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Oh my God, this isn’t even a private residence! It’s a model home! Ken tricked me! This must be where he brings all his victims!
The front door opened into a sparsely decorated living room, painted a cozy shade of sage green. A staircase leading to the second floor was on the right side of the expanse. A stately stacked-stone fireplace took up most of the left wall. And, on the back wall, a plush camel-brown suede couch was flanked by two wide entryways, one into the kitchen and another into the dining room.
The light fixtures were steel. The coffee table was wooden. And the art above the couch was an eclectic collection of watercolor paintings and pen-and-ink sketches, mostly of the Eiffel Tower.
No, seriously. Who the fuck lives here?
“I, uh…love the color,” I stammered, taking it all in.
“Thanks.” Ken shut the door behind us, causing me to jump. “I did all the painting, but my dad helped me with the crown molding.”
I knew it!
“Oh, does he live here, too?” I unzipped my coat and wandered over to admire the wall of Eiffel Towers.
“No, but my sister does. She rents the master bedroom from me.”
So, a woman lives here. That explains all the Parisian art.
“That’s cool. Did she help you decorate?” I asked, focusing on one particularly good watercolor of Notre Dame Cathedral after a rain shower. The wet sidewalks looked like mirrors.
“No. She just moved in a few weeks ago.”
“Really?” I turned toward Ken with my mouth hanging open and my jacket half-on and half-off. “So, you bought this place and painted it and decorated it…by yourself? It’s so”—domestic, perfect, empty—“beautiful.”
Ken smiled shyly. Holding his black wool coat in one hand, he extended the other to take my jacket. I shrugged it the rest of the way off and gave it to him.
“Where did these paintings come from?” I asked as he walked over to a coat closet tucked beneath the stairs.
“I got those in Paris,” he answered, placing my jacket on a wooden coat hanger. “There are these street artists there who just sit on the sidewalks, drawing and painting famous landmarks all day. Their work is amazing”—Ken closed the closet door and turned toward me with a smile—“and it’s really fucking cheap.”
A strange sense of déjà vufell over me as I held his gaze. Only, instead of feeling as though I were glimpsing into the past, I felt as if I were glimpsing into the future. Ken hadn’t decorated that house for himself; he’d decorated it for me. It didn’t make sense, but I felt it. I knew it. My soul saw that house and said home. My heart saw those paintings and said home. But, when my eyes beheld that introverted, intelligent, handsome, gainfully employed, responsible, tattoo-free man, they said, Home?, with a very distinct question mark at the end.
Ken wasn’t my type, but perhaps my type was ready for an upgrade.
The rumble of a car pulling into the garage shook me from my trance.
“Is that your sister?” I asked, feeling suddenly awkward about standing in the middle of the living room, doing nothing.
Ken walked past me toward the couch. “Probably not. She stays at her boyfriend’s most of the time.”
Probably not? Who the fuck is it then?
Ken sat on the couch and turned on the TV just as a door opened and closed somewhere in the kitchen. One second later, a tiny Asian girl walked through the entryway into the living room. She looked like she was around my age, maybe younger, and was no more than five feet tall. When she noticed that Ken had company, she sheepishly averted her eyes and scurried up the stairs.
I turned toward Ken with the universal expression for, What the fuck?, on my face.
He smirked, enjoying my confusion, and said, “That’s Robin. She works at the theater and needed a place to stay, so I’m renting out one of the other bedrooms to her.”
“How many bedrooms does this place have?” I asked, my tone surprisingly salty.
“Four.”
“Any other renters I should know about?”
Ken’s lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, but if you know anyone who’s looking, let me know.”
I rolled my eyes and joined him on the couch. “How old are you?” I asked, changing the subject to keep myself from volunteering to be his third roommate.
