Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
My standard toiletries from the bathroom get dumped into a canvas bag and shoved under the sink. I put out the little travel-sized shampoo bottles I buy in bulk and the cheap but not-too-cheap soap that gets me good reviews. Adding the plush hand towels, I make sure the bathroom looks pristine.
In the kitchen, I wipe down every surface, scrub the sink until it shines, and set out the welcome basket on the table. It’s a discount store basket with two packets of hot cocoa, a couple of tea bags, and a handwritten note on cardstock:
Welcome to Holley’s Hideaway! I hope you enjoy your stay. There are instructions for the fireplace and Wi-Fi on the fridge. If you need anything, text me through the app. – Holley
Holley’s Hideaway. The name always makes me roll my eyes, but I let my sister talk me into it when I first listed the place. “You gotta make it cute,” she instructed. “People eat that up. Make it catchy.”
Apparently, she was right. Bookings picked up after I added the photo of the porch at sunset and the overly whimsical name.
I rinse out the coffee pot and set up the machine with a fresh filter and grounds, so all the guest has to do is push the button. I replenish the little jar of sugar packets and the powdered creamer. I make a note to pick up more tomorrow.
Everywhere I look, there’s something else to scrub, wipe, straighten. A lamp shade crooked, a throw pillow needing a fluff, a mysterious smudge on the sliding glass door that I swear I already got after the last guest left but somehow there is still a mark.
Outside, I can hear the faint rush of the creek, still flowing a little faster from the recent rain. The air smells like wet leaves and chimney smoke from one of the other cabins down the road.
“This is good,” I tell myself as I sweep the floor, working the broom under the couch with long strokes. “You needed this booking. You can do anything for a week.”
I try not to think about the fact that the anything mentioned includes sleeping curled up in the backseat of my old Honda Civic with a blanket and my coat, brushing my teeth in the park restroom, washing my face with cold water in the early morning before driving to work or the gym if it’s a full shower day.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I set the broom aside and check it. It’s a text from Megan, the hygienist I eat lunch with at the office.
Megan: U make it up the mountain okay? Road looked sketchy when I left town.
Me: Yep. All good. Just doing my Cinderella thing
Three dots appear. Stop. Vanish. Reappear.
Megan: U sure ur ok? U looked tired as hell today lol
Me: Wow ty I’m fine. Just a last minute guest. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Megan: Girl u BETTER not be letting randos stay there while U stay too
I swallow.
We’ve danced around this conversation before. She thinks I go stay with my sister in Asheville when I have guests. I’ve never actually said that, but I’ve let her assume. Letting her know I sleep in my car at the park feels like crossing some line I don’t want to look at too closely. While Megan is sweet, my private life is well private. I don’t want to be the top office gossip topic.
Me: Nah I crash at my sister’s or a friend’s place. Promise.
This isn’t a complete lie. I like to think of it as half true. My car and I are very close friends.
Megan: Ok. Be careful. Text me if u get murdered.
Me: Will do
I set the phone face down and pick the broom back up, my throat tight.
It’s not that I’m ashamed, exactly. Lots of people are struggling. Lots of people are doing whatever they have to do to keep the bills paid. But there’s something about it—about handing over your bed and your shower and your entire home to a stranger and climbing into a car to sleep in a dark parking lot—that feels like failure. Like I did something wrong somewhere, and this is the price.
The stupid thing is, I know I did something wrong. I married a charming liar and believed him when he said he’d take care of things. Signed on the dotted line next to him because “we’re a team, babe.”
The team dissolved. The signatures did not.
I finish sweeping and empty the dustpan into the trash. The clock over the stove says 3:15. If I hustle, I can be done by four, pack my travel necessities for the week, and maybe rest for an hour before driving down to the park after dark.
I move through the bathroom with my cleaning spray and rag, wiping imaginary toothpaste flecks off the mirror because my brain swears they are there even when my eyes don’t see them, scrubbing the non-existent ring out of the antique tub until my shoulder aches. When everything smells like chemicals and fake lemon, I rinse the rag in hot water, wring it out, and hang it over the faucet to dry. When I leave I’ll grab this on my way out and put it in my dirty laundry bag for in the car.