“Tell me again why you need a house?” My sister, Pam, stands before me inside the two-story home on Birch Street. It’s more house than I need, but it could be all mine. Someday.
“Because I never had a home with Trent, and I want my own place.”
My sister stares back at me. We aren’t particularly close as sisters go, but I see the concern in her eyes. My family doesn’t know everything that happened within my marriage to Trent Walker. They don’t know how difficult the past few years have been with my soon-to-be ex-husband.
Ex-husband has a nice ring to it, when I consider who Trent is and who I thought he was.
“Are you going to run an ad for a roommate?” Pam asks. My older sister is opposite me in every way. She’s short while I’m tallish. She’s curvy and voluptuous. I’m cut like a box and built like a boy with no hips, long legs, and small breasts. Athletic, people like to say about me. Pam is also blond to my dark, but despite our appearance, she’s the one who likes the darker things in life while I’ve always wanted a fairy tale.
Funny how life dealt me the opposite.
“Yes. I can’t afford this place on my own yet, and I don’t want to buy it outright before the divorce is final because it would be considered a shared asset. A roommate could help me build some collateral for an eventual purchase.” I want a place of my own. The idea sounds nice. I’d traded one house for another but had never had a place that felt like my own. I’d left my parents’ home for college and upon graduation, returned to Elk Lake City to marry my hometown honey whom I’d linked up with my junior year of college. We’d moved into a cabin on the back of his family’s property, and even after a decade of marriage, it felt more like a bachelor’s hunting hangout than a home.
I’d never lived alone, but I’m ready for this adventure.
You got this, girl, my father’s voice whispers through my head. He’d be proud of me finally standing up for myself. Finally leaving Trent. My father never approved of him. Too bad Dad passed away before he could see this moment.
Pam’s head turns to inspect the inside of the living room, and I try not to see it through her eyes. It isn’t beautiful. In fact, it’s downright ugly with shag carpeting, a velour material couch, and lamps so outdated I’m not certain they use light bulbs.
“I hope Mrs. Drummond gave you a deal,” she mutters. My new landlord offered me a rent-to-own option. She’s a former librarian, a town busybody, and growing older. She owns the double lot where this home stands with a sister house beside it. The two are twins but mirror opposites in layout. One downside of the homes is that they butt up to the alley behind the main street of our harbor town on the shores of Lake Michigan, but there are worse places to live, and right now, this home feels like a castle.
And all mine. Soon.
Another pitfall is the shared driveway, which has just come to life with the rumble of a motorcycle.
Pam steps into the dining room where windows on the left side of the room look out on the drive. She brushes back the ancient lace curtains, making it obvious she’s checking out my neighbor.
“Who’s that?” she whispers as I step up behind her, easily peering over her shoulder because of our height differences. A man dressed in head-to-toe black sits upon a large motorcycle, the engine revving between his firm thighs while long arms hold the roaring machine upright. He isn’t wearing a helmet, which I don’t think is legal in Michigan, so we have a clear view of his midnight hair, cut close to his head, and the deep tan of his exposed skin reminds me of a worn horse saddle. His T-shirt pulls against solid back muscles. Something in me stirs even without the full view of him. Those arms. Those legs. That back.
I shake the thought and immediately note two additional things.
First, he isn’t from around here. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’d recognize a man like him.
Second, I have no interest in a dangerous man like that. I’ve already been down the dark route, and I have no desire to ride that road again.
As Pam and I both follow my neighbor’s retreat from the driveway, we pause a moment as if collectively catching our breaths.
“Well,” Pam says, causing me to flinch out of my stupor. “We should celebrate your new beginning. Let’s head to the Tavern.” She chuckles, and I understand her laughter. The Town Tavern is a local favorite and quite literally in my backyard, across the alley.
My own yard. I like the sound of that. A yard where I can do what I wish. Plant some flowers. Have a vegetable garden. Keep it clear of man toys and junk.
Pam leads the way through my outdated kitchen and out the back door of my new place. We cross the small yard and enter the alley. It’s Thursday night and going to the Tavern has become an unspoken tradition for our family. We were typical siblings—fighting and loving—but we pulled together after the death of our father, and this ritual seems to be a reminder to appreciate one another, even if we don’t always get along. Family is important. We’ve always believed that in our own way.
For me, it used to mean a husband and babies.
The latter never happened. The former I’m happy to be rid of.
“How you holding up?” my older brother, Jess, asks as I take a seat next to him at the bar. My brother looks like a rock star with his chin-length blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and intense blue eyes. He’s suspicious of my divorce, having been through his own, but he hasn’t asked me outright what happened with Trent. Jess is reserved like that, hoping I’ll tell him when I’m ready. Only I don’t want anyone in my family to know what happened. I’m too embarrassed.
“I’m fabulous,” I say, and it isn’t a total lie. The divorce, the house . . . It’s going to be a good year. As a teacher, I measure the year from September to June, not from January to December, so my year is about to begin. I report to work on Monday to attend planning meetings and set up my classroom even though school won’t start for more than a week. This gives me the weekend to settle into my new home.
Home. What a great word. I grew up in an amazing house, filled with love and laughter, fights and folly. As the youngest of four, I can admit I was a bit spoiled. I fondly look back on my upbringing in a warm home with devoted parents and teasing siblings. My ten-year marriage was quite the opposite, though, and the house we shared was anything but a home. It was hardly even a house. We didn’t have any privacy from his family or his friends. It was a bachelor pad before we married, and most of his hunting buddies continued to treat the place as if it was still a hangout when we were newlyweds. Over time, I grew complacent.
It no longer matters, I remind myself.
“Need help moving in this weekend?” Jess asks me, and I smile.
“Actually, I think I’m good.” I didn’t have much to move, having left most things with Trent. None of it was mine anyway. Just a few decorative pillows, some wall art, and a plant or two. I’d left everything behind, wanting a fresh start. I’d been slowly moving items back to my mother’s house, like my grandmother’s quilt and boxes of books. On the day I’d officially left, I filled my car with my clothes and didn’t look back.
“If you need anything, you call me,” Jess states, emphasizing in his glare that I better call him. Would it be so bad to lean on my family a little bit more? I’ve been holding too much inside for too long and accepting his help is such a simple act. Still, I want to do this on my own.