ONE | TARYN
Fresh starts suck.
I should know; this is only the billionth time in the last ten years that I’ve found my feet firmly planted in a place far different from what I got accustomed to. When comfort begins creeping in, it’s usually when I can leave everything behind without hesitation. It’s easy. It always has been.
The thought of moving is exhilarating.
Making the jump is thrilling.
But as I glare daggers at the piss-yellow two-bedroom home I rented blindly one night after an email from Zillow recommended it, I think my fingers and common sense may have been affected by too many glasses of wine.
I scan the yard sluggishly. There are months of overgrown weeds overtaking the yard and wriggling through the flower beds in front of the deck and at the edges of the driveway. The white paint coating the shutters is beginning to chip, enough that I could dig my fingernails under and pick it off, watching the paint flutter to the ground. The outside of the house itself isn’t horrible, but nature’s fight to reclaim the structure makes it look like no one has touched it in years. Like one of those abandonedhomes you expect a character to come across in an apocalyptic novel. But it’s the solid wood door that has unease plummeting into my gut with a force that has my feet feeling like they are sinking into the cement below the soles of my shoes. That one aspect alone should’ve stopped me from deciding to rent this place.
But no.
I am a twenty-three-year-old woman living alone. If someone waltzes up to the door and knocks, seeing them first automatically gives me an advantage. I have the upper hand because I can either hide around a corner and pretend I’m not home or at least assess their exterior look to make sure they aren’t going to murder me the second the door swings open.
Appearances say a lot about a person, but I’m at a disadvantage if I can’t see them, especially since there’s no peephole.
And that’s red flag number two. The first one was ticked off on my little mental sheet when I pulled up and raised the paper listing I printed off. I held it up, glancing back and forth at the image on the paper and the house in front of me as if it were a before-and-after picture. But just my luck, I get the before house. The shit house with a grungy and unkempt yard.
The photos of the shell of the house and yard had to have been doctored up…a lot. Or the images on the listing were from a home that sat here fifteen years ago—maybe twenty.
And the online catalog shows a tire swing. It was silly to look forward to, but it gave the place a lively character. I felt drawn to it because I always wanted a house with a tire swing growing up—any swing, for that matter. But yet again, I’m disappointed because the only thing left on the branch of the willow are two short and different lengths of rope, frayed at the edges, swaying in the soft breeze where one used to be.
It’s silent and eerie.
And one hundred percent, undoubtedly, the house on the street that all the neighbors scurry around and avoid for obvious reasons.
I expect this house to be deserted at the end of a dirt road, not surrounded by pristine family homes on both sides of the street with their white picket fences and off-the-lot SUVs.
Okay, they might not have the white fences and brand-new vehicles, but that’s what I visualize compared to the piece-of-junk shack I’m about to live in with my green-and-white 1992 Ford F150 parked in the driveway.
The feeling of dread settles deep in my stomach, churning until it turns sour.
I let my head fall back and release a frustrated sigh, the weight of all my bad decisions resting on my forehead.
I fucked up. Bad.
I grip the leash tighter and scrunch my face, closing my eyes. Maybe when I open them, it won’t be there. I crack open a lid; the rickety house is blurred in one eye’s line of sight but still as clear as day.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
Might as well get out all my cursing now before my second interview tomorrow. I can’t let the principal know that the girl he’s looking to hire to be his second-grade teacher has a mouth on her. That wouldn’t bode well in my favor since I moved here without securing the job first.
Stupid, I know.
I peek down at Rossco sitting next to me, his sweet face already lightening my foul mood. He always makes it better.
Kneeling beside him, I glide my palm over his black face and across his thick body. Looking at his face, you would think he’s just a lab, but underneath all that coarse dark fur, he has the full-out border collie personality. Outside, at least. Other than that, he is honestly the most chill dog in the world and the onlyconstant relationship I’ve had since I brought him home from the shelter four years ago.
My hand drifts to the large white patch on his stomach, and I dig my nails into it, scratching him.
“Whatcha think?” I ask him, tilting my head. “For you, it’s much better than the apartment because you actually have a yard now.” It’s a brown yard with dried weeds and dirt, but he loves dirt. Laying in the dirt, digging in the dirt, swallowing dirt that coats his ball. He’ll love it, so it shouldn’t be a problem for him.
His tongue whizzes out, licking a slobbery trail up my arm as his tail drags across the sidewalk back and forth.
“Should we go see the inside?”
