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)
Last stop is the loft.
The cabin is technically one-bedroom, but to maximize guest ability I made the second “bedroom” come to life in the loft. It’s this small area with a futon, a cheap lamp, and a rug that hides the worst of the floor scuffs. Families with kids love it. Single travelers often ignore it. But on the off chance today’s guest wants to sleep here instead of the bigger bed it will be ready.
I climb the narrow stairs, watching my step. The railing wobbles, something it has done since I bought the place. I make a mental note to reinforce it next weekend if I can find time between guests and work and breathing. I tell myself this every time I come up here and still end up too busy to get to it.
Upstairs, I fluff the futon cushions, fold the spare blanket at the end, and straighten the stack of board games I thrifted for ambiance. Monopoly, Scrabble, Candy Land—all boxes taped up, missing random pieces, but it looks good in the listing photos.
The loft window frames a slice of the mountainside, brown and gray and green. It looks like a postcard picture. The view is worth every penny this place costs me.
Quiet. Remote. Peaceful.
At least for the paying guest because truly I work too much to enjoy what I have here.
Back downstairs, I pause in the middle of the living room and do a slow turn, checking for anything out of place. The couch is at the right angle. The throw blanket is draped just so. No Legos or dirty socks or late-night ice cream spoons, because this isn’t that life. I have never had that exist for me even though I once longed for it. This isn’t a family home full of cheerful chaos.
It’s a product. A service. A stage set for someone else’s vacation. A place for people to come make memories to cherish.
“Good enough,” I say softly. And I remind myself this season of life for me is about making new dreams and goals.
My body disagrees. My ribs feel tight, my lower back throbbing from bending and scrubbing. I haven’t eaten since ten a.m. when I inhaled half a granola bar between phone calls and scheduling appointments.
I run a hand over my face and glance at the clock again. 3:45.
If I sit down now, I might not get back up. There’s still my car to prep.
I head to the little closet by the door where I keep my emergency kit. In case of storms, in case of the power going out, in case of needing to vacate my home so I can afford it. Also in this closet is my weekender stuff for times I have guests.
My “go bag” lives on the top shelf. It’s a faded navy duffel with a frayed strap. I pull it down and unzip it on the kitchen bistro table.
Inside, everything is already half-organized from the last stay. Travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush. A pack of baby wipes. A change of underwear and socks. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that doubles as pajamas. A flashlight with half-dead batteries. A phone charger cube that is all charged to sustain my battery until I get to work and can charge it regularly again. One paperback book I picked up at the thrift store for a quarter and haven’t had the brain space to read more than three pages of. Deodorant, a hairbrush, and other common daily needs.
This is going to be longer than a one or two night stay that I am usually booked for. So I mentally begin inventory what else to grab and toss in the bag.
I add my current work uniform—a set of clean scrubs rolled up tight—times five for next week, and my sneakers. Along with a week of panties, bras, socks, and pajamas. I toss in a Ziploc bag with a few ibuprofen and allergy pills. Another with a handful of tea bags. I move to top off my shampoo, conditioner, soap, and lotion bottles as I continue mentally playing over all the things I need for the time away from home.
The weather forecast flashes through my mind. Upper thirties. No snow.
I go to the hall closet and grab the old blue fleece blanket draped over a hanger. It’s thin but warm enough if I keep my coat on. The heavy quilt would be better, but if I pack that, I’ll just think about how it belongs on my bed. On me. Not in the backseat of my car.
Besides, the app promised mild temps. I’ve lived my whole life in the mountains of North Carolina, I can deal with cold easily. I don’t get uncomfortable until we get into the freezing temps or we are dealing with snow and ice. If the weather lies to me, I’m suing someone. In my imagination, at least.