Page 8 of Late Bloomer
I’m overwhelmed.
I’m overwhelmed and confused and have never felt so isolated as I do now with everyone blowing up my inbox.
I start typing out an apology text, but Olivia and Ophelia’s voices swirl in my head.
She’s not your friend, Opie. She’s really not.
I won’t take my own advice, but I will take theirs. With a sigh, I swipe out of the app and chuck my phone to the end of the bed. I smack the heels of my hands against my forehead, trying to jolt myself out of this slump. I hate the idea of being hated—it makes my skin itch and my stomach churn—but if I’m already being painted as a villain by my so-called friend, I might as well put my money toward finding a new place to ghost everyone.
I sit up, pulling the top half of my short (now bubblegum pink) hair into a little fountain at the crown of my head. After turning off all push notifications on my phone, I grab my ancient laptop and boot it up.
With a deep, shaky breath, I open the browser and begin to search.
I start basic and broad, myNew York apartmentsgoogling offering too many options for my already crowded brain. Then I start researching neighborhoods. Brooklyn. Lower East Side. Hell’s Kitchen. Chelsea.
Clicking through apartment listings on countless sites, zooming in on the grainy pictures of gray walls with tiny windows and stained plastic floors that seem to make up all of New York’s property options… that are in my budget, at least.
It turns out hundreds of thousands of dollars does not actually get you that far when it comes to New York City realestate. An incredible revelation that’s totally, utterly shocking for one of the most expensive cities in the world.
I drag my hand down my face and squeeze my chin, none of this feeling like I imagined it would.
Maybe Olivia and Ophelia were right. Again. Damn them.
Maybe New York isn’t actually for me. Because the idea of moving to a giant city made of concrete and metal and glass without knowing a soul makes my aching heart crack even further with loneliness.
I’m about to give up on the entire thing and exit out of the search when an ad in the corner catches my eye.
Visit Asheville, stay weird!it reads, a picture of a small skyline and lush mountains in the background.
Like the flip of a switch, I’m flooded with happy memories.
I’ve always loved Asheville—my parents took us on countless trips to the mountains when we were kids. It’s an incredible, eclectic mix of waterfalls and forests, hiking and art-filled streets, buskers and beauty.
It’s a little bit of everything, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains.
I change my search terms.
The next thing I know, I have fifty-two tabs open and haven’t blinked in hours, falling down a rabbit hole of hidden gems in the town that’s now calling to me.
But one listing in particular, a Facebook Marketplace ad with a few grainy photos and endless loveliness, has grabbed me by the heart and won’t let go.
Without thinking, I pick up my phone and dial the number.
“Hello?” a sugary-sweet voice with a southern accent answers after the third ring.
“Hi! So sorry to bother you. My name is Opal. Opal Devlin. I saw your Facebook Marketplace post for the farm.”
There’s a brief pause, then the woman says, “Oh right! Well, hello, darlin’. I’m Trish. Pleased to meet you.”
“You too,” I say, meaning it. I automatically like this woman and her sweet voice and dripping charm. “Is the listing still available? I had a few questions and I—”
“Now let me just interrupt you right there, sweetheart,” Trish says. “I want you to know that the price isn’t negotiable. The Thistle and Bloom is a fine piece of property and I’m already selling it for a song. I don’t want either of us wasting our time.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” I rush out. I’m incapable of having a conversation without profusely apologizing for, like, talking and whatnot. “That’s not what I’m asking. The price is fine. Not an issue at all, actually.”
Another pause. “Well, okay, then. What can I help you with?”
“Is it… Can you tell me about it?”
