“What do I tell my parents?” It sounds stupid to say. I’m twenty-nine years old for god’s sake.
“You tell them whatever you feel comfortable telling them.”
Even if that’s nothing at all?I just nod.
“You owe it to yourself to try. We can help you sublet your place if you get it.”
Phone back in my hand, I close out the email app and reopen the search on Dulaney. I’m lost in between rows of Colonial brick and trees arching over roads to keep out the sun. I’m mentally sitting on my parents’ floral couch like when I had to wait for them to go over my report card and hope I didn’t mess up somewhere along the line. Torn.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Sebastian says, as if he can read my mind—or maybe just my face.
“It’s kind of—immense.”
Sebastian nods. “It’s always scary going from what’s comfortable to what’s good.”
When we say goodbye, I thank them. Farren pats me on the shoulder as if she wants to hug me but knows I’m not a hugger. All the way home I ruminate on Sebastian’s statement because it never occurred to me that those things weren’t interchangeable.
Comfortable. Stable. Stalwart. Pillars I built my house on. I didn’t even let myself consider things that wouldn’t contribute to the soundness of my life. Even the majority of people I date are good on paper and terrible on my heart. I’m sure there are still visible cracks where I caulked over the holes left by Riley’s duplicity last year—a house I thought was built to last.
Sturdy. I’m sturdy and dependable. And totally forlorn. My willingness to “keep my chin up” and push through and hope things improve clearly isn’t working. I’m being overlooked and taken advantage of for my efforts. It’s time to change that. Starting with printing the resignation I drafted.
I can’t stand to keep working there.
Not after what Andrew said and Keith did at the bar.
I’m choosing what’s good.
* * *
I’ve never believedin love at first sight. Anything amounting to fanciful can’t be trusted. I might’ve stayed closer to my convictions if it were a person rather than a place, but it’s hard to dismiss my immediate reaction to Dulaney. The U-Haul I’m renting coughs up some fumes as I idle at the stoplight but the sweet scent of early blooms carries on the wind and cuts through the smoke.
The apartment I found is perfect and it took some finagling but I was able to get them to agree to letting me move in immediately. It’s premature, I know. I haven’t even gotten through the interview yet, let alone been offered the job. But I couldn’t sleep on Saturday and?—
Stupid. This is the stupidest, most reckless thing you’ve ever done. The voice in my mind is pissed at this turn of events. She was particularly nasty when I dropped my resignation on Andrew’s desk first-thing on Monday, effective immediately, and walked out to him sputtering behind me and thrown for a loop before 9 a.m. But I ignored her then, just as I will now.Choosing what’s good. I remind myself.Not what’s comfortable.
After quitting, I grabbed a coffee and headed to the Home Depot in Brentwood for a shitload of boxes, and then the U-Haul on the other side of the tracks. Sebastian and Farren agreed to my hasty text message asking them to help me find a subletter. And I spent the next two days feverishly packing up the last ten years of my life from my tiny dorm to my shoebox basement apartment. It takes less time than I expected, something that helps and hurts.
Now, I turn onto Church Street and down the side alley the owners of the building told me about. Feeling far too closed-in by the brick walls on either side with a truck I barely know how to drive, nerves skitter under my skin. Ten years with the Metro have spoiled me and the only time I really drive has been when I’m in Delaware with my parents. Each turn is hairy, every time I have to stop the truck too suddenly I cringe at the sound of my life rattling around in the back. The dress bag with my outfit for this afternoon’s interview hangs off the “oh shit” handle on the passenger side and it sways every time I take a turn.
And then I’m in front of the building, hazards blinking. Mr. Collins meets me out front, a kind older gentleman who smells vaguely of pipe tobacco and strong coffee. Handing me an old metal key, I follow him as he explains the eccentricities of the place.
The brick leans more brown than red. Three stories, the middle with a huge bay window that begs to be a reading seat or a spot to people watch. The third floor lives under the charcoal roof tiles, but the windows are full-sized. The ground floor is a cute tea shop that houses rows and rows of flavors and various kinds of sugars. It looks cheery and light through the glass doors. Mr. Collins owns it and the apartment above it.
“There’s a spot for a car around back that’s included in the monthly rent. Water is also included, as we discussed. You’ll be responsible for your own electric and internet.” All run of the mill, all things I know.
“The door sticks when it rains, so you’ll have to kick the bottom here.” He points down at a permanent scuff on the bottom corner, an indentation into the otherwise-beautiful robin’s egg blue door.
The hinges squeak when he swings it open and the landing smells a little musty, as if it hasn’t taken a proper breath in months, and truth be told, neither have I. We climb the narrow wooden steps and I make a mental note to be careful on a night when I go out for drinks. Taking a spill down these will be nasty. He encourages me to slip my key into the slot and there’s something very satisfying about turning a heavy metal key into an antique keyhole. The door has a handle, not a knob—burnished brass that’s cool in my hand when I push my way in.
There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door, and a small closet with the water heater in it. If Sebastian and Farren’s floors look old then these are ancient. Broad hardwood from old-growth trees is covered by a runner down the entrance passage and one of the planks creaks underfoot as I step fully into the space.
There’s an old oil radiator beneath one of the windows in the living room. The room is separated from the passage and kitchen by a stately arch, the rich wood a similar shade to the floorboards. The walls are sage with wainscoting, the window trim white, and I’m completely in love. This house has what Ángel would call “character” and I get it. The space smells like old books, wood oil and dust.
“The upper level is mostly used for store overflow and storage for things we don’t have room for in the shop, but feel free to stow whatever you want in there,” Mr. Collins says and he continues down the passage.
I can do nothing but follow and try not to run my fingers along the wainscoting as I walk. He points out a bathroom with a clawfoot tub/shower combination with a curtain going all the way around.
“You’ll have to give it a few minutes to heat up when you get the shower started. Don’t be alarmed if you hear the pipes groan when you do, they’re temperamental.” He talks about the place like it’s a person.
