The one I moved into after, with its plain yellow vinyl sidings and its token white wrought iron balconies, never felt like home. I did what I could, buying a few paintings for the walls and thrifting some handmade quilts, Afghans, and other décor. I built my teapot collection up and displayed all the charming porcelain and pottery on top of the cupboards in the kitchen and on the bookshelf in the living room. It wasn’t that the furniture was secondhand or that the place was rundown. It didn’t matter that there was hardly ever hot water for showers and theappliances didn’t work properly. I mean, it mattered, but that’s not what made it feel like a temporary residence. It just never felt like me. It never feltright.
The pool house is different.
It doesn’t feel like mine either, but since Warrick said it was fine to hang whatever I wanted on the walls and add whatever touches I saw fit, that’s how I spent my free hours this past week.
I’ve never been a routine-oriented person. I don’t need order to function. Chaos and anarchy aren’t fun either, but there’s a sweet spot somewhere in the middle, and if I can fall into that, then it’s golden.
Warrick doesn’t seem to have a routine either. I mean, he works, and that’s a constant in his life, but he doesn’t leave at the same time every morning, and he certainly doesn’t get home at any set hour.
Now that he’s back, my sort of routine is to keep out of his hair in the mornings so I don’t throw off his pre-work mojo. Once he’s gone, I head in and start ticking items off the mental list of tasks that I draw out for myself every day.
I always start in the kitchen, cleaning and tidying, and from there, I move in a rotation. From the living room to the weird room that is mostly windows, which overlooks the backyard and seems to be for nothing more than storing incredibly expensive-looking furniture and plants. And then, I pick the rooms that look like they need the most cleaning.
The guest rooms only need to be dusted every so often. I do them once every three days or so. Warrick has a home office, and since the door is never locked, I do quick dusting and tidying in there and usually head to the stairs. Metal and glass are magnets for fingerprints, so a good half hour is generally spent erasing all traces of inhabitation.
So far, I haven’t broken anything, messed anything up, or moved anything such that Warrick has to ask me where it is. Inthe plant room—sunroom?—place, I feel like I’ve accomplished a huge milestone by not killing the greenery in there. I know nothing about plants, but there are plenty of apps out there, and they’ve told me pretty much everything I needed to know to avoid becoming a plant murderer. Who knew you had to water some with distilled water or that others are finicky about soil and fertilizer? Right, probably everyone but me.
I’ve been too squeamish to touch Warrick’s room. Generally, the door has been shut, and I’d feel like a snoop going in there. The other area of the house that seems to be blatantly off limits to me is the garage, and not because it’s locked or because Warrick has said so, but because I don’t think I should be farging around in there next to cars that cost more than most people’s dream house, along with his crazy expensive robotics project. I also know the house has a basement. The door at the back of the kitchen can only lead down there, I’ve decided, but it’s always locked.
Down there, Warrick is probably guarding a man cave full of expensive sports crap, guitars on the wall, a massive TV, and a ton of stereo equipment that all screamalert, alert, expensive. DO NOT DUST AND NEVER APPLY CHEMICALS OF ANY KIND. Back away. Slowly. Carefully. And never, ever return.
On my first day, Warrick showed me where he’d hang the clothes that needed to be dry cleaned—conveniently and thoughtfully by the front door. Thus far, there’s been no need to go into his room to get them or for any other reason.
Today, after cleaning the kitchen and the living room and scrubbing the stairs until the glass inserts and the metal railingshone,I decided that a few of the guest rooms could use some light dusting. When I reached the end of the hall, I realized Warrick’s door was open.
I pause, hesitant, but tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I’m not a stage-five creeper. This is myjob. He probably left it open forme as a not-so-subtle nod that goes something along the lines ofoh,for the love of giant pumpkins, please take the hint and clean me!I grin like a loon as a mental image of a filthy car with that saying finger-scrawled across the back window pops into my head.
The room has large windows, but I switch on the light anyway. It’s not fancy. Warrick isn’t a maximalist. He’s gone with functional pieces that aren’t personal. Things like square dressers and a huge bed that can be in any five-star hotel room. The house is mostly hardwood, which intimidated me before I watched a few videos on how to properly clean and care for it, with the exception of the tiles at the entrances.
The room is neat, the bed made. It’s very hotel-inspired indeed, with the fluffy down duvet, matching sleek grey nightstands, and two chrome lamps with black shades.
I run my finger along the dresser’s top, which is completely devoid of any sentimental items—no knick-knacks, no clothes out of place, no toiletries. There’s no dust, and the mirror is perfectly spotless, but I go and get my cleaning supplies from the stairs anyway.
I give everything a good wipe-down, including the windows. The shades are a gauzy white fabric, and I send up a plea to the curtain gods to never let them get dirty. I would have no idea how to go about wiping those things down.
After that, I skim past the bed, keeping my brain on track by filling my head with images of me madly cleaning and not snooping around in here. I certainly don’t imagine Warrick sleeping in that huge bed, his massive form making even the biggest bed seem small. I don’t wonder which side he sleeps on. I don’t freaking run my hand over the mattress and check for indents, and I most definitelydo notlean over and smell the pillows.
Fuck, of course I do all of that, but at least I have the decency to feel utterly guilty over it.
I don’t need to try and catch his lingering scent. The whole place is enveloped with it. The room screams MAN in shouty caps. It’s basically nightmare fodder. Well, that is if you term having erotic dreams about your ex-boyfriend’s dad the stuff of nightmares.
Okay, calling it a nightmare is too strong.
Inappropriate dream fodder from which you wake up sweaty and aching is more accurate.
I don’t know why Warrick entrusted me with his secrets, but it immediately shot us both to a new planet of intimacy. We rocketed straight past the stratosphere of boss-employee professional distance. We skipped past the friends’ planet, and now we seem to be floating in a nebulous, unexplored galaxy.
I force my attention back to cleaning and head to the en-suite bathroom, where I let out a little sigh of delighted dismay when I realize that, at last, there is actually something to clean in here. Most of my afternoons are long and empty. I’m not going to just go through the motions of cleaning stuff that doesn’t need to be cleaned, which ensures the hours stretch on and on. I’ve never had so much free time in my life, and it’s almost intimidating. I’ve spent my off hours the past week forcing myself to explore the city, even if driving here freaks me out.
On the first day was groceries. I couldn’t just keep eating out of Warrick’s fridge and cooking in his kitchen. I don’t think he’ll mind, honestly, but the pool house has its own kitchen and fridge with working appliances. I may be living here, but cooking in my own area makes me feel more independent.
During the week, I also found several thrift and antique stores, and I chose a few original vintage paintings for my space as well as a funky, knitted, granny-squares Afghan done in glorious pastel hues.
I didn’t want to say anything to Warrick, but when I went back to my apartment after he paid off those thugs, intent on packing my things and giving my notice, I found that the place had been…what do they call it when someone’s been searching in there? Sifted? Tossed? Whatever euphemism people like to put on it, the only proper word that could be used wasdestroyed.
Most of my things were broken, furniture slashed, TV smashed, laptop in pieces, bedding torn apart, and mattress sliced open. There were holes in the walls, and the fridge door had been torn off. Why? I had no idea, but it ensured I wouldn’t get my damage deposit back.
Because my parents are the world’s best people, they came over and helped me clean up. All my childhood keepsakes were still at their house, packed in boxes in the basement, so they were safe. The saddest thing I lost was my teapot collection. My mom tried to cheer me up by carefully putting all the broken porcelain, glass, and pottery into a bucket. She suggested we learn to do mosaics and make a mirror or get into stepping stones.
