starting to stand. “You still cry when you see that book.”
I laughed, a wet and choked laugh. “No. Not really.” I stared down at the cover. It was an old copy. Oh, God, it looked like the exact one from before. The yellow cover was dulled, and the illustration of a small boy clutching a stuffed rabbit was faded. The book smelled like a book—that old, musty scent that clung to faded pages. “Is this...?”
He took a deep breath. “It is.”
Slowly, I lifted my gaze and our eyes met.
“It was your favorite book,” he said after a moment. “I have no idea why since it always made you cry.”
My lower lip started to tremble. “It was sad.”
“The rabbit becomes real in the end.” He laughed, but it was hoarse and thick. “I don’t know how many times I explained that to you.”
“But he was old and shabby and...” I swallowed the lump in my throat as I walked over to the bed and sat down beside him. I stared at the old cover. “All the rabbit wanted...was to be real and loved.” I said the last word as a whisper and then lifted my gaze to his again.