Trenton drove us in an old Cressida to a house on the outskirts of town. The friendly, flirtatious vibe that we’d had slowly dwindled until he was practically brooding next to me. By the time we arrived at his two-story home at the end of the street, Trenton appeared to be in a funk. Not sure what was going on and vaguely concerned, I followed him to the front door.
I couldn’t see much of the outside since there was only a tiny light in the doorway, but there seemed to be a lot of overgrowth in the yard surrounding the house. The paint on the porch, as well as the walls next to the door, was peeling. I didn’t make a comment as he let us inside.
From what I’d seen of Trenton’s personality, I expected lots of color, avant-garde paintings, and a love nest. So, okay, maybe I was stereotyping
