I swallow the last bite of sandwich and chase it with lukewarm tap water.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m not being sued right this second. No one is banging on my door. The lights are still on.
For now.
The thought makes my chest flutter.
I scrub my plate and leave it in the rack to dry, then go around the cabin lowering the thermostat a few degrees. No sense heating the place all the way up when I won’t be sleeping here tonight. I set it to a temperature that’s “comfortable for guests” in theory and “please don’t run my bill up” in practice.
In the bedroom, I check the nightstand drawers—empty except for the Bible someone left behind a few months ago, a couple of pens, and an extra phone charger. I straighten the lamp and fluff the pillows one last time.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Brocato,” I say to the empty room. “Please don’t notice that your host is one missed payment away from darkness.”
I get the rag off the bathroom sink where it has begun to dry out. In the kitchen I hand dry the plate from my sandwich and put it away. On my way back through the living room, I grab the county tax notice and the disconnect slip off the little table and shove them into the junk drawer under an old phone book. I’ll deal with them after the payout for this guest hits my account. After they leave. After I’ve slept, maybe, in a real bed that’s not on four wheels. Yes, then I’ll face the mess that is my life.
I slip my arms into my coat, pull on my hat and gloves, and shoulder my duffel.
Before I step out, I pause at the door and look back.
The cabin looks exactly like it does in the photos now. Cozy. Inviting. A place you might book if you wanted to forget your real life for a while.
I close the door quietly behind me and lock it using the door code, the deadbolt engages with the press of the pound key and my tiny bungalow is ready for business.
It all sounds so simply. Yet, everything in my life is chaos. I’m just juggling bills and sleeping arrangements while waiting on the calm to come in.
Four
Holley
The air outside has turned sharper, the temperature dropping as the sun slides behind the ridge. Long shadows stretch across the yard, the bare branches above me whispering as the wind slides through them.
I load my duffel into the trunk of my Civic, next to the plastic bin that holds my emergency snow scraper and a half-empty bottle of windshield wiper fluid. Then I lean against the car for a second, letting my breath puff out in slow clouds.
From this angle, I can see the whole front of the cabin. The wreath on the door. The porch light I installed myself, now set on a timer to click on at sunset. The corner of the window where the curtains gap slightly.
For a second, a pang hits so hard it’s almost physical.
This is my home. The only thing I walked out of this divorce that feels like a win, even if it came with a mortgage that makes my eye twitch. I am rebuilding my life and it starts here. I painted the walls. I planted the shrubs by the steps.
And now, whenever the calendar is full, I hand it over to strangers and pretend I’m just a businesswoman making savvy financial decisions instead of a woman sleeping in parking lots so I don’t lose the only place that’s mine.
“You’re doing what you have to do,” I tell myself firmly. “You’re not failing. You’re surviving.”
The pep talk doesn’t quite land, but it keeps me from crying.
My fingers are going numb from the cold. I rub my hands together and dig my phone out once more. The booking app shows a little countdown clock now.
Plenty of time for him to get delayed, change his mind, cancel last-minute. If that happens, I’m screwed. The payout won’t go through. The power company will send a nice truck to flip the switch on me, and I’ll be boiling snow in a pot over the woodstove like a pioneer. Please don’t cancel I silently say over and over in my head.
I refresh my messages just to torture myself. No new notes. A. Brocato’s last communication was the short booking request.
I picture him as I slide into the driver’s seat—anonymous man, faceless. Could be anyone. A tired traveling nurse. A writer escaping noise to write their next bestseller. A guy on a business trip who hates chain hotels.
The who and the why they are here doesn’t matter. He’s a credit to my account and a set of footsteps on the cabin floor. This is my saving grace transaction. It won’t be the last either. I’m one catastrophe away from losing it all.
I turn the key in the ignition. The engine coughs, then catches with a familiar rattle. The heater wheezes to life, blowing out air that’s only slightly warmer than outside. It’ll get there.
As I cruise down the gravel drive, tires crunching, I glance once more at the cabin in the rearview mirror.
