Page 65 of Unleashed

“Yeah.”

Zara giggles as he bounces her down the hall, leading me deeper into his home.

And what a home it is.

Trevor’s office gave me a clue of what his style might be like, but seeing it on this scale is almost imposing. It’s a dramatic combination of sleek and elegant. The furniture filling the space is an eclectic collection of modern and antique. The colors range from bright and bold, to muted and soft, to dark and regal. The variety is almost startling, but somehow it all works together.

There’s an office just inside the front door lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and art. Leather furniture and glass tables accent the large desk dominating the space. The travertine tile is softened with area rugs layered in a way that looks random but is probably well thought out, and crimson drapes scrape the floor and stretch to the ceiling.

Across the hall is a formal living room sporting velvet rolled-arm sofas in a deep emerald hue. A gold and mahogany coffee table is positioned between them, with artfully arranged sculptures lined down the center. The wood floor of the entryway carries into the room, and again, plush area rugs are purposefully scattered across the floor.

The room is stunning. Exactly the sort of space I would expect to see on the cover of a magazine.

Also, the last place I would feel comfortable plopping down to munch popcorn and watch TV.

I continue on, passing a stunning dining room that doesn’t look like anyone has ever eaten in it, a hallway leading to a half-bath, and a door that’s probably attached to the garage. Then I enter Trevor’s kitchen and my jaw drops.

The kitchen in my trailer is tiny. There’s barely enough counterspace to set a cutting board on, and no room for a microwave. Trevor’s kitchen does not have that problem. If anything, it suffers from an opposite issue. I could lay at the center of the island, spread eagle, and not be able to touch a single edge. He has enough room to display every small appliance in existence, but doesn’t appear to own a single one. Like the formal living room, it’s a beautiful space.

One I wouldn’t ever want to cook in. It’s too pristine. Too perfect. A kitchen you look at but don’t use.

Just like the rest of the place.

I finally find Trevor and Zara in the backmost room. Unsurprisingly, it’s yet another impeccably designed area. Soaring ceilings are covered in planked wood. Gigantic windows allow light to spill in. A fireplace I could probably park my van inside dominates one wall, and there’s a fancy furniture store somewhere missing every item from its showroom floor. But even with throw pillows and blankets scattered around the U-shaped sectional, I can’t imagine Trevor lounging in here.

And that sort of makes me sad. Who can’t be comfortable in their own home? The place you’re supposed to decompress and relax.

Maybe that’s why the man can turn coal to diamonds with his butthole.

Zara doesn’t seem to have the same struggles I do about this place, though. The second Trevor plunks her onto the cushions, she sprawls across the luxurious couch, shoes on the upholstery as she demands he turn on the movie theater-size television so she can watch cartoons.

Once ponies are prancing across the screen, Trevor turns to me. “Would you like a tour?”

Kind of… But not out of nosiness. Part of me is hoping I’m gonna find at least one room that looks lived in. “Sure.”

Trevor holds an arm out, motioning to the stairs. “After you.”

I slowly work my way up to the second floor, a weird sort of sadness collecting in my belly as we move from room to room. Each one is fully furnished and expertly decorated. There are bedrooms, a study, a laundry room that is probably as big as my entire home, and a gym, complete with mirrored walls and specialty rubber flooring.

And even though I am quite confident Trevor at least makes use of the gym, not a single space appears to be lived in. Nothing is out of place. There’s no sign anyone actually inhabits this place. By the time he shows me to a room at the end of the hall, I feel almost sick. Sad for him in a way I don’t normally feel for other people.

My life was so hard growing up that it’s sort of killed my empathy for other people’s struggles. Their complaints always seem so shallow and minuscule in comparison to what I went through. And I don’t know how the hell it happened, but somehow I feel bad for Trevor.

Things haven’t been easy for me, but I have someone to love. I have someone who loves me back. My days are full of happiness and laughter and joy, courtesy of the little girl watching cartoons downstairs. My house is lived in and loved in and warm and messy and comfortable…

And the exact opposite of Trevor’s in every way that counts.

Maybe I’m starting to figure out one of the reasons he’d rather sleep on my couch than in his expensive bed. Because everything about this place feels hollow. Empty. In spite of how full it is.

I can’t imagine living an empty life that’s full of nothing.

Trevor leads me into the bedroom that has to be his, and I numbly take it in, my throat tight over what it must feel like to come home to this every night.

“Your house is beautiful.”

It’s the truth, but only part of it.

His house is also cold and unyielding. At one point, it would’ve made complete sense because that’s what I believed Trevor was.