“I was, and I still attend church.”
Gwen let out a stilted ‘hah’ and steepled her hands. “I’ve prayed for so long that Dayton would find a good, Catholic girl.” She raised her glass and stared down her son. “Here’s to hoping you can keep this one.”
The remainder of dinner passed by without much event. It was a calm, quiet affair. No drama, scandal, or secret spilled. Gwen tasked Dayton with the dishes. Once everyone had gone their separate ways to their rooms, Kenna found him stationed at the farmhouse sink, which looked out of place in the outdated kitchen. The sleeves of his henley were pushed just above his elbows. An apple fragrance hung heavy in the air, the noxious plume of the dish soap. His phone sat off to the side of the drying rack where Sam Cooke’s velvety voice crooned at a low volume.
There was hope for his taste in music yet.
“Do you need help?”
“Who do you suppose washes the dishes at my house?”
There was something softer about Dayton. His tone, his expression; she couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was the day’s exhaustion paired with the familiarity of being in his childhood home. Kenna could’ve grown attached to this version of him but she didn’t allow it. His altered demeanor would not follow them home to Branch Spring, where the enigma of Dr. Dayton Merino would reign free.
She watched him work, admiring the veins straining against the top sides of his hands and the gentle manner in which he placed the china into the drying rack, like he didn’t want to chance waking the rest of the household who were almost certainly still awake.
In a hushed voice, she sang along toYou Send Meand he beheld her with a fondness that gave the impression the domestic backdrop was their own.
“Are you still playing …” He didn’t dare mention the bar by name. Was it remorse on his end or was he avoiding stirring up her feelings regarding Lacey’s death? She would’ve given the world to know. “Downtown?”
“Every once in a while. Mostly at Striker Lounge.”
“The converted warehouse on 15th Street?”
“That’s the one.”
The song changed and their chatter faded. The whole affair had a hypnotic effect on her; the sponge crushed beneath his hand, the running water and clink of porcelain. Hypnosis was an impermanent state. For all the normalcy he exuded in that scene, he was the furthest thing from it.
“Why don’t you head upstairs. Get ready for bed. I put your stuff in my old room.”
Kenna turned without a word and retreated up the staircase. She enjoyed the simple commands from Dayton, and that was when she suspected she’d fallen helplessly for him: following them without any thought or hesitation.
Contented, even, to do so.
She wondered how it was possible to conceive of loving him, knowing what she did. Love often made little sense.
There were five shut doors on the second floor. Light pooled out from the bottom of one and she assumed it was Carmen’s. The first bedroom Kenna came across was tidy and generic in design, indicative of use for guests. She spotted Dayton’s bag by the nightstand as she switched off the light. She tried her luck on the other side of the hallway, where she was duped by a linen closet, and then a bathroom before finding herself in Dayton’s old bedroom.
His green and white Sheldon High lacrosse jersey was pinned to the wall above the dresser. She slid open the top drawer enough to glimpse its contents. Full of clothes, like he’d never left. A short stack of books sat atop the dresser, the selection varying wildly from the strictly non-fiction collection Dayton kept back in Branch Spring. Her fingers ghosted along the spines. Michael Crichton. Nick Hornby.
She pulled them away before grazing the Thomas Harris that rested at the bottom.
A CD player occupied the opposite end of the dresser, albums lining the space between the player and the books.
“You don’t waste any time.”
Her hand flew to her chest but she recovered quickly as Dayton closed the door behind him and was soon capable of producing coherent speech.
She took in his overgrown hair and dark eyes, the lips that had once kissed every inch of her skin. In spite of their fraught history and the newfound affection she harbored for him, she understood that some degree of danger lay in choosing to love him.
The longer Kenna looked at him, the more confused she became as to why, all of a sudden, a large part of her insisted that the threat didn’t matter.
“Did you mean what you said earlier? In the car?”
Her eyes were wider than usual, as if accommodating their earnestness. Kenna was like a piece of glass before him. He saw straight through her, vulnerability and fragility on display. That piercing look tugged at something buried deep within Dayton’s chest.
He wouldn’t deny her an answer.
“I’ve never said anything more genuine. To anyone.”