Chapter 6
6
Eleanor
June Lightbell, the creator of my favorite bespoke perfume, replies to my story, telling me she can watch my cats if I let her stay in my apartment. She is the best perfumer in the business, reliable, with a high standard for excellence. That would not normally be enough of a reason to agree to something like this, but these are far from normal circumstances, so I say yes, with one catch—I don’t have anywhere else to go yet. She informs me I can stay in her town if I want, sending me pictures of a sweet cottage, along with some other pictures of the town. It’s all a bit old-timey. Kitschy, even.
Why would I go here? I ask myself.
But then I ask, Why not?
Which is exactly how I agree to go to some place called Trove Hills.
I pack a bag, book a flight, kiss my kitties on the head, and get on a plane. Upon landing in Chicago, I take an Uber, leaving the city and heading through the suburbs until I reach this tiny utopian town complete with a rail line running alongside the main road and an ice-cream shop built in the shape of a waffle cone.
I log out of my work email and turn off my phone, erasing the notifications that have been rolling in from coworkers and peers, asking me where I am and what’s happened. As if they actually care about me.
They don’t. They care about the story.
Walking down the long driveway of a random house, I follow June’s directions until I reach the cottage from the pictures. I take a key out from underneath a garden gnome, unlock the front door, and find myself inside this warm hug of a home.
My steps instantly become lighter, not wanting to disturb this cottage full of life. The floors are real wood, creaky and knotted. Every piece of furniture looks like it was carefully selected for its feeling over its function, meant to lounge upon as long as possible. It’s warm and inviting and almost unbearably idyllic.
A gallery wall of photos hangs along the staircase—shots of various people laughing, dancing, getting married, graduating from school, blowing out birthday candles, holding new babies. They must be a part of the same family, but there are so many different faces it seems impossible somehow, like this many people can’t all belong to one another. It’s overwhelming to someone like me, who doesn’t have a single aunt or uncle. No living grandparents. Nothing.
This family watches over me as I move through this unfamiliar place. In their knowing stares, I feel a pressure that isn’t mine. The weight of generations kept alive through mementos and memorabilia. History. Legacy.
In the kitchen, a bottle of red wine waits on the counter alongside a note from Tatum, the friend of June’s who has put me up.
Eleanor,
What’s mine is yours. Use whatever you want. And don’t mind my parents in the main house. They’re gonna be busy most of the time you’re here, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
Beware of my siblings, though. There’s Carson, my older sibling. You’ll know instantly if you’ve met them, because they are pure trouble. Then there is Laney, my younger sister. If you hear someone singing like a Disney princess at seven in the morning, that’s her.
Thank you for agreeing to do this. I hope Trove Hills greets you with open arms. While you’re here, be sure to stop by Rita’s Diner and a get a slice of the banana cream pie. It’s the best thing on the menu. Tell them Tatum sent you. It’ll be on the house.
This warmth brings tears to my eyes again. It’s a different kind of crying than yesterday’s sobs of despair. It’s jealousy maybe. Or tenderness. Both?
I know people live differently than I do. That’s how life works. Being confronted with it is something else. There is no note on the counter of my place to greet June and Tatum, detailing the charming quirks of my home. There are no pictures of the generations of Chapmans who came before me. There aren’t any pictures at all. The quirks of my condo are the potential for seeing rats on the sidewalk and the pounding from what I’ve guessed to be my upstairs neighbor’s biweekly tap routine.
I open the bottle of wine and pour myself a glass.
With my phone turned off, this is the first time in my adulthood I have ever been unreachable. I have no friends to text about this random plan. There isn’t a person alive who actually knows me who has any idea where I am, except for my doorman, who needed the information of the guests who will be staying in my place.
And June, who I’ve texted to let know I’ve arrived safely.
It should be relaxing. I’m free .
In some ways, it does put me at ease. But it’s also terrifying, like sitting in a boat with no land in sight, the water so still it becomes ominous in its peace. Now that I don’t have a job to do, a purpose to fulfill, I could disappear, and no one would even notice. They certainly wouldn’t miss me.
At least I have the wine.
···
A while later, after I’ve taken a shower, I tuck myself into the couch and read one of the romance novels on the bookshelves. For as much as I like the concept, reading is another activity I don’t indulge in much. There isn’t any glamour in imagining a world that’s not my own, because when I leave the comfort of fiction behind, the truth hits me twice as hard. There have never been any happily ever afters in my real world.
Somehow, this cottage makes me want to lean in anyway. Sitting here, feet tucked under me, warm in my robe, devouring a story about falling in love, I could almost…well, I could almost get to longing for the kind of shit they write about in books like this.
The front door rattles, startling me out of the fantasy.
Maybe it’s Tatum’s parents? She told me they wouldn’t be a problem, though. Which means it might be a burglar. Am I about to fight off an intruder my first night in this place?
Sighing, I stand up, working my hands into fists.
“Tatum! Since when do you lock your door this early? And where the hell did you put my key? I need to shower, and I can’t go into Mom and Dad’s house right now!”
Not an intruder. A sibling.
“Fine! I’m crawling in! But I’m not paying for anything that breaks along the way!”
With surprising grace, a person squeezes in through the window I’d opened earlier to let in a breeze. They land on the wood floor, grinning like a cat that’s just caught a mouse.
They are also covered in glitter.
“You must be Carson,” I guess.
They startle, their slinky grin replaced with confusion. Springing up, they fist their hands the same way I did a few moments ago.
“I wouldn’t fight me. I’m a black belt in judo,” I tell them.
“Is this how you stop me from stopping you from continuing to commit a crime?” they ask.
“I’m barefoot in a silk robe reading a paperback on the couch while drinking a glass of Malbec,” I say. “You barrel-rolled through an open window covered in glitter. How am I the one committing a crime?”
“How do you know who I am?” Carson asks.
I fake a huff of exhaustion. “Tatum warned me you’d be like this.” She really told me Carson would be trouble. That must be why I find myself wanting to be the one who makes it instead, inventing new ways to get the upper hand in a situation where I’m the one out of my element.
My words unlock a new facet to Carson. They lower their fists, laughing as they bite down on their lower lip, looking off into the middle distance. It’s… attractive , to say the least. A bolt of desire shoots through me, setting me off-balance.
Maybe it’s the way their hair flops down, short brown curls that look right no matter how they fall. I might be feeling envy over that kind of effortless ease.
Or it’s their muscle tee, loose in all the right ways, showing me tattoos and skin and more of that damn glitter.
It could also be the unnerving playfulness I suddenly feel, a bouncy ball of excitement rattling around in my rib cage for the first time in years.
One sitting’s worth of romance-novel longing has really gone straight to my head. This is direct proof I can’t read them. It’s too dangerous.
“What else did Tatum tell you about me, beautiful stranger who appears to be staying in her home?” Carson asks. “Did she mention my credit score has drastically improved as of late? It’s in the mid–seven hundreds now. Perfectly respectable for a made-up concept.” They crinkle their eyes, smirking, knowing full well their outward charm is effective.
Two can play this game. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share what Tatum’s told me,” I inform them. “And I’d congratulate you on the credit score, but they want us to believe eight hundreds is the only braggable tier.”
“I’ve been in desperate need of a tough-love reminder to aim higher, so thank you,” they say.
“Anytime. I’m very fiscally responsible.”
“I could tell from the way you held on to your wineglass even after I crashed through the window. You don’t waste nice things.”
“Who knew my judo-trained grip would be what gave away my credit score? And here I thought it was the scent of my expensive perfume.”
Carson steps closer. Flecks of golden glitter sparkles fall off their skin. “That tells me something else,” they whisper, inhaling.
“What?” I breathe, suddenly warm, my toes curling to grip the floor. Are they flirting with me?
They shake their head as they laugh again. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share.”
Touché.
“I’ll tell you this, though,” they continue. “Most of what you’ve heard about me is true, but none of it is relevant. I’m very good at playing by the rules when the situation requires it.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say.
“You must be the one Tatum was breaking up with yesterday,” they guess. “Looks like it didn’t stick.”
“That’s not me. I’m single. Have been for a while.” It sounds sadder than I intend, so I follow up with something risky, masking my vulnerability with the confidence I’ve spent years perfecting. “But that doesn’t mean I’m opposed to enjoying myself every once in a while.”
This gets an eyebrow raise out of Carson.
“Or enjoying other people,” I add.
They take a small step forward. “What kind of…other people do you enjoy?”
“I’ve never been particular about that. I can enjoy any kind of person, if the circumstances are right.”
The closer they get, the more I want to look at them, taking stock of the sinewy muscles in their forearms. A splatter of blue paint at the edge of their tank catches my eye, and the next thing I know, I ask, “Are you an artist?” unable to contain the question now that it’s come to me, too overwhelmed with this urge to make sense of them. One minute in their presence and I’m almost believing I’m someone fun.
“Good eye,” they say, looking down.
My eyes shoot to their hands, corded tendons flexing as they examine the paint that’s made its way into their nail beds. What else can those hands do?
Their gaze moves again, this time landing on me, searching for some kind of cue that can tell them who I am in return.
“Are you a…judo master?” they ask.
“I made that up,” I tell them, both of us somehow already at ease enough to laugh together. “I have taken enough reformer Pilates classes to make me believe my core could stay completely stable in the middle of a tornado, though.”
“I see that for you.” They pretend to pull a notebook out of their back pocket, miming the action of holding a pen to paper. “Tell me, though, if credit score doesn’t do it, is there any special criteria you look for when enjoying other people?”
There’s no uncertainty now. They are flirting. It’s a white-hot spotlight of attention, and it does not make me wither. Instead I grow taller, eager to match the energy of this irresistible stranger who knows nothing of my life. Even if it’s only for a night, I want to be a person someone else might miss after I’m gone.
“Good question,” I say.
My eyes drag up Carson’s frame. They’re about as tall as I am, without any of the rounding I do, leaning over to keep myself closer to others. In the space they take up, I see a calculated confidence. A spine-straight way of staring into other people’s souls. Even while covered in glitter and paint, they are as buttery and smooth as the smile on their face, melting away any of my reservations. The perfect person for a night of fun.
“I tend to like the troublemakers,” I say. “The ones who stand too close. Stare too long.”
Carson takes three steps closer. “Stand too close and”—they lock eyes on me—“what was the other thing?”
“Stare too long,” I repeat, holding their gaze.
“Anything else?”
“I sort of have a thing for artists.”
“Ah,” they say, their eyes flicking down to my lips. It’s a question. A request for permission.
I give it, pressing my lips against Carson’s. Their tongue slips into my mouth as their hands grab my hair, tugging me in closer. My heart flutters with the thrill of unfamiliarity. There is so much I don’t know about them. Every single thing, to be exact. Yet here we are, skin to skin, learning each other in real time.
Their lips sigh into mine as they move me toward the wall, pressing my back into the bookshelf. It’s the exact kind of confidence I relish. There’s no uncertainty between us, no tentative exploration or timid touching, even with all that’s unknown. We move like we mean it. I wrap my hands around their torso, pulling them closer to me. This closeness feels like relief, my robe so featherlight between us it may as well be nothing at all.
“Glitter,” they murmur.
“What?” I gasp out.
“I need to wash this glitter off me,” they say, half-hearted in their attempt to create distance between us.
I’d forgotten about the glitter. It’s all over me now too. I could ask where it came from, but that’s not important. All that matters is getting back to what we’re doing as fast as possible. The longer I have to think, the more likely I am to backtrack. I don’t want that. Not tonight.
This is my first chance in years to be defined by anything other than my job, or my neighborhood, or even my personality. I can have desires and not have to worry about what they’ll mean in the morning. Nobody here knows me, and they never, ever will.
“Go wash up,” I instruct.
Without a second wasted, they move up the stairs toward the shower. “Are you coming with?” they ask, turning back to look at me.
I follow them up the stairs, making my first official decision since arriving here.
I will have sex with Carson tonight.