Page 22 of Late Bloomer
The important thing is, I’m not going to defer my dreams for a single day more. Nope. I just need to morph said dreams a bit.
I’ve lived here a week now and spent most of it setting up my (sadly) temporary new room… and maybe finding as many excuses as possible to hide in here because Pepper scares me a bit.
The week hasn’t been a particularly comfortable one. The first few days I tried desperately to connect with Pepper, inserting myself in her path, asking about her day. But the woman’s monotone grunts in response withered up any bravery I had, and I’ve spent the rest of the time tucked away.
Standing on my bed, I hammer two tiny nails into the top of my window frame, draping a garland I fashioned from old handmade paper cut into shapes of birds. The sun streams through the window, catching the golden glint of fibers woven into the thick paper, and a light breeze makes the birds dance like they’re preparing to take off.
I glance at the grass sprawled behind the house, my eyes making a quick sweep, then landing on the small smudge that is Pepper in the distance. My eyes always seem to land on her.
I’ve developed a sort of fascination with watching her work this week, which, objectively, sounds creepy. But it’s a fascination in the way she moves. The clockwork of her tasks. The precise tenderness with which she cares for the thousands of blooms around her. She moves among the flowers like someone moves around the house they’re born in, with an intuitive sense, one of purpose and belonging—knowing exactly where she’s needed and what to do. I catch myself sketching her—the arch of her back and the bend of her head as she bows to the flowers—more often than I care to admit.
It’s captivating to see someone so comfortable in nature.
And this is also pretty much the only opportunity I have to get to know my new roommate. As soft and gentle as Pepper isout on her land, she’s prickly and harsh any time we interact in the house… when she’s not avoiding me and vice versa.
She doesn’t trust or like me, which, fair, but it doesn’t feel good to live with so much tension. I genuinely like people, and an achy sense of loneliness keeps burrowing deeper into my bones with each silent day.
With a sigh, I dust my hands off on my thighs and hop to the floor, appraising the room and my handiwork.
I really freaking love it.
I’m tucked into the back of the second floor, fairy lights strung across the slanted ceiling and framing a round window that looks out onto a grove of trees. Various trinkets and pieces of art I brought with me are propped on every open inch of shelves and cabinets, and a tapestry I hand-painted a few years ago—depicting a posy of violets and their delicate, intertwined roots laced with dirt—hangs behind the head of my bed. No matter how temporary my stay is, I’m determined to make this room a snug little sanctuary.
Out of things to putz around with, I scrounge up my courage and decide to explore the rest of the house.
The upstairs has two bedrooms—my room on the right of the staircase, Pepper’s on the left—with a shared bathroom at the end. The ceiling is tall and lofted with a seam running down the center, the roof slanting from either side of the A-frame structure.
I pad down the creaky wooden stairs to the spacious ground floor. The kitchen, which connects to the cabin’s wide porch,is lined with open cabinets, a dusky rainbow of mismatched plates and mugs and cast-iron skillets filling the cubbies. A large window over the farmhouse sink lets in a golden beam of light that lands right on the circular wood dining table off to the side.
The space transitions into the family room, a stone fireplace the center of the cozy scene, an overstuffed couch packed with blankets and pillows facing it with plush recliners flanking either side. Large windows look out on rows of flowers, the red barn—where it seems most pickups from florists are conducted—standing proudly in the distance. I’m not brave enough to plop myself down on that couch like I’m so deeply tempted to, but I at least let myself linger for a few minutes, running my hands over the different textures with a soft exploration I haven’t allowed myself yet.
It all sends a tingle of unfettered comfort down my spine. This house feels like entering a small alternate universe where everything smells like lavender and none of the world’s problems can touch you while you’re snuggled up in the warm, gentle space.
With a deep breath and quick glance toward the back door, I make my way down the long hallway attached to the living room, finding an additional bathroom, and a shut door at the end.
I am, rather unfortunately, nosy by nature, and closed doors call to me with a siren song so strong, I generally barrel right on through them. Without much thought, I turn thehandle of the pine door, letting it swing open to reveal a fully furnished bedroom.
This third bedroom is slightly larger than the ones upstairs, flooded with light from the two wide windows that look out on the back of the property. A neatly made bed sits in one corner, a vanity and mirror in the opposite—small jars of lotions and powders lined up in a neat row, a vase of dried flowers on the other side.
While the room is airy and bright, a thin layer of dust sits on the furniture, a certain sadness lingering in the space, like its usual source of light has been snuffed out, and it’s lying in wait for a new one.
My heart twirls in excitement. It would be the absolute perfect studio to start working on my shoes.
A series of photos are hung along the wall, a young brunette who looks suspiciously like Pepper in each of them. Unable to resist the shiny frames and bright smiles, I move to get a closer look when a low, angry voice sounds near my ear.
“Don’t go in there.”
I jump, then turn, looking up at the sharp angles of Pepper’s face.
“Why?” I whisper. “Is it cursed? Radioactive? Haunted?”
Pepper flinches. “It’s none of your business. Just stay out.”
My heart sinks, welts of embarrassment swelling along my skin. I hate being this chronically sensitive, hurting with a deep and aching type of pain from just a few choice words.
“I need somewhere to work,” I declare, steeling my spineand hoping I look stronger than I feel. This situation is as familiar as a hug and sharp as a slap. It would be so easy to yield to Pepper’s icy tone and scurry back to my room; mold myself into the smallest possible form until I melt into the background to make everyone around me more comfortable.
But that was the old me. New me is tough and implacable… or at least new me ispretendingto be those things.
