Page 4 of Debt of My Soul

“Yes, please.” I pause, wondering how I’m going to get this home. “Could I pay for it now and pick it up some other time? I only have my jeep, and I’m not sure it’s going to fit in the back.”

“Of course! Actually, I can deliver it to you for free. Anything to make room for all the other items I have yet to put out.” She chucks a thumb over her shoulder, pointing toward where she was rustling around when I walked in.

“That would be great. Thank you.” I pull out cash and hand it over.

River takes my number and address, commenting how excited she is that someone’s finally going to “make that farmhouse shine,” and she details plans to deliver the dresser sometime next week.

I dart out of the thrift store, trying to make up for lost time. The drive out of the small downtown is peaceful and quiet. The summer days are hot, but the evenings are blissful, and I roll down the windows, letting the fresh air flick my braid in the wind.

The sky has transformed into a breathtaking view of oranges and yellows. The soft hues of pale yellow remind me of freshly bloomed daffodils. Even the wisps of clouds gradually stretch into a seamless blend of tangerine and apricot as the sun’s dwindling rays glow behind them.

The drive to the farmhouse is mesmerizing. The landscape of cornfields and hay bales appears like a golden mirage with highlights that brush the entire canvas of this town. More people should take advantage of living in small towns like these—even if only for a brief time.

I turn onto the dirt road leading to my property, passing an old crumbling chimney on the corner of the street. Vines and ivy have found purchase in all the crevices and gaps of mortar. And the ground around it supports heaps of broken bricks. Each time I pass by, I wonder what happened to the house it once belonged to.

A long wooden and barbwire fence lines the road, and large cedar trees shadow sections of the red dirt as I drive. It’s the first time in the week I’ve been here that I don’t freeze with anxiety over uprooting my life. I’m looking forward to the renovations, and happiness actually feels within reach. A happiness I never thought I’d get to see again after my nine-year relationship shattered.

I never thought twenty-six was too old, but apparently, he did.

I was going to marry him. To say “I do” and havethelife.

But that idea was flushed away in favor of a twenty-one-year-old college student.

To say I left Michigan to start over and find myself is a lie—one I have no problem telling when the alternative is reality. And, well, reality sucks. I ran—hightailed it out of our shared life, crushed and embarrassed.

He’s called a few times since I left. Logically, I should block him. Unfortunately, though, a sliver of teasing hope dangles in my mind. Maybe he’ll tell me to come home, or perhaps he’ll call to confess he misses me.

But so far, every voicemail he leaves asks where I am or if I’m coming home—it’s humiliating.

Nausea curdles in my stomach, and the fried chicken sandwich I ate for lunch before my endless home improvement shopping threatens to make an appearance. I roll my shoulders and allow the crunch of the gravel dirt road to keep me from screaming. Then, reaching for the rubber bands on my wrist, I pull back twice, letting the sting of each snap bring me out of the shame-induced ache.

I’m not good enough. I was never good enough.

Rolling up my windows, I reach the long driveway leading to my new home.

The old farmhouse sits on a vast, sprawling property with a delicate charm that drew me in, despite my ignorance of remodeling. And even with all the land it sits on, the house still exudes a cozy, quaint feel.

It’s traditional architecture—according to the realtor—with a steep-pitched gable roof. Time has faded any shingles that aren’t missing, and the whitewashed wooden siding is worn but simple and beautiful.

A wide, wraparound porch hugs the front and sides of the house. Aged wooden columns and weathered railings run parallel to the space, but many of the boards are warped and in need of replacement. It’s my first priority after the inside of the house is done.

The farmhouse is full of windows, framed by rustic wooden shutters, letting in picturesque natural light, but many are cloudy and need to be replaced. Thankfully, there’s one stainedglass transom window above the front door in good shape, and I plan to keep it original to the home.

Adam’s red truck is parked in front of the fallen detached garage, and I linger, watching him walk around inspecting the house surrounded by untamed bushes. What does he see? Potential? More work than it’s worth?

After turning the car off, the rustling of the oak tree leaves filters in through the cracked window, and I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

“Rough, huh?” I say, shutting my car door and folding my arms in front of my chest. I’m trying to see the home through a contractor’s eyes and not my own overzealous and unrealistic perspective.

Adam smiles at me, giving a quick kick to the few rows of blocks. “Foundation is solid. Definitely needs a hefty renovation, but she’s beautiful.” He rubs both of his hands in front of him while his gaze travels from the first to the second story.

Good. He gets it. He’s drawn to this house the same way I am, and if his expression is any indication, he understands my vision.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I move toward him, digging my keys out of my purse, and unlock the front door.

I hold it open for him, studying his face to gauge his reaction. As he steps in, the creaking floor sings and the dust motes dance in the air. Faded floral wallpaper lines the entryway hall—most of it peeling. And when he doesn’t balk at the splintered floorboards, I smile.

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