The climb out of Hope Falls began at the base of Main Street, where the town bled seamlessly into the mountain, the storefronts replaced by clusters of black-trunked pines looming up and away from the road. AJ took the turns with deliberate caution, the SUV’s headlights fanning through the drizzle and illuminating the slick ribbon of asphalt that twisted like a vein through the wilderness. The rain, which had been no more than a persistent mist in the valley, thickened as they gained altitude, tracing snake trails down the glass and softening the world beyond to a succession of blurred green and silver brushstrokes.
At this hour, the highway was empty, slick with a glassy sheen that caught the cold gleam of his headlights. AJ drove with an economy of movement, the only sound beneath the soft pulse of Ed Sheeran’s falsetto being the glide-whoosh of wipers and the steady tick of the turn signal when he took the first mountain curve. He was aware of Poppy’s presence in the seat beside him, not as a distraction, but as a quiet counterbalance, like a second hand on a clock that clicked in tandem with his own thoughts.
He stole a glance at her when they passed the turnoff for the old sawmill. She was watching the dark, waterlogged pines flash by, her hand curled against the window as if she could absorb the cool from the glass and ground herself with it. AJ recognized the gesture. He did the same, sometimes, when his mind raced and he needed something concrete, something certain, to remind him where he was.
The time flew by much too quickly for his liking, and far too soon the navigation voice was declaring that the destination would be in one hundred yards on the left.
Poppy was quiet, but not in the anxious, waiting-for-him-to-break-the-ice way. She seemed content to let the silence be what it was, a mutually agreed-upon pause, a buffer zone for their thoughts to settle.
At the end of the road on his left, they arrived at a storybook bungalow set slightly back from the road. White siding glowed in the porch light, and cedar shake accented a pitched roof, which beaded with rain. A wraparound porch bent around the front and side, the railings strung with tiny fairy lights shining through the mist, lending a subtle, enchanted air.
AJ cut the engine, got out, and walked around to help her out.
“Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.”
With most people, he had no clue what they were feeling. But that wasn’t the case with Poppy. He noticed the pulse in the side of her neck that was beating quickly, her hands were shaking, and her breathing was labored.
“Would you like to come inside for a drink?” She licked her lips, another sign that she was feeling nervous.
“No.”
“Oh, okay.” She turned and started walking, and he realized his response hadn’t come out right.
“I don’t want a drink,” he clarified.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, okay.” A smile spread on her face. “Would you just like to come inside?”
“Yes.”
She turned back, and he followed her. When they reached the third step, it creaked loudly. “Your step creaked,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, it’s done that since I moved in.”
“You don’t want to fix it.”
She glanced up at him as she opened the door and walked inside. “I don’t know how. And I wouldn’t want to try and mess anything up. This is a rental.”
When AJ entered Poppy’s bungalow, he was immediately struck by a sense of belonging that was foreign to him. He’d always considered the concept of “home” as an abstraction, something other people claimed with a certainty he found both admirable and a little suspect, but the instant he crossed her threshold, he understood that some homes were cultivated, curated, almost willed into existence by the personality that occupied them.
The foyer was a narrow strip of hardwood, accented by a cheerful runner in a blue-and-yellow pattern that reminded him of European kitchens he’d seen in movies. To the left, a minuscule living room—maybe two arm spans wide—was dominated by a white slipcovered sofa, a nest of throw pillows inshades of maroon and lime green, and a coffee table made from a repurposed trunk. A ficus in a painted terra cotta pot stood proudly in the corner, and there were books everywhere, on the windowsills, stacked two deep beneath the glass top of the trunk, and arranged in towers on each side of the TV stand. The air was cool and still, not a speck of dust in sight. It was also welcoming in a way that valued comfort over display.
He watched as Poppy hung up her coat and then, as if it was one of his rituals, lit a candle, the faint scent of vanilla and musk instantly creating a more intimate atmosphere than the square footage would suggest.
The kitchen was visible from the entryway, separated from the living room by a waist-high breakfast bar with a pair of mismatched stools. Glass canisters lined the counter, one filled with coffee beans, the other with bright pastel macarons. Poppy’s fridge was plastered with photos, mostly of the women who AJ recognized from her social media, there were quite a few with her mother and older sisters, but also a lot of her nieces and nephews, dogs, and Liam. There wasn’t a single piece of clutter, no stray mail, no dishes in the sink, nothing that betrayed a lapse in diligence or discipline. Even the shoe rack by the door was arranged by color.
It was, in short, the exact opposite of his own space, which he maintained with the bare minimum of color, prioritizing utility over aesthetics and habit over comfort. At first glance, he would have thought the decor was too whimsical to be lived in by someone like Poppy, who gave off the impression of being all badass energy and motion, but as he watched her move through the kitchen—her steps light but assured, her manner of tidying the crumpled umbrella by the door both efficient and oddly affectionate—he realized the house was less a reflection and more a projection. She wanted the world to be cleaner, brighter,and less random than it was, and this was her way of making that hope concrete.
AJ found himself fascinated by the evidence of her life there. There were two coffee cups by the sink, both floral but distinctly different, and he wondered if one was for guests or if she rotated them to avoid routine. Her coat closet betrayed a fondness for vintage cardigans and rain boots, but also a row of parkas in colors that suggested she wasn’t afraid to stand out. There was a framed cross-stitch above the breakfast bar that said, “What is for you will not pass you by,” and it wasn’t ironic. She probably believed that. Or, if she didn’t, she wanted to.
“So, this is my place. I would give you a tour, but this is it.” Poppy fanned her arms out.
The bedroom was visible through a slightly ajar door, with a soft cream duvet folded with military precision, a nightstand stacked with romance novels, and a bottle of lavender sleep spray. Beside the bedroom door was another open door to an immaculate bathroom, with a white subway tile backsplash, white and black basket weave tile flooring, jars of cotton balls and Q-tips, and a pedestal sink with a Victorian-style mirror.
AJ looked around. “It’s very…you.”
She laughed.
