“You know what?” I say on a whim. “I’m free right now. Would you like to get together?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Willow murmurs, “Okay.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Great. You’re welcome to come to our house, or would you rather I visit you—”
“You can come here. Do you need the address?”
Her answer is so quick that I have to fumble around for a pen. “Sure. Let me have it.”
A few minutes later, I have the address on a scrap of paper and I’m heading out the door, dressed casually in jeans and a soft sweater, my hair loose and pulled over one shoulder.
The house Willow is shut in looks just as massive as Aiden’s. Instead of brick and warm wood, it looks severe and dark. There’s black and metal detailing everywhere, the ground floor paneled in tinted glass.
I don’t know why, but I don’t like it as much as Aiden’s place.
Not that I’d ever tell him that.
I ring the doorbell and wait. When the door finally opens, Willow is there. She looks different outside of the golden glow of the gala. Her dark hair is loose and straight, falling in a glossy curtain around her pale face. Her blue-gray eyes still look hazy and disconnected.
She looks so much like a ghost in her white pants and gauzy blouse that I almost want to reach out and touch her just to make sure she’s really there.
“Hi,” Willow says, a faint smile curving her lips.
“Hey. It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
She stands there, one hand on the door frame, for a long moment before shaking her head as if to clear it.
“Oh. Come in,” she murmurs, flushing slightly. “Sorry. I’m not used to hosting.”
“Neither am I.” I laugh, then follow her inside. “It’s fine.”
The inside of the house is just the same as the outside. The walls are mostly glass, the furniture spare and upholstered in black leather. It doesn’t feel like the kind of place a real person lives. It doesn’t feel like a home.
Everything is cold, with sharp edges. Willow doesn’t fit in this place, no matter how hard I try to imagine her here. She’s too soft, too pale and wispy for it. She looks like she belongs somewhere warm, curled up on a soft couch. This place looks more like Dmitri.
She leads me into what I assume is a living room, and I sit in a small chair as Willow takes the longer sofa next to me, curling into the arm.
"Would you like anything to drink?” she asks. She seems a little more animated, as if having to think about a guest is giving her slightly more life than usual.
“No, I’m fine, thanks. Were you busy? I didn’t interrupt anything?”
I’m fairly certain I know the answer, but Willow seems nervous. Distracted. Maybe making small talk will help.
“No, you didn’t,” she assures me.
We chat for a few minutes about harmless, inane things, and as we do, I start to notice little tells in Willow’s behavior that I missed during the gala.
She isn’t just quiet or timid. She’s medicated, I realize. I don’t know what she’s on, but she’s definitely on something.
It makes me feel even worse for her than I already did. It’s obvious that she’s sweet, thoughtful, and kind. She’s young. She should be going out with girlfriends and shopping at the mall, not hanging around an empty, cold house.
And if she’s medicated, maybe her situation is worse than I thought.
“How long have you and Dmitri been married?” I ask, hoping the question doesn’t come off as too nosy. But I want to know.
Willow bites her lip, her gaze distant. “A while. He had just graduated from his university, and I was still…”
