Free Escape In You by Rachel Schurig

at his teasing tone, at the flash in his eyes. Everything seems to amuse this guy.
    “Damn lucky.”
    ***
    Taylor’s new plan for the night apparently consists of taking me back to his place. When he parks at the curb in front of the dark house, I raise my eyebrows. “So, when you said lucky, you meant as in ‘getting lucky’?”
    He laughs. “I didn’t mean it that way, no. I just want to show you something.” I still look skeptical, and he grabs my hand. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Zoe.”
    I follow him out of the car and up the long driveway. His house isn’t quite as big as Preston’s had been, but it’s close. “You live with your folks?” I ask, surprised. He strikes me as the independent type, and I know he has a steady job. I remember what he’d said in the grocery store, about shopping for his mother.
    “Yeah,” he replies, but doesn’t elaborate. I hope I didn’t embarrass him.
    He pulls a key out of his pocket at the front door but pauses before opening it, turning to me. “We need to be quiet, okay? Just until we get up to my place.”
    I have no idea what he means by “his place,” but I nod. I have quite a lot of experience sneaking through a silent house while those I don’t wish to disturb sleep. He takes my hand again and leads me into the dark entryway.
    Even with just the dim light of the moon outside I can tell that the place is massive and formal. A wide curving staircase spreads out in front of us, and an unlit chandelier hangs high above our heads. I’m pretty sure the floor is marble. “Wow,” I whisper.
    Taylor holds a finger to his lips, reminding me to be careful, then leads me further into the house. As we walk, I try to make out the various rooms in the darkness. I catch sight of a huge living room filled with furniture, a formal dining room with a table for at least twelve, and a smaller room filled with bookcases and a grand piano. Taylor doesn’t turn on any lights or give me a chance to look at anything, instead pulling me along behind him. We come to a stop in what appears to be the kitchen.
    “Stay here,” he whispers, releasing my hand.
    I watch as his dark silhouette walks away, and then a light flares above his head.
    “That’s better,” he says, and turns to smile at me. He isn’t whispering anymore, but his voice is still low.
    He’s standing in front of a double stainless steel sink. The small light he’d flipped on allows me to see that his kitchen is nearly three times the size of ours. Granite countertops stretch along each of the three walls. The cabinets are some kind of dark, rich wood, clearly custom, and everything sparkles with the cleanliness only achieved by the obsessive—or those who can afford to hire a cleaning person.
    “This house is amazing,” I say, shaking my head. “No wonder you still live here.”
    The smile slips from his face, and he turns to a tall cabinet. I wonder if I’ve offended him somehow, but then he’s pulling open the cabinet door and I realize that it’s a fridge.
    “Come here and help me,” he says, as he pulls a loaf of bread and some lunch meat from the door. I walk over to him and take the food he offers. “That should do it,” he says, closing the door with his foot. “I have beer and chips upstairs.”
    “You keep beer in your room?”
    Before he can respond, a light comes on in the hallway. “Jeremy?”
    He freezes, his entire body suddenly tense. His gaze flickers across my face, and I detect something like panic in his eyes. “Stay here,” he whispers, setting his food down on the counter.
    “Jeremy?” the voice calls again, getting closer.
    “Yeah, Mom,” he calls back. He slips past me and into the hallway, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen. I lean against the counter, wondering why he’s so nervous. Does his mom not like him bringing girls here? Or could it be that he’s more worried about her reaction to me, specifically? I don’t exactly match the high-end finish