We’ve all seen this before.
She’s the type who thinks hard work means painting a few walls.
And she has no idea what this place does to people who show up unprepared.
2
Marin
The house doesn’t look that bad at first.
Which is probably how they get you.
From the road, it has charm.Character.One of those facades that would photograph well—if you framed it right and cropped out the corners.The porch leans a little.The paint’s tired.But everything is fixable.That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
One problem at a time.
So the listing photos were lies?Well, maybe not lies, exactly—just taken during a more flattering decade.From a better angle.With better light.Regardless, the house has potential.So it leans rustic?It’s romantic.
And God knows we need that.
I kill the engine and sit for a minute.Clearly, there’s a lot to learn: about old houses, about living in the middle of nowhere, but I’m up for the challenge.And on the bright side, I’ve got time.Nothing but time, in fact.Sure, there’s a lot to do.But I don’t have to rush it.That’s what everyone says, isn’t it?Take your time.Do it right.I’ve never done this before.I mean, who has?
I don’t realize I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel until my phone pings, a reminder to check the app.He’s still there.Still asleep.Or pretending to be.Either way, he’s quiet.
That’s something.
I glance back at the house, do the calculations in my head.Take a deep breath.Realize I probably should have thought this through.
The porch has a step missing—third one from the bottom.I noticed it when I toured the place online, but in person it looks worse.Not ideal.But it’s fine.Everything’s fine.I’ve handled more complex problems than wood rot.
One of them is asleep in the back.More of a work in progress, but still.
The plan is simple: Give it time.Give it space.Give us a real shot.
I get out, slam the door, immediately regret slamming the door.The sound carries in a place like this.Everything does.Noise doesn’t disappear the way it does in the city.It hovers.It clings.
I look up at the house.
“It’s not forever,” I say out loud.
A bird lifts from the roofline like it heard me.I take that as a sign.
Across the road, there’s a man fixing something at the edge of a property.Fence post.Mailbox.Something in the dirt.I can’t really see his face, just the shape of him: lean, efficient, deliberate.Work boots, tool belt, the posture of someone who hasn’t rushed in a long time.The kind of man who gets things done.Probably knows about steps.
He doesn’t look up.Which means he already saw me.
I adjust my sunglasses, shove my phone in my pocket, and take a few steps toward the porch.
The first step creaks.The second almost gives.
I catch myself, swear under my breath, and look around—just in time to catch the flick of a curtain across the street.
Excellent.
Witnesses.
My foot slips, ankle twists, the world goes sideways—and I hit the bottom stair hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
