Mostly, Noah has a selection of baseball T-shirts, teams that are utterly unfamiliar to me, and random logo shirts from businesses around town. There’s nothing here that screams style, but I’m not one to talk. Although somewhat curious, I investigate the different ones in the drawer. Was he just really fond of supporting the local businesses, or were these free? Perhaps they were from a secondhand shop.
The thrift store back home, Double Lucky’s, used to get boxes of donated shirts from businesses left over from the promotions they ran. They were like twenty-five cents most days. Maybe that’s what why he has so many.
A knot twists in my stomach as I glance toward the door, wondering about Ms. Sullivan.
I step into my pants, that admittedly smell like the blueberry protein bar crushed in my backpack, and slip the shirt over my head, tucking the front up and into the waistband so it doesn’t drape to my knees. Then, doing my best, I make the bed before leaving the bedroom in favor of the bathroom. Quickly, I use the restroom, brush my teeth, and twist my hair up into a relaxed bun.
When I venture out, the quiet hum of the television is on, and I follow the sound, noting the local early morning news on in the background. Ms. Sullivan sits in her recliner, still dressed in what I’d call a muumuu.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Shh. I have a bet going on with Old Man John whether the new news anchor says bagel weird or not.”
I raise my eyebrows but quietly shuffle toward the loveseat instantly stopping in my tracks.
Holy—
There, past the back porch and the weathered planks illuminated by the rising sun, is the most breathtaking view. Rolling hills take off for miles, the occasional house on a hill in the distance. Below, a pasture stretches out, the grasses rippling around the poised trees.
I gravitate toward the sliding glass door, unlocking and sliding it open to pad lazily onto the elevated porch. The dark shapes of several horses move through the pale mist of the morning dew punctuated by loud snorts.
The cool dawn skirts up my back, the gentle breeze blowing the oversized shirt while I stare dumbfounded. The sun crests over the horizon, the golden light spilling across the pasture in time with swishing tails, rustling leaves, and chirping birds. No wonder why this house is older and not updated—the cost for this view alone must’ve been …
I inhale the earthy grass air, wrinkling my nose at the faint dirt and horse smell, but I don’t care, I’m transfixed. I could write here—wantto write here.
I spin, searching the deck for porch furniture I could settle in with my notebook and pen. A neglected set of wicker chairs, faded and most likely brittle, sit facing the view. Dark streaks of mold creep along the arms and legs. The cushions aren’t much better, they’re covered in splotches of mildew and soaked from the rain last night.
Does Ms. Sullivan not want to sit out here? Living here would demand comfortable outdoor seating—this is the kind of place that calls words out of you. This is the place to let go.
A restless energy buzzes under my skin, and my fingers twitch. Words, eager to escape, waltz into the corners of my mind, and I slowly let out a breath.
“Yes!” Ms. Sullivan’s shout brings me back to the porch and the swaying towering oaks beside it. I glance at the cracked sliding glass door and watch as she dials a number on the cordless phone. “She says bagel wrong, John. I told you! You owe me a pie.”
There’s a brief pause.
“I don’t give a damn if your daughter sent it to you. You owe me one, fair and square.”
I bite the corner of my lip.Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
She prattles on about pies, and the pronunciation of certain words, and knowing Old Man John from my short interactions with him at the diner, I’m sure he’s goading her on.
I table my thoughts on writing out here on the porch for now and move through the living room and into the kitchen to dig through the fridge. It’s well stocked: eggs, juices, fresh fruit, and vegetables. I poke around the freezer searching for frozen waffles or something quick and easy. Maybe Pop-Tarts?
It’s obvious Noah does the grocery shopping.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing but healthy options, and I settle on the organic eggs, feta, and spinach to make an omelet. Hunting for the pans, I dig around the cabinets before I find a skillet and place it on the stove.
I hesitate before turning it on. Should I ask first?
Ms. Sullivan gave me a five-minute lecture on “make yourself at home” and “use whatever you need” last night, but it still feels awkward. My stomach rumbles, and with the knowledge Ms. Sullivan isn’t going to cook, I turn on the stove.
Butter sizzles in the pan as I plop in a dollop and get to work scrambling the eggs and chopping up the spinach. With the omelet almost finished, I fish two glasses from the cupboard.The memory of Noah’s hand grazing mine as he helped me flickers long enough to distract me and I smack my elbow on the counter setting down the cups.
“Idiot,” I mumble to myself.
The four egg omelet I made is huge, and I dump it onto a plate and cut it in half.
I sat across from Ms. Sullivan last night, staring at the spoon camped out in her hand instead of using it to eat her soup. She poked at the cubed potatoes and made a comment about not liking bacon in her potato soup, but mostly, she just left her food untouched. When Noah encouraged her to take a few bites, she twisted her face into a weak smile, but his words went unanswered. It made my chest ache. I couldn’t swallow the painful lump in my throat when I cleared cold soup away from the table.
