Page 7 of Room for Us
“Thank you, Zoey. Great to see you, too. Everyone’s doin’ great. I told Erica you were back in town and she was so happy to hear it! She’s gonna shoot for a visit this summer. Hard with the kids, now, but that’s the way things go…”
He steps past me, his voice fading as my gaze locks on a school bus driving by, full of little faces.
I slam the door.
Mr. Gates jerks in alarm. “Are you all right?”
Smile. Smile. Smile.
“Just fine. Let me show you upstairs.”
4
Six weeks after my personal Armageddon, my life looks a lot different. Have I moved on from the past? Uh, no. More like slammed the door and nailed that bitch closed.
Chris, who?
I wonder if there’s a name for people who are mentally healthy enough to know they’re screwing themselves over with their decisions, but sick enough to not care? ’Cause that’d be me.
Right now my main concern is moving forward—just like my dead aunt suggested. Inviting my feelings to come out and play is a one-way ticket to living on my mom’s couch, sustaining on a diet of vodka and vanilla ice cream, and wearing my flannel cat pajamas for the interminable future.
I like this option better: pretend I’m one of those everything’s-better-after-divorce types who dance away from their insecurities, become Instagram influencers, and write bestselling self-help manuals. I don’t have an Instagram account yet, but it’s on the list.
But first, Rose House.
The moment I stepped inside the inn six weeks ago, right after hearing that Aunt B left it to me, my path became clear. I would restore the inn to its former glory. It would be the purpose and crowning achievement of my life, just like it had been for Aunt B.
“That’s not what—”
“Shut up,” I tell my hallucination. “I’m doing this. See? Done.”
I slam my finger on the Enter key of my laptop, having just finished submitting Rose House to the national databases. We now have a revamped website with copy so snappy and engaging I’d book my own inn if I didn’t already live here. We even accept online bookings, something Aunt B was staunchly against. She liked to have actual phone conversations with people who wanted to make reservations. No amount of explaining to her that making people call the inn to reserve a room was a huge strike against it would change her mind. Even my mom texts more than she calls.
I’ve rebranded Rose House as Sun River’s coziest escape, a veritable slice of history in an authentic setting. Perfect for couples on a weekend getaway or families and groups looking for a traditional inn experience in the heart of wild Idaho.
The wealthy, curious, and nostalgic will flock to us, drawn to the unmatched experience we offer. Personalized service, a 24/7 concierge, and hot breakfast served daily. Take that, AirBnb! The best thing going for us is our location—within walking distance of Main Street, close to the river and lakes for summer activities and the ski resort for winter sports.
As for bringing the inn itself into the twenty-first century, there’s not much more I can do without taking out a loan. I’ve scrubbed every tile, wall, baseboard, and window. Hand-washed and gently bleached all the lace curtains. Washed every sheet, duvet, blanket, and towel—thank God they were all mostly new. I beat the rugs and couch cushions to within an inch of their lives, evicting a decade’s worth of dust.
The furniture may be balanced precariously between vintage and outdated, the Wi-Fi spotty, and I’m pretty sure a skunk died under the sun deck last month, but the beds are big and comfortable, the plumbing works, and the original wood floors are clean enough to eat from. And Aunt B loved to cook, so the kitchen is fully modernized and ready for action.
Our curb appeal has been much improved as well, thanks to Zander and his beefy football buddies. Last weekend they mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedgerows, and tore out a billion weeds from around the property. Since the weather’s warming up, they also cleaned and repaired the inn’s mismatched collection of outdoor furniture, most of which they found shoved up against the side of the house under a rotting tarp. While I arranged the salvable pieces in the backyard into an eclectic outdoor living room, they strung several strands of all-weather outdoor lights from the back porch to the trees bordering the property.
They did it all for the low price of pizza, but I suspect my mom paid them cash behind my back. Just like she arranged for a photographer friend of hers to capture the inn and the grounds earlier this week. All in all, I’m feeling positive. Everything is in place, and it’s only a matter of time before the reservations start rolling in.
Like the neurotic denial-lover I am, I spend the next few hours in front of my laptop, obsessively refreshing my email as I wait for notification of a booking.
I wait.
And wait.
And finally convince myself I’m actually reducing the chances of a booking by focusing so hard. My stomach is grumbling, so I make myself a grilled cheese, pour a glass of milk, and head onto the porch to eat and watch the sun set behind the trees. It’s my favorite time of day, when the light is mellow and rose-toned, catching on pine needles, shimmering as it drips to the horizon.
Tonight is especially beautiful because there’s a storm coming. The sky blazes red and purple through the trees, painted with angry, dark streaks. I could stay here, in this moment, forever.
“That would be a tragedy.”
For once, I ignore my aunt’s voice. Not even my own insanity can spoil this moment. The bubbling hope in my heart.
