“I’m leaving,” Katie calls, jogging down the last few steps. “And, Nolan, don’t drink my coffee.”
Nolan salutes her as she disappears out the front door, then lowers his gaze to me. “Got you nervous?”
“I don’t even know what we agreed to.”
“A fun and harmless exchange of pranks. Jokes. Fun.”
“You said fun twice.”
“Because itisfun, or it will be.”
“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
That instant smile appears again, capturing my full attention.
“Can’t we just call it a truce?”
He takes another bite, chewing slowly as he stares at me. “You can let me know tomorrow if you want to call a truce.”
“Tomorrow? What did you do?”
Nolan shrugs, gathering his drink and box of food. “Have fun preparing for your speech.” He kicks the door open with the toe of his tennis shoe, flips on the light with his elbow, and heads down the steep stairs into the basement, breaking the rule he recited to Katie.
I stare after him for half a second, debating if I should follow and attempt to reason again, but realize that will only make things more awkward. Instead, I take in the main level of our house, studying all the details, searching for any slight or drastic differences.
This house doesn’t reflect the high-end houses my family’s business creates where everything is stainless steel, top-of-the-line this and top-of-the-line that. Instead, it was redone by a father and son who tried to salvage some of the original items like the cabinets which stick and clang when they close but were freshly painted a shade of pearl gray last year before we moved in. There are uneven spaces between the honeycomb backsplash that most likely wouldn’t notice, and a couple of cuts to the trim that makes the corners uneven, but I’ve grown to like the imperfections. They make the house have personality and warmth, and I love that the walls are all painted in bold colors that make every room have its own personality.
Katie’s suggestion that I go out creeps to the front of my thoughts as I take a knife to the lasagna, cutting out a small corner. It’s runny from being too warm. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I can dampen some of these thoughts and fears for my upcoming speech if I get out of the house and distract myself.
I turn to grab a fork and nearly jump out of my skin when noticing Nolan in the doorway of the basement.
His quick smile is arrogant. “You’re a little jumpy.”
“Didn’t you just go downstairs?”
“I need more water.” He holds up an empty water bottle and shakes it side to side. As he moves closer, his attention seems to snag on the lasagna. “So you make lasagnas when you’re nervous about something?”
“Not lasagnas, specifically.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I pick something I don’t know how to make very well and try to find the best recipe.”
“So you take control when you fear losing control. Interesting.”
“I’m not losing control or taking control.”
God, I probably am.
Before he can respond, a loud scraping noise that sounds like a shovel hitting against a hard surface, has me glancing toward the living room, lasagna and my need for control gone. The noise is outside, but so loud and close it has to be against the side of the house.
Chills dance down my spine as horror movies haunt my thoughts. I shoot an accusing look at Nolan, trying to calm my heart and rationalize why he came up here so fast, why he warned me that I can call a truce tomorrow—this is a prank. An elaborate, stupid prank. But when he’s standing straighter, his jaw tense as he stares at the unlocked front door on the opposite side of the house.
The scratching sound happens again, this time, against the wall closeest to us.
“How are you doing that?” I ask.
He raises both hands, mirroring the same innocent gesture from before. “I’m standing right next to you.”