Aesthetic Allure

The first time I saw my own reflection and thought, *that’s a good-looking guy*, I was fourteen. By nineteen, I had perfected the art. I could spend three hours in the gym and never break a sweat on my forehead. Just a light sheen on the chest, the kind that catches light and makes the shadows deeper. I had the V-taper. The jawline. The hair that fell just right when I shook my head. I looked like I could lift a car.

I could not lift a car. I could barely lift a thirty-two-pound dumbbell, and that was with both hands and a grunt that embarrassed me. But nobody at the pool knew that. They saw the body, not the numbers. That was the whole point.

My neighbor Declan did not care about the point. He was the kind of person who saw a beautiful painting and wanted to know what kind of paint they used, then mix it with something else just to see what would happen. He was twenty-two, wiry, with eyes that moved too fast. Last week he pranked Mrs. Foglestitch by rearranging every single brick in her house with an identical one. It took her three days to notice. She called the police. Declan sat on his porch drinking a soda and watching the whole thing like it was a nature documentary.

I stayed out of his way. That was the strategy. Keep your head down, flex in the mirror, count the days until your parents stop treating you like a child.

My parents were supposed to be the problem this summer. They had booked a second honeymoon to Libya. Libya. I didn't even know people went there for fun. But my dad said the ruins were unmatched and the hotels were cheap and my mom said she needed a break from the smell of protein powder. So they were going. For three weeks. Which meant I had the house to myself, which meant I could eat pizza for breakfast and never wear pants and maybe invite some people over.

That was the plan until my mom sat me down at the kitchen table with a folder.

"We don't trust you," she said.

"Thanks, Mom."

"It's not personal. It's statistical." She slid a photo across the table. A blonde girl, maybe a year older than me, with a smile that looked practiced. "This is Alicia. She's a family friend's daughter. She'll be staying here while we're gone."

"Staying here? Like, living here?"

"Supervising. She's responsible. She's studying childhood development."

"I'm not a child."

"You bench press thirty-two pounds, Trent. A child could beat you in an arm wrestle. You're a child with good bone structure."

I wanted to argue. But she had the folder, and the flight was already booked, and my dad was in the other room humming a song from a country I couldn't find on a map. So Alicia was coming. A stranger in my house, watching me, judging me, probably reporting back on every single thing I did wrong.

I went to the gym that afternoon and did three sets of cable crossovers. Light weight. Perfect form. A girl on the treadmill kept looking at me. I pretended not to notice. I noticed.

The day my parents left, Alicia arrived an hour early. I was still in my boxers, eating cereal standing over the sink, when the doorbell rang. I opened it without thinking.

She was prettier than the photo. That was the first thing. The photo made her look like a stock image of a nice person. In person she had sharp edges. Her eyes were blue but not soft. They scanned me like I was a paragraph she was trying to finish quickly.

"You're Trent," she said. Not a question.

"And you're early."

"I don't like being late. It implies I don't value other people's time."

She stepped past me into the house, dragging a single suitcase. She wore jeans and a white t-shirt and somehow made that look intentional. I closed the door and realized I was still in my boxers.

"I'm going to put on pants," I said.

"I assumed you would eventually."

The first day was awkward. She walked through the house like she was inspecting it for violations. She opened the pantry and frowned at the protein bars. She checked the lock on the back door. She asked me if I had any allergies, any medical conditions, any history of violence.

"I'm not a dog," I said.

"You're a nineteen-year-old boy whose parents don't trust him. That's statistically worse."

She had a point. I didn't like that she had a point.

By evening we had settled into a rhythm. She cooked dinner because she said she didn't trust me with a stove. I sat at the table and watched her move around the kitchen. She was efficient. No wasted motion. She chopped an onion in thirty seconds flat and didn't cry once.

"You don't seem like a babysitter," I said.

"I'm not. I'm a monitor. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"A babysitter keeps you safe. A monitor documents what happens and reports back."

She smiled when she said it. A thin smile. A joke, maybe. But maybe not.

After dinner she asked me what I did for fun. I told her about the gym, about the Instagram account where I posted photos of myself that got thousands of likes, about the money I made from ads. She asked how much. I told her. She raised an eyebrow.

"That's more than I make in a month," she said.

"It's not hard. I just stand there and look good."

"Must be exhausting."

"It has its moments."

She laughed. A real laugh. I hadn't expected that. It changed her face. Made her look younger. I felt something shift in my chest. Not much. Maybe a quarter of a beat per minute.

That night I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She was in the guest room down the hall. The house felt different with someone else in it. Not empty. Not full. Something in between.

I heard a noise from the backyard. A scrape. A shuffle. I got up and looked out the window.

Nothing. Just the dark shape of the fence, the neighbor's roof, the moon hanging low and heavy.

I told myself it was a raccoon. I told myself to go back to sleep.

But I stood at the window for a long time, watching the shadows, waiting for something to move.