And that’s what I expect to find here too.
But that’s not what we find.
That’s not what we find at all.
There’s only one row of cabinets, and they look more like industrial cabinets than kitchen cabinets. Instead of a full-size fridge—even a small full-size fridge—there are two dorm fridges stacked on top of each other. Countless clocks hang on the walls that would otherwise be covered by cabinets. The sink has a hose for a faucet. The flooring is dirt.
Dirt.
And— “Where is the oven?” Mom asks.
We all stare at an open space between two windows that looks oven-sized, but which has a fire pit sitting inside it instead.
A wood firepit.
With ash and blackened sticks and something that looks like cotton inside of it.
“This wasnotin the listing photo,” Niki says.
“Are you sure we’re in the right house?” Mom murmurs back.
We don’t even look at the bedrooms.
We definitely don’t go into the basement.
And my heart is sinking to my toes as we head back to our cars.
Rush, honestly.
I’m no longer glad this house is only six blocks from Holt’s house.
“That first house isn’t looking so bad now, is it?” Mom says quietly to me while Niki re-locks the door. “You know we’d help you?—”
She’s not wrong. It doesn’t look so bad now. But still— “Mom. It’s not a good long-term plan for me.”
“But what if you meet someone and fall in love and want more kids? You wouldn’t have to uproot our little bean like I had to uproot you.”
Does she know?
Does she know my glow is more than just pregnancy hormones?
I try to picture Holt in the colonial house, and I can’t do it.
It’s too…poshfor him.
And I don’t mean he’s not smart or classy or white-collar enough.
I just mean it doesn’t feel right. I try to picture him here, and instead I see him mowing the neighbor’s postage stamp yard and helping change someone’s oil and fixing the air pressure in a kid’s bike tire.
Not living in a neighborhood where there are yard services and everyone’s cars are picked up by the dealer when it’s time for an oil change.
There wouldn’t be a Mrs. Massery dropping by with a coconut cream cake. Or a Bernie asking me if I’m having trouble with the postal worker who delivers mail in the neighborhood too.
And honestly?
I like it.
It’s not just about where a guy I slept with last night would fit.
