Beyond the cottages, a vast lake glistens under the sun’s rays, with dozens of docks stretching out with an invitation to dip your toes into the cool water or jump in—something I willnotbe doing.
My assigned cottage isn’t big by any means, but the charm makes up for its size. Window boxes. Two matching rocking chairs. I squint at them, trying to picture myself sipping coffee out here like the sort of calm, reflective guy who drinks coffee by the lake.
News flash:I am not that guy.
A stone path leading up to a door painted a muddy shade of green—the same color as the patches of moss that cling to the sloped roof in a way that feels more quaint than neglected.
Best of all?
No roommate.
I drop my bag on the porch with a satisfying thud and stand there, soaking in the silence. No teammates bitching at each other. No Coach blowing his whistle like we’re about to storm the beaches of Normandy. Peace and quiet.
Solitude.
But no key.
Why did I throw out the welcome instructions?
“’Cause you’re an idiot.”
Whatever—I can figure this out. The key must be here somewhere.
“Great start,” I mutter to myself. Nothing saysrelaxationlike breaking into your own cabin.
I glance around like the key’s going to magically appear in front of me. Maybe it’s under the doormat or something—people do that, yeah?
After a few moments of awkwardly patting down random surfaces like a cop at airport security, I spot a little wooden plaque by the door with a cheeryWelcome!sign.
Behind it?
The key.
“Wow. Great fucking hiding spot. Took all of three seconds,” I grumble, fitting it into the lock and pushing through the door. “I’m definitely going to be murdered in my sleep.”
Inside it’s exactly what you’d expect: small, cozy, and decorated like it belongs in a catalog for people who use words likevintage hyggeunironically.
Dinky entryway. Little living room. The stone fireplace practically screams “roast marshmallows here!” Small kitchenette with a stove straight out of the ’70s and—wait for it—a plaid couch.
Of course there’s plaid. Nothing sayslake retreatlike plaid furniture older than my grandmother’s perm.
Cute, though.
I dig it.
I toss my bag onto the couch and give the place a closer look. It’s not terrible. Not luxurious by any means, but it’s got a rustic, woodsy vibe people lose their shit for on Instagram. Vintage. Cool.
I wander over to the kitchen, then open a cabinet or two.
The cupboards? Empty.
No surprise there. The last thing management would do is stock us up on snacks, God forbid—it would cost too much money. They probably expect us toforagelike wild animals, which would force us to bond with nature.
“Bet Dex is already having the time of his life.” I picture the asshole enthusiastically untangling a fishing line while I’m here trying to figure out the Wi-Fi password.
I plop down on the couch, pull out my phone, and check for service. Two bars. Notgreat, but better than expected for a place that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the invention of the internet.
“Well, at least I won’t die of boredom.”
