“You know, he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in this town.” Lindsey Martinez, one of the other teachers, materializes beside me like a gossip ninja. She’s giving me a knowing look over her reading glasses. “The whole family is gorgeous. It’s honestly unfair.”
“Oh really?” I try to sound casual, like I wasn’t just watching him walk away with a stupid smile on my face.
“Mmhmm.” Her smile widens. “Single dad. Owns Harbor & Ash with his brother Alex. You know, that restaurant that got written up in theSeattle Timeslast year?”
Single.The word makes my heart do this annoying little flip that I immediately try to suppress. “Oh. That’s nice.”
“Verynice,” Lindsey agrees, her tone making it abundantly clear she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Nicest guy you’ll ever meet, too. Total sweetheart with everyone. Great dad. Always volunteers for field trip duty.” She pauses meaningfully. “And hedefinitelynoticed you.”
“He was just being polite,” I say, focusing intently on my clipboard like the names written there suddenly require my complete and total concentration.
“Uh-huh. Sure.That’swhat that was.” Lindsey’s still grinning as she heads back to her own group of students.
I stay focused on my clipboard, calling out names and matching kids to parents, guiding the controlled chaos of pickup. But my brain keeps circling back. Single dad. Restaurant owner who apparently makes incredible food. Objectivelyattractive in a way that makes it hard to think straight. Great with his kid.
The last parent pulls up and I check off the final name, waving as the car pulls away. The pickup area is empty now, just me and my clipboard and the late afternoon sun slanting across the pavement. I head back toward the building, already planning tomorrow’s lesson on fractions, but part of my brain is still back in that conversation, still replaying the way Theo Midnight said my name.
The Pine Lodge Extended Stay is located on the outskirts of Dark River and has exactly one thing going for it: the price.
I drop my purse on the desk chair and toe off my shoes, surveying my kingdom. Beige walls, beige bedspread, beige carpet that’s probably older than I am. The whole place looks like it was decorated by someone whose only exposure to interior design was a single Instagram post about minimalism, except they stopped reading halfway through and just went with “beige hellscape.”
There’s a water stain on the ceiling shaped vaguely like Florida, which I’ve named Gerald. There’s a kitchenette consisting of a microwave and two burners that I’m pretty sure violate several fire codes. There’s a persistent smell of industrial cleaning products that no amount of candles can quite mask, and I’ve tried. I currently have four candles going, and now my little room smells like chemicals and vanilla and desperation.
I’ve been here since August and it still feels like I’m crashing in someone else’s waiting room. Someone who really, really likes beige.
I glance at the dishes in my sink from this morning’s smoothie and consider washing them. That seems like a problem for later tonight. Or tomorrow. Or possibly never. Instead, I collapse on my beige bed and pull up apartmentlistings. When I originally booked this place, I naively thought I’d be here a week, maybe two until I found something permanent. I’d dealt with the Seattle rental market, after all. How hard could Dark River be? Turns out, very hard. The thing about small towns is that space is limited and everyone knows it.
There was a pretty cute place available when I was first looking. Decent price, only a bit further from school than ideal. I passed on it, thinking something better would come along. Now I could kick myself. I could kick past Emma right in her optimistic face.
I scroll through the same listings I’ve been seeing for weeks. Big houses way out of my price range. Places so far from school I’d need to pack a lunch for the commute. Rentals that look like they were built in the seventies and haven’t been updated since, and not in the cute retro way but in the “has anyone cleaned this since Nixon was president” way.
All the cute places get snatched up immediately. I know Dark River has them. I’ve seen the charming downtown, the tree-lined streets, the apartments above the shops with their window boxes and fairy lights. People just grab them and never let go.
I’m about to close the laptop and admit defeat for the night—maybe have a glass of wine and a conversation with Gerald the water stain about my life choices—when a new listing pops up at the top of the page. Posted fourteen minutes ago.
I sit up straighter, clicking through the photos. It’s a studio apartment in downtown Dark River, second floor of one of those restored brick buildings. The photos show hardwood floors and big windows with what looks like original molding. A compact but functional kitchen, and a small but updated bathroom with a clawfoot tub that makes me want to take a bath immediately.
The location means I could actually walk to the coffee shop and the bookstore and that little Thai place I keep meaning to try. And it’s only a five-minute drive to school.The rent is at the top of my budget, but not over it. Available immediately.
I read through the listing three times to make sure I’m not missing some horrible catch or scam. Coin-operated laundry in the building, which is fine. No pets, which is also fine since I sadly don’t have any. I click on the contact information and start typing an email, attaching the rental application that I’ve had ready to go for weeks now, and hitsend.
My heart’s racing like I just ran a marathon. Fourteen minutes since it was posted. Someone else has probably already reached out. Multiple people, probably. Maybe the landlord has a whole list of applicants and I’m at the bottom because I sent an email instead of calling.
Is it too late to call? It’s 6 PM. That’s reasonable, right? Or is that desperate? Is there a difference?
I refresh my email. Nothing, which is to be expected, but I groan anyway and close the laptop harder than necessary. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, startling me out of my apartment-hunting despair. I glance at the screen. Sophie, the only one of my four sisters I’m currently speaking to.
Sophie:You alive out there? Starting to think you got eaten by a bear since you didn’t reply to my last message. Stop ignoring meeeeee.
I snicker and pull up her previous text from two days ago. Right. She’d been asking if she could start wearing the cashmere sweaters from the boxes I left in her garage storage.
Me:No bears yet. Just first graders, who are arguably more dangerous. And your last message was asking to raid my cashmere collection, which I am not even entertaining.
Sophie:Rude!! Well you’re not here, so I guess I’ll just tell people they’re mine then.
I roll my eyes. Sophie’s only a year and a half younger than me, and we’ve always been closest. Probably because we’re both family disappointments in our own ways—me for walking away from the family company, her for refusing to take things seriously enough to please my oldest sister, Sloane.
Sophie:Also, you won’t like this, but Sloane is on a warpath about Q3 numbers. Fun times over here.
