Page 9 of Jaded

As I hang up, I catch sight of the tiny cottage at the very end—stones and brick beneath a neat shingle roof, ivy crawling over the soft grey rock—my heart ups its rhythm inside my ribcage.

This.

This place really could be different. Itlookslike home, like if I were to go digging around in the junk drawer of my brain, plucking out pieces of “home,” this is what it would be. Small and cozy. Stones and ivy. A tiny yard overgrown with flowers and weeds. Maybe it’s been waiting for the right set of hands to descend on its secret garden.

I pull the truck into the short gravel driveway and sit. Stare. Let my eyeballs consume the Charlotte Brontean wonder in front of me. This is my new home. This. Here.

I pop the door open and climb out of the truck. Study the plants peeking through the inches of snow—lilies and iris, moss and weeds. Oh, I could get this place thriving in summer, and it’d be so pretty. Mycactuses will look so lovely lined up in that big bay window, and my baby magnolia could go in the back yard . . . Or on the corner there . . .

I snag my suitcase out of the bed and head for the lock pad on the doorknob.

“Crap.” I should have some kind of code for this . . . I fumble with my bag, trying to find my phone, which I’m now thinking I left in my backpack. Or maybe it was the side door, or the—no, I was using it for the GPS so it’s in the cupholder.

I will never not be a mess.

Ah well. At least I’m a mess in a beautiful place, outside the cutest cottage I've ever seen, my suitcase soaking up snow on the front stoop whilst I suss out my new landlord’s entry instructions.

Life could be worse.

And inside, the house is dark and a little musty, but warm, the heat purring away in the vents. Light spills in through the bay window, tumbling late afternoon glow against worn wooden floorboards and a tile-topped kitchen table and matching counters.

It’s small—the kitchen lining the left side, that table mushed in beside it, and the living room occupying the right. Two doors at the back mark the bedroom and bathroom.

It’s perfect.

Why would I need more space than this? More space just means more empty corners I’ll never be able to fill. More hollow echoes to bounce off the walls.

At least my last decision of the day’s made for me—visit the grocery store to prepare a meal here or head out to find food. I’ve been alone far too long. It’s time to see where the locals go.

Chapter 4

Olli

Wherethelocalsgo,according to Google, is a kind of divey bar called Michelangelo’s—not sure if it’s for the artist or the turtle named after the artist—that serves both beer and beer-soaked food. It’s maybe half full as I enter, decent turnout for a Tuesday night.

Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but there’s no dried booze suctioning my shoes to the floor, and the air is a mix of fries and too-sweet cologne and ale, not body odor and Budweiser, so it’s not my last pick either.

The rear wall comprises an impressive collection of liquors ranging from bottom-of-the-barrel vodka to aged-a-decade-or-so whiskey, not that I know much about either, and the little round tables scattered across the dim room shine from a recent wipe down.

Low classic rock plays through the speakers—Def Leppard is always such a joy—and the TVs mushed into the corners display various sporting programs. The dozen or so patrons nestled against the walls eat, talk, drink quietly.

They’ve definitely got a Look about them, though—something in the hard lines of their faces, the firm set of their mouths, the way hands grip beer glasses with whitened fingers.

It’s something a little weathered and rough. Like constant cold and a lifetime of physical work have snuck into their bones, hardened them and toughened them, just like the ice that owns this city.

Or maybe that’s me doing the sad-sack poetry thing again.

Either way, I head for the bar.

The five older guys and one middle-aged lady at the counter all sit solo, facing the TVs. Probably regulars. Makes me the odd man out—in both age and attendance frequency—as I slide onto a stool towards the end.

“Hi. Can I get you something to drink?” The female bartender’s maybe my age—late twenties—with dark hair and eyes, a friendly smile that frays along the edges.

I offer her a bright smile of my own. It’s instinct, a rule of life. Skate hard. Smile hard. Be charming.

“I know I must look like one of the time-ravaged locals,” I say. “But I’m actually here for dinner. Which, now that I think about it, is sadder than drinking alone, but I’m new to town, literally unloaded the boxes into my living room half an hour ago, and I’ve just realized I’m babbling so kindly ignore me . . .”

Her smile relaxes a bit into something more authentic.

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