I shouldn’t be here.
Fletcher pulls onto a gravel path next to the driveway, then hits a button on the remote clipped to his visor. It unlocks a gate, and he pulls through to the back. The backyard is bigger than I expected, with a brick fireplace near a stone path.
He drives to the back corner of the property, parking in front of what I can only describe as a small house. A motion light flicks on as we get out.This can’t be what he was talking about?
I was prepared for a glorified shed—four walls, a cot, maybe a mini-fridge that Fletcher jokingly called the “kitchenette.” But this… no, this is a tiny cottage right in his backyard, complete with two egg-shaped chairs hanging near the door.
“We built this for my parents to use when they visited,” Fletcher says, a little sheepishly. “But they’re dead now and—anyway, it’s yours now, for as long as you need it. Oh, here.” He opens his hand, holding the remote that unlocks the gate. “You’ll need this too.”
“Won’t you need it?”
He shakes his head. “We have a spare inside. Plus, Georgie and I know the code.”
A strange feeling settles over me as I pocket the remote. I can’t look at him. This is more than I expected—so much more. Honestly, picturing his parents here is easier than picturing me. Not because the style doesn’t fit me, but because I have never in my life had something so… nice.
We grab my bags from the back, then Fletcher unlocks the door and flicks the light on. I have to stop in the doorway, overwhelmed. The place is small, but it doesn’tfeelsmall, with vaulted ceilings and a large front window. The wood-like tile flooring is covered in a plush purple rug that somehow coordinates with the soft green walls. A queen-sized bed, tucked against one wall, has a bright purple and gold bedspread and matching pillows. Posters of Asian celebrities and street artcover the walls. A worn, solid dresser separates the bed from a small living space with a loveseat and a side table. A bench under the long window serves as the table, with two chairs tucked underneath.
Fletcher hadn’t been kidding about the kitchenette either—there’s a small fridge, an induction stovetop, and a sink. The counter has just enough room for someone to chop vegetables on without feeling cramped.
Fletcher sets the bags on the bed, nodding toward a door in the corner. “Bathroom’s through there. You even have your own water heater, which, I’m sorry to disappoint, is taking up your entire closet.” He opens a narrow door near the bathroom, proving his point. “But that’s why there’s a dresser. Feel free to use it.”
I peek into the bathroom, which is covered in more purple. But at least it’s clean. Everything smells of cedar and soap.
“Fletcher…” I have to swallow past the sudden knot in my throat. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
He waves a hand. “It’s no big deal. You need a place to stay, and like I said, this rarely gets used. Actually…” He opens a few cabinets, laughing. “Yup, see. Nothing but snack food from my daughter’s slumber parties. Help yourself, though. There’s probably soda and sparkling water in the fridge too. We’ll get you some real food in here soon.”
“You don’t have to—”
“We will,” Fletcher insists. He opens the lower cabinets, pointing out a few pots and pans, an air fryer, and a Keurig. “I’ll bring you some coffee pods and creamer. Oh, and some towels for the bathroom. For now, plan on coming up for breakfast, and we’ll finish loading her up tomorrow. Sound good?”
I genuinely don’t know what to say. I’ve been stressing about finding a new apartment ever since my tentative diagnosis, checking listings on the internet almost nightly. But everyapartment was way out of my price range or came with the same problems as my current one—dangerous stairs and cramped parking. This is like a diamond in the rough.
I’m not sure I deserve Fletcher’s kindness.
I take another slow look around, trying to maintain my composure. For once, the weight of my future doesn’t feel so damning. This is only temporary, of course, but it gives me a chance to breathe. To pull my shit together and figure things out.
“I really don’t know how to thank you,” I say finally.
“You can start by getting some rest. How are you doing, by the way? You feeling okay?”
“Just some bumps and bruises,” I say. It’s a lie. My back aches like a bitch, and I’m definitely going to have some bruises from the fall, but it could have been worse.
So much worse.
Fletcher frowns like he doesn’t believe me, but at least he doesn’t press. “Well, I grabbed your pain meds from the bathroom. They’re in the side pocket of the blue bag.”
“Thanks. I’m fine, though.”
He huffs. “Yeah, I’m starting to think you say that so much you actually believe it. You’renotfine, Vince, and that’s okay. You’ll get there, though. In the meantime, if you need anything, just ask, okay?” He opens a drawer and writes something on a notepad before attaching it to the fridge with a magnet. “My phone number again, in case you lost it. Call me day or night. I leave it off silent since I have a teenager.”
When I don’t reply, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Alright. I’ll run up to the house for some towels and coffee. Is there anything else you can think of that you need?”
I avoid his eyes. “No. Thank you.”
“Okay. Be right back then.”
As he leaves, silence takes his place. It makes it all worse, the guilt in my stomach twisting tight. He didn’t have to do this. Hedidn’t have to do any of this. He doesn’t even know me. And yet, his offer is more than I could have hoped for.
