“You’re in good company here. And there’s no place quite like home,” he says, leading me into the study.
“Wish I could claim that. I actually grew up in LA,” I correct. “My parents moved us here when I was thirteen. I never missed living there.”
The minute I hit the threshold of the room, I pause and see nothing but…The King. Across from the doorway stands a life-sized cardboard cut-out of a slimmer Vegas Elvis, with a plastic lei around his neck. The rest of the room is hosed down with shelves upon shelves of Elvis memorabilia.
“Hope you like Elvis. You’ll be rooming with him.”
“Who’s the fan?”
Allen lifts his chin with pride. “Not just a fan, he was a family friend. My grandparents lived across the street from his parents in Memphis. They were great friends. My Mom was there the day he moved his parents to Graceland. I was just a baby.”
“That’s awesome.”
I set my duffle down and look around with a mix of fascination and fear. Whitney never mentioned when we dated that her father was an Elvis fanatic. A small stack of trophies—no doubt impersonation prizes—line the top of one of the shelves, a prideful display.
“I see you competed.”
Allen grins, nothing but pride in his eyes. “I did for a while.” He picks one of the trophies up and hands it to me. “When I won first—in Vegas of all places—I figured I should hang it up while I was on top.” I study the golden Elvis, knees bent in one of his signature poses, and appreciate the trophy for an appropriate amount of time before I hand it back. “That’s cool.”
When another shriek sounds from upstairs, it’s all I can do to hide my grin.
“I wonder what she’s going on about,” Allen mumbles. Another shriek has me cloaking my laughter with the clear of my throat.
“Sorry about that,” Allen offers sheepishly. “Must be a full moon coming tonight or something because the women in this family seem to be climbing the walls.”
Whitney’s most definitely got her claws out, no doubt due to my unexpected appearance. Her over-glossed jaw had dropped the second she realized it was me. I didn’t at all expect a warm reception, but I didn’t expect to feel such a hit of nostalgia in those few seconds when our eyes locked over her brother’s shoulder. It’s clear she still harbors ill-feeling towards me due to the way we ended. This week should be interesting. If anything, I’ll give her a long-overdue apology. She has every right to any lingering resentment against me after the way things ended between us. Allen glances down at the blowup mattress. “The bed should be comfortable. Sorry about the bedroom situation, my kids keep multiplying and well,” his smile is full of pride, “I can’t say I don’t love it.”
“It’s perfect. I appreciate you having me.”
“The more the merrier. I mean that.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Allen. Well…” he glances around, “I’ll leave you to it.” He does just that as the noise from above mutes to an eerie silence. If I still know Whitney at all, that’s scarier than the shrieking. The truth is, I doubt I know her at all anymore. Seventeen years is a long time, a lifetime. People can change drastically in a day, let alone nearly two decades. Though the greeting at the door made it seem more like a blink when she lifted her brown doe eyes to mine.
What the fuck are you doing, Eli?
Selfish curiosity.
I originally planned to spend Christmas unpacking the stacked boxes in my rental—to finally make it feel more like a home—but when Brenden invited me, I accepted, surprising us both. I could bullshit myself and say it had nothing to do with the family photo I spotted in his living room a week ago, but I’d be lying. Instead of asking him about her, I cyber-stalked her for an hour, maybe two. It’s a mystery, even to me, why I just didn’t confess my connection to her and outright ask him about her.
It was a pussy move.
The truth is, the last week isn’t the only time I’ve looked her up or thought about her over the years, not by a longshot. For me, she was the one woman who never really left my thoughts. Over the years, some of the memories have faded. There’s been a lot of spacing between personal relationships, but Whitney? Unforgettable.
Even so, encroaching on a family’s Christmas due to selfish curiosity is completely out of character for me. And maybe that’s why I accepted, to jump off the edge of my comfort zone.
I walk over to one of three large study windows and check out the view. Tall trees cluster along the ridge, forming thick woods covering the freshly dusted cliff rock, the snow steadily coming down. The den is spacious and cozy, housing a worn-in leather couch, a large desk, and endless shelves of Elvis. Even so, there’s more than enough room for the king-sized mattress I’ll be sleeping on. The walls are darkly stained wood giving it that authentic cabin feel. I have to admit, even amongst cluttered memorabilia—and aside from the lack of a door for privacy—it’s not a bad setup. The house itself is unbelievably decorated, making it picturesque for the holiday.