“You know, if it’s that good, you should write yourownstory,” I say, not wanting to come off as rude. “No one knows it better than you, and you shouldn’t be handing your ideas out for free.” My voice is polite, but inside, I am willing him to leave.
“Dyslexic,” he says with a shake of his head, his smile faltering slightly. “Very dyslexic. Not sure if you noticed that in my emails. Gotta be honest, when I recognized your name and saw you were the writer, I was kind of nervous to email you back. Thought you might laugh at my poor grammar.”
“I would never. My father was dyslexic, and he was the smartest man I’ve ever known.”
Louie smiles at that. “It’s a hell of a thing to work through. Sorry your mother had to deal with that.”
I pause, because I just told him it was my father. Not my mother. Does he have a memory issue? Hearing impairment?
He winks. “Gotcha. Little dyslexia humor.”
I smile. “Yep. That one flew right by me.”
“My wife says I woulda made a good actor. She’s an actress. My wife. Sort of. Well, it’s hard to explain, but she acts. In documentaries. Which I guess still makes her an actress, but ...” He continues talking about his wife’s career, or lack thereof, but I’m too distracted to listen because—holy shit.
The outside of this place does not do the inside justice.
The interior is far more modern than I expected—clean lines, smooth finishes, like it’s been plucked straight out of a design magazine. The rustic exterior was just a facade—inside, everything gleams.
I was expecting creaky wooden floors, maybe the smell of old pine or the comforting musk of an extinguished fireplace. But instead, I’m greeted by sleek surfaces, harsh lighting, and the kind of clean, minimalistic decor you’d find in a city loft. The floors are polished concrete, gleaming beneath the recessed lighting that casts everything in a clinical glow. The walls are painted a crisp, sterile white, and large, abstract paintings hang in expensive frames, too curated and intentional for a place like this.
There’s a charm to traditional cabins. The kind where you hole up with nothing but a roaring fire and the occasional scuttle of wildlife outside. I was hoping for the roughness of wooden, unsanded walls, and the sense of being tucked away in nature’s arms, away from the world.
But this?
This feels like I’ve stepped into a tech startup’s getaway house. Not a writer’s retreat.
I let out a sigh and roll my suitcase toward the living room, the sound of the wheels echoing too loudly in the open space. I hear Louie following behind me, and can almost hear his pride as he watches me take it in.
“This looks nothing like the pictures online,” I say, turning to face him.
“Just completed the remodel,” he says proudly. “You’re the first guest since we finished it, actually. We’re pretty proud of her. My wife did most of the design herself. She’s got an eye for this stuff.”
That makes more sense. It explains the contrast between Louie and this house.
The living room furniture is completely sterile. A low black leather couch that looks more like a showroom piece than something you could sink into and read a book on. A glass coffee table that reflects the light in too many corners, its edges sharp enough to slice open a knee if you aren’t careful.
Even the fireplace, which I thought might offer some rustic warmth, is just an elegant gas fixture behind a smooth modern facade. It flickers with a mechanical precision that makes me long for the uneven crackle of real wood burning.
I am such an ungrateful brat.Who would be sad to stay in a place this gorgeous?
It’s just ... there’s nocharmin it. No history. It’s efficient, sure, but it doesn’t feel like a place for inspiration. It feels like a place to execute tasks, to work, but not tocreate. I wanted solitude, yes, but I wanted to feel connected to the wilderness of this place, to the raw beauty of the woods. Instead, I feel like I’ve been dropped into a high-end Airbnb, too pristine for the kind of messy, creative process I imagined.
My writer’s block has been so bad, I blame everything for it. I’m even prematurely blaming this beautiful house.
I sigh again. This might not be the retreat I hoped for, but considering my sour mood, I don’t know that anything would be met with warmth from me right now.
“Really nice place,” I say, giving Louie at least a fraction of the reaction he’s probably hoping for.
“I’ll tell my wife you love it,” he says. “You know, we live just down the road. You probably noticed the house, actually. First and only otherone on the whole road,” he adds, his eyes fixed on me a little too long, as if waiting for me to ask for more details.
I nod, hoping that’ll be enough to keep him from offering more.
“I know you’re here to work,” Louie continues, “but if you’re not too busy, you could come over for dinner sometime this week. The wife would love to meet you. It’s just the two of us, and we love having company when we can.” His grin widens, and there’s that gleam again in his eyes that makes him come off way too eager and forward.
Or maybe the word I’m looking for isdesperate.
Or justlonely?
