Unspoken Rules (Rules 2)

“Like two years.” He shrugs, helping me to the front door where my crutches are waiting. “Let’s hope they still fit.”

“And if they don’t?”

He grins. “Well, I guess you’ll have to tolerate me walking around naked.”

Cue the scarlet cheeks.

I’m thankful that he doesn’t notice the flushed expression on my face when he unlocks the door with a number combination and pushes it open.

A loud creak indicates how long it’s been since the last time someone was here. I step inside and a cold breeze scampers down my spine, every hair on my body standing up.

The inside is just as beautiful as I expected, although the ceiling-high windows covered by thick curtains dim the sun and soak us in darkness. Two large gray couches are symmetrically placed in the center of the living room, and a large TV hangs above a marble fireplace. I glimpse to the kitchen on my right. The wooden decor is a recurring theme all throughout the first floor. This house would probably feel cozy if it wasn’t freezing and gloomy.

Shivering, I run a hand up and down my arm.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s cold. No one’s been here in a while,” he says, noticing my slow but very real transformation into a Popsicle.

He proceeds to draw all the curtains and let the sun invade the main areas of the house. The direct view of the calm water through the uncovered windows knocks the breath out of me. Many luxurious houses surround the lake. The sign I saw earlier read “Colton Gate. Population: 9,564.” This is basically a small town for rich people.

I didn’t ask Haze about it, but I’m pretty sure this place means something to him. Could it be his hometown?

“I have to go turn the heater on. I’ll give you a tour when I get back. Make yourself comfortable,” he says and disappears down the hall.

With the help of my crutches, aka my new best friends, I begin making my way to the couch but stop in my tracks when I notice three framed pictures above the fireplace.

I hop toward them. The first one is empty, and I’m immediately under the impression that someone took out whatever picture was in there in a hurry without bothering to replace it or put the frame away. I wouldn’t expect such carelessness in a house like this.

Maybe Haze’s parents did it the last time they were here. I wonder if they knew they wouldn’t be coming back when they walked through the door that day.

The second picture is a family portrait. I know something’s off the second I capture it in my hands to get a closer look.

On the picture is Haze, Tanner, a man with hard features, and a brown-haired woman showing off what looks like expensive jewelry. That would be Mrs. And Mr. Adams. Sad to think this is probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to meeting Haze’s parents.

At first sight, everything about this picture screams “typical family.” But when you look carefully, the photograph looks like it’s been cut off on the side. It’s barely visible, but the slightly uneven paper gives it away.

Something tells me whoever was in the empty frame is the same person who was removed from this portrait.

Haze looks so young, innocent… carefree. I’d put him at twelve years old tops. Obviously, he looked just as adorable then as he does now. Not that I’m surprised. Of course he would be the “you’re going to be hot when you grow up” kid.

As for me, I was some other type of kid. I was the “don’t worry, there’s hope for everybody” kid.

What rubs me the wrong way is the third and last picture. It’s a portrait of Haze. Al

one. He looks older. I’d say around fourteen or fifteen years old.

He’s still so young, but something in his eyes is different, darker. No sign of that boyish smile from the first picture. As sad as it is, the only word that comes to my mind when I analyze his perfect features is “broken.”

He’s broken.

Now that I think about it, I still see this exact same look in his eyes to this day. Something happened between these two pictures, no doubt. But what?

I hear distant footsteps and jump. My instinct tells me to get away from the pictures, which I do as best as I can, before he turns the corner.

By the time he walks back into the room, I’m sitting on the couch and pretending that my crappy phone is somewhat interesting. He starts to say something but quickly cuts himself off when his gaze lands on the pictures I was looking at barely ten seconds ago. His face twitches in irritation. He just noticed them. If he’d known about them sooner, they wouldn’t have been there for me to see, I’m sure of it. He’ll probably just snatch them and put them away when I’m not looking.

“Ready for that tour?” He turns to me.

“Seventy-five rooms later,” I say in a ridiculous narrator voice that draws a small laugh from him.