as if I’ve walked into a designer shoe store, knowing I can’t afford a single pair of heels on the shelf. Pretending to be something I’m not, I’ve tried on my favorite pair and fallen in love, damn the consequences. I’m trying hard to fit into this lifestyle that’s so foreign, but I’m already faltering, before I’ve taken a single step.
On the drive here, Michael said his home was a sanctuary, the only place in the world where he felt he could let his guard down. He told me the house was south of San Francisco, a short drive along the coast, in a private neighborhood off the beaten path. He’d left out the fact that it’s prime real estate on a huge corner lot, across the street from a Monterey cypress grove with a stunning view of the sea. He’d forgotten to mention how it was built to look like a gothic castle, with black arched doors and wrought iron accents. How the circular driveway was painted a silvery shade of gray, with a starburst pattern in the center made of some kind of crushed shell. Couldn’t he have explained how the fenced-in yard stretched around back, consuming the block? Or how the house was so close to the sea, I could taste the salty sea air on my tongue?
But until an hour ago, when we were sitting in the car, his hand on my knee, Michael hadn’t said much about his home at all. For all he’d revealed, it could’ve been an apartment in Oakland or a three-bedroom, two-bath house in Pleasanton. He never, not once, let on to the fact that he lived in a mansion plucked from Luxury Living magazine.
Michael hadn’t ever let me visit his home, let alone move in. I would’ve thought, after five months of dating and frequenting my tiny apartment in the city, he would’ve wanted to invite me over if for no other reason than to show off this place. A few times I’d asked why it seemed as if he was hiding his home from me. He assured me he wasn’t concealing anything; he simply needed more time to open up. How could I be mad? He was an intensely private person, and that was one of the reasons I loved him so much. He was quiet and strong, confident without being confrontational. I liked to believe that he wanted to keep his home private because that was just the way he was, that it had nothing to do with me personally.
Now I try not to think about the obvious truth: he didn’t want to bring me here, into his world, because he knew I wouldn’t fit in. He’d be right in his assessment, and that hurts above all.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me up the limestone steps. “Grand tour starts this way.”
I would laugh, but I fear he’ll hear the tremble in my voice, betraying my anxiety. The stone-covered walls are impossibly tall, with details that can’t be taken in all at once. The carvings and decorations must’ve taken years to design. High above, on the eastern side of the house, pointed-arch windows are closed tight with thick swags of dark fabric. A curtain moves suddenly as if touched by a draft, and balloons inward.
I’m being watched.
Breath frozen in my throat, I follow Michael through the massive front door and into the entryway, and gape at the enormousness of it all. Colossal vaulted ceilings. Sparkling multi-tiered chandeliers. Ornate, gold-rimmed mirrors. Paintings—original and renowned, I’m sure—color the walls. On the left, a dark wood staircase wide enough for Michael and me to traipse upstairs hand in hand coils like a serpent to the second floor. I can’t help but compare it to the grand staircase of the Titanic shown in the film—the only thing missing is the gold cupid smirking in the foreground. At my feet, a mosaic of colored marble stretches to a room that’s paneled in pale maple and furnished sparsely with black leather couches. Ahead, glimpsed through an oversize window and a set of glass double doors, an emerald lawn rolls toward Cypress Street and the Monterey cypress grove beyond.