For Lila, Forever

by Winter Renshaw

  “You want to name the house?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “This cottage.” He glances up at the ceiling. “Give it a name. It can be your house. What’s your last name?”

  “Hilliard.” My mother gave me her last name on account of my father abandoning us early into her pregnancy. I never knew his name. Never saw a picture. Only heard a few details, like he was smart and charismatic and successful, but also self-centered and narcissistic. “So obviously there can’t be two Hilliard Cottages.”

  “All right. Then we’ll just call it The Lila Cottage.”

  I snicker. “That doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as The Ainsworth or The Caldecott.”

  “You think?” he asks. “Nah. It sounds fine to me.”

  “Would your grandfather be okay with you naming this place without his permission? I’m getting major control-freak vibes from him.”

  Shit.

  I need to shut my mouth before I get myself in trouble.

  Sure, Thayer’s easy to talk to and he seems like a reasonable person, but I literally just insulted his grandfather—my boss.

  My cheeks flush with a burning warmth and I glance down for a moment.

  “He is absolutely a control freak, and we don’t have to tell him. It can just be our thing.”

  Our thing.

  So now we have a thing.

  “I used to hide out in here when I was a kid,” he says, looking around. “Westley was always so clingy. Like a shadow. And Whitley was always whining about this or that. And sometimes I just needed space.”

  “This is quite the hideaway for a kid. A whole house.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Anyway, if you need a hideaway of your own, you’ve found a good one. But I can’t say I won’t be using it too.”

  “We should probably come up with a custody agreement of some kind.” I’m flirting. Again. But I can’t help myself. He’s so damn cute. “Maybe I get weekends? You can have holidays because I’ll likely be working those, so ...”

  He laughs at me and our gazes lock until our respective smiles fade. There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes … fascination maybe? Curiosity? I don’t know him well enough to tell, but he looks at me in a way that no one else ever has before.

  Perhaps I’m a novelty to him.

  Or maybe this is what he does. Charms you. Works you until you’re putty in his hands so he can use you until you’re all used up, and then he moves on to the next girl.

  “I should probably get back to The Bertram,” I say. “I’m sure Grandma’s wondering where I am.”

  “We’re going to watch a movie tonight,” he says. “At Westley and Whitley’s.”

  AKA The Caldecott.

  “You should come by,” he says.

  Yesterday it was the bonfire.

  Tonight it’s a movie.

  I head to the door, the wood floorboards creaking beneath my quick, soft steps, but before I leave, I turn back to him. “You should probably stop inviting me to hang out.”

  I don’t wait for him to respond … I just go, heading back to the main house where my grandma is waiting for me with a five-pound bag of potatoes and a peeler.

  She doesn’t ask where I’ve been and I don’t volunteer it.

  Getting to work, I promise myself I won’t think about him. I convince myself I don’t like bonfires or movies or hanging out with people my own age. And I assure myself that no good can come out of flirting with Bertram’s favorite grandson.

  Chapter 5

  Thayer

  Lila makes her way around the dining room table, dishing out tongs of corn on the cob and boiled crab, her chin tucked low and eyes averted.

  I’ve attempted to make eye contact with her every chance I get, but she refuses to reciprocate.

  I’m not sure what happened. I thought we were having a nice talk in the abandoned cottage and I felt like I was getting to know her in snippets, like she might have been letting her guard down and opening up the tiniest bit. Pretty sure she was flirting with me too. And then the second I invited her to hang out tonight, she bolted like Cinderella at the stroke of twelve.

  Despite the fact that Granddad had made his expectations clear, I see no harm in asking her to hang out. She’s just suffered an incredible loss, and the last thing she needs is to feel even more alone.

  Lila disappears into the kitchen, and I glance at my plate to find that she’s given me an overly generous serving. I’m not sure if that’s her way of apologizing or if she was trying to be funny—I can’t quite put my finger on her and honestly, it’s beginning to drive me wild.

  I reach for my claw cracker when I feel the sharp jab of an elbow against my ribs.

  “Dude,” Westley whispers, leaning close. “Can you make it any more obvious?”

  “What?” I play dumb, glancing up to ensure Granddad isn’t tuned into what’s going on at our end of the table.

  “You won’t stop staring.” He grabs his crab mallet. “Honestly, you’re just torturing yourself. You can’t have her. And let’s be real, she probably doesn’t want you.”

  His sister, Whitley, leans in to add her two cents. “She seems nice, but, like, what if things go south and you have to spend the rest of the summer avoiding each other? I don’t know about you guys, but I will not have my summer stained with awkward moments all because Thayer wants a piece of the pretty maid. Why don’t you just—”

  The cacophonous tinkle of shattering glass cuts through the dinner conversations, and Whitley’s eyes flick up to the space behind me. When I follow her gaze, I find Lila falling to her knees, gathering up bits of broken wine goblets.

  Westley looks away.

  Whitley reaches for her iced tea, turning her face away.

  I have no idea how much she heard, if anything but obviously she heard something.

  “Oh, lovey, you’re bleeding,” my mother says to Lila. “Can someone locate the first aid kit for this poor thing?”

  Granddad and my father pause their conversation and glance our way but I pay them no mind.

  Without giving it a second thought, I scoot my chair out and I’m on it. Heading to the hall bath, I grab Band-Aids, cotton, and antiseptic from the medicine cabinet and when I return, I find her in the kitchen, rinsing the cut on her finger beneath the faucet.

  “Here,” I say, placing everything on the counter. “Let me see.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Lila.”

  Her pale hair curtains her face, but I don’t have to see her expression to know she probably heard everything Whitley said.

  Blood continues to spill from the slice on her finger, but she holds it under the water.

  “You need to put pressure on it,” I say.

  “I’m good.”

  I stand beside her, not willing to leave yet.

  “Your food’s probably getting cold,” she says under her breath.

  “Then you should probably let me fix you up so I can get back to dinner.” It’s my lame attempt at flirting, trying to add some lightheartedness into the moment. But it goes over like a lead balloon because I get no response from her. “Seriously. Just let me look at it and make sure you don’t need stitches.”

  She sucks in a long, hard breath, her lithe shoulders rising and falling, and then she shuts off the faucet with her good hand.

  “Had no idea you were a doctor,” she says, extending her hand to me. “Lucky me.”

  “Smart ass.” I examine the cut on her finger, which is still bleeding, and I dab at the blood with some cotton before putting pressure on it.

  “But wait. Wouldn’t a real doctor be wearing gloves when he does this?” she asks.

  “Good to see your sense of humor is still intact.”

  I get the bleeding to subside enough to clean the cut with antiseptic, and then I place a flesh-colored Band-Aid over the small wound.

  “There,” I say, admiring my work. “It’s like it never even happened.”

  Lila places her han
d over her heart and stares up into my eyes. “You saved my life, doctor. How could I ever repay you?”

  I laugh through my nose. She’s so damn cute. “You could repay me by stopping by later and hanging out with us.”

  “Not a chance.” Her tone is flat, the sparkle in her eyes gone. Turning back to the sink, she grips the edge and stares out the window.

  “Why?”

  Lila scoffs, shooting me a look. “Why? You’re asking me why?”

  I shrug. “I’m just asking you to hang out.”

  “Yeah, well, I know how your type operates.”

  “My type?”

  “Cute. Charming. Nice,” she says. “Too nice.”

  “Since when is it a crime to be a decent human being?”

  She fills the left side of the sink with warm soapy water and begins dunking dirty dishes, frantically washing and scrubbing and rinsing, like she’s all worked up.

  “I heard what your cousin said,” she finally speaks. “About you wanting a piece of the pretty maid or whatever.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t listen to her.”

  “Just so you know, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Got it.”

  “There’s no chance,” she adds before looking at me. “Zero. None.”

  For a second, I stop and entertain the possibility that she has a boyfriend back home. Or maybe she’s into other girls. But I know she was flirting with me earlier. I didn’t make that up. I didn’t imagine it. I’m not that dense.

  “Understood,” I say. “So does that mean you’ll hang out later?”

  “No. But just out of curiosity, what movie are you guys watching?”

  “Mystic River.”

  She’s quiet for a second, rinsing off a fork as she sighs. “I really want to see that, too.”

  “Okay, then come. We’ll probably start it around nine.”

  Lila grabs a striped dish rag and begins drying dishes and silverware that are already dry. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. You think about it and I’ll plan on seeing you around nine.” I head toward the doorway, back to the dining room.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” she calls out.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  I enter the dining room with a smile on my face, one that disappears the instant I lock eyes with Granddad.

  Chapter 6

  Lila

  I show up at 9:04—not to be rude but to prove a point (though I’m not entirely sure what point that is if I’m being honest). And also because I had to make sure my grandparents were in bed.

  The Hilliard Cottage isn’t very soundproof. The windows are older than dirt and single-paned, the glass paper thin. The ocean and seagulls and boats motoring by tend to create a white noise of sorts at night, which is an unexpected bonus.

  There’s only one interior light on in The Caldecott and it's around the back of the house, just off the wraparound porch. When I peer inside the window, I find the three cousins sprawled out on different cushions of a leather sectional. Westley fusses with the DVD player remote. Whitley pages through a glossy magazine.

  Thayer checks his watch. I bet he’s wondering where I am, if I’m going to show.

  I wait another minute on principle and then dragging in a hard breath, I rap three times on the glass until I get his attention.

  He pops up from the couch in an instant, his face lit. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I’m kind of in a daze right now because I tried my hardest to talk myself out of coming but in the end, it’s like I was drawn like a moth to a flame for reasons I can’t fully comprehend.

  All I know is I want to be here.

  With him.

  Even if every atom in my body, every particle in my soul knows I shouldn’t.

  Whitley’s words earlier today echoed in my mind all afternoon. I so badly want to believe Thayer’s a regular, nice person and not a Douche Charming with ulterior motives.

  “You came,” he says when he gets the back door.

  “Only because I’ve been dying to see Mystic River.” It’s true.

  Thayer moves back and I step inside and remove my shoes. The place is set up like a makeshift home theater slash family room. Movie posters on the wall. A popcorn maker standing in the corner. A bookshelf filled with an impressive collection of DVDs.

  “Hey, hey,” Whitley says, giving a wave without looking up from her magazine.

  “Aaaand there we go.” Westley presses a button on the DVD remote and the main menu fills the screen.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” Thayer tells me as he dims the lights.

  I choose the corner seat of the sectional, and when I sit down, my body melts into the downy cushions until it’s practically enveloped in luxurious softness. This might be the nicest sofa I’ve ever sat on in my life. My mind wanders to the logistics of how this sofa got here—how everything got here, actually... Were the houses built on site? Built off-site and ferried over? Grandma said the mail plane comes once a week (usually Tuesdays or Thursdays)—weather permitting. And another boat drops boxes of groceries off at the end of the dock on Mondays.

  This sort of life would never be my cup of tea, but I have to admit it’s fascinating.

  “Is this okay?” Thayer asks, voice low as the credits roll.

  He takes the spot next to me, but in his defense, the only other option was sitting between the twins, and I don’t blame him for not wanting to be sandwiched between them.

  I want to tell him to stop being so damn nice, but part of me secretly appreciates his refreshing politeness—genuine or not.

  “Yes, now shhh,” I whisper, pointing to the TV.

  The movie begins and I try my hardest to concentrate as I’ve waited months to see this and I’ve heard nothing but amazing things, but every few seconds, I can’t help but find myself watching Thayer from the corner of my eye.

  The light from the TV screen flickers against him, painting his face in all sorts of colors, illuminating and highlighting his perfect features: chiseled jaw, full lips, straight nose, broad shoulders straining through his white Yale t-shirt …

  It’s so weird how we’re all sitting here actually watching a movie. Or at least I’m watching for the most part. Pretty sure the other three are fully invested already. It’s the strangest thing to actually sit with a group of people my age who aren’t attached to their phones like life support.

  For a moment, I think about my friends back home. I’ve been trying not to think of them all week because whenever I do, I miss them too much and then I get wrapped up in wondering about all the things I’m missing in addition to missing them …

  I thought about sending letters since I don’t have a cell phone out here, but with all the chaos and commotion of the past couple of weeks, I didn’t think to ask for any of their addresses and seeing how we don’t have so much as a cell tower or internet connection here, I’m sort of screwed. Grandma said I could use their phone, but I’d have to buy a calling card from the store on the mainland. One of these days I’ll get around to it, I’m sure.

  I try and focus on the movie again but my gaze wanders to Thayer for a couple of seconds. He looks good from this angle.

  Who am I kidding, he looks good from every angle …

  His hands are folded across his lap as his legs stretch across the rest of his side of the sectional. He’s so close I can smell his cologne … something like cedar and citrus and definitely top shelf. He was out on the dock earlier, helping his grandfather with something. I’m guessing he came back and took a shower after, which explains why he smells like a million bucks.

  “This movie is boring.” Whitley sighs, sitting up and reaching for her Seventeen magazine.

  “It’s been five freaking minutes, Whit.” Her brother huffs before reaching across and yanking the magazine from her hands and tossing it back on the table.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Watch.” He points at the TV before readjusting his baseball cap, which I’m beginning to realize neve
r leaves his head. And I’m not sure why because he's an attractive guy with a full head of tousled auburn waves. I guess everyone has their thing ...

  Thayer turns to give me a wink, as if to say he agrees that these two are annoying as hell. Or maybe I’m assuming that’s what he’s implying. It’s too soon to think we’re on mind-reading levels.

  Once again, I turn my attention back to the show. I’m a little lost, but I’m sure I’ll catch up.

  We’re twenty minutes in when a chill runs through me. I’m realizing it gets cold here at night and once the temperature drops, it drops fast. Also, I’m realizing that although Bertram is richer than the devil, he’s also a frugal bastard, opting not to heat the three gigantic houses at night because “blankets are cheaper.”

  I run my hands along my bare arms, my fingertips tracing the gooseflesh, and then I draw my knees against my chest. It only takes Thayer a few seconds to turn his attention to me.

  “You cold?” he whispers.

  I nod.

  Without hesitation, he pops up and heads to a sea grass bench by the window, lifting the lid and pulling out a thick plaid blanket lined with fleece.

  “Here,” he says, covering me up.

  Again with the niceties …

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  From the corner of my eye, I can tell Westley’s watching. Whitley is shockingly oblivious. Guess she's into the movie after all.

  As soon as my shivers subside, I get back into the movie—sucked back in actually. In fact, I'm so into it I completely lose track of time. It’s like I blinked and it was over.

  Westley stops the movie and Whitley gets the lights and I head to the door to grab my shoes.

  “Thanks for the hang tonight, guys,” I say, stepping into my leather sandals.

  The twins mutter tired responses.

  Thayer makes his way across the room. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “You don’t have to.” I reach for the doorknob but he gets it first, and then he follows me outside.

  I stick my hands in the pockets of my cut-off shorts and hightail it toward my grandparents’ cottage in the frigid, ocean-scented wind.