Chapter 5 #2
When we venture into the kitchen, I trail my fingers along the brown-and-tan cabinets, the laminate cool beneath my touch. Several handles hang at odd angles, crooked little surrender flags, like they’ve clung on through multiple tenants and finally lost their war against gravity.
Dad notices instantly. His eyes narrow, that familiar handyman calculation clicking into place.
“I’ll bring my toolbox,” he says. I can practically see him mentally tightening every loose screw in the place, patching and fixing and making it safer for me.
Once he’s back, his calloused fingers test one of the loose handles. Dad’s love language has always been fixing what’s broken—whether it’s cabinet hardware or hearts. The irony that some things can’t be secured with a Phillips-head isn’t lost on me.
Mom’s enthusiasm bubbles over as she bustles into my bedroom like she’s on a mission. “This room needs some air. It feels stuffy.”
She wrinkles her nose and waves her hand dramatically, as if she can physically swat the staleness out of the room.
She heads for the window, then stops so abruptly it’s like she’s hit an invisible wall, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh, honey,” she breathes, voice pitching higher with delight, “but look at the balcony!”
She points, and only then do I actually notice the wide glass doors I somehow missed in my first overwhelmed sweep of the apartment.
I slide open the glass door. Warm, fresh air rushes in like a welcome, curling around me and filling my lungs.
The Ouachita Mountains unfurl before me in a panorama so vast, it steals whatever breath I’d just taken. At the foot of the hills, maple trees sway in the breeze, their branches whispering, while pine trees climb the slopes in haphazard ranks, dark green slashed against stone-gray rock.
Clouds coil around the distant peaks, and sunlight spears through the gaps to spotlight random patches of wilderness, as if the world itself is a stage and nature is working the lights.
“Dad!” I call over my shoulder. “Come see the view.”
They join me, one on each side, and we stand at the railing with our elbows brushing, a small, steady point of contact. For a long moment, none of us speak.
“Wow,” Mom finally says. “That is quite the view, honey.”
Dad just stands there, for once rendered speechless by something other than sports or classic cars.
We retreat inside and I let my gaze sweep across my humble domain.
“It’s mine,” I whisper to myself. “My own. My precious.”
Dad, still within earshot, lifts an eyebrow so high it nearly vanishes into his hairline. “You’ve watched The Lord of the Rings one too many times.”
“You’re the one who introduced me to it,” I remind him.
“If I’d known it would transform my daughter into Gollum reincarnated, I might’ve suggested Disney princesses instead,” he says, eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Next thing I know, you’ll be calling the apartment the Precious,” he adds, lowering his voice dramatically, “and hissing at visitors.”
“Only the unwelcome ones,” I shoot back. Only one person fits that description so far, and he shall not be named.
We dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt in the best way.
Mom dives into unpacking with frightening efficiency, tearing through box after box like she’s competing in an Olympic event called Domestic Domination.
Within minutes, my modest countertops vanish beneath piles of kitchenware, sorted and stacked according to a system that exists solely in her head.
She’ll arrange everything perfectly, of course. And I’ll spend the next month opening cabinets like I’m playing a very unfun scavenger hunt just to find my favorite coffee mug.
“I brought you some snacks to get you through the week,” Mom declares, digging into her bag for a container of homemade granola bars. “And muffins,” she adds, pulling out another. Then, with a triumphant little flourish, “Oh, and chocolate chip cookies.”
My chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
The next hour blurs into a whirl of torn tape and empty boxes, the apartment slowly filling with the shape of my life. Somewhere along the way, the teasing starts, and then the stories.
Naturally, they gravitate toward the embarrassing ones, the tales they keep polished and ready like treasured heirlooms. And even as I groan and protest, laughter stitches the moment together.
“Remember when Sarah tried to build that treehouse?” Dad asks, unfolding a blanket with a sharp snap before draping it over my secondhand couch.
Mom’s laugh rings out, bright and unapologetic. “The one that collapsed before it was even finished?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Hey, Dad gave me terrible instructions! I was, like, seven.”
“Seven going on thirty,” Dad teases, eyes twinkling like he’s been saving this line all day. “You had blueprints rolled up under your arm like you were Bob the Builder with a corner office.” He shakes his head, amused. “You looked ready to invoice us.”
“And when it fell apart,” Mom adds, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes, “you just stood there with your hands on your hips and said, ‘It’s a design flaw.’” She laughs again, breathy and delighted. “Like you’d planned it that way all along.”
“I was ahead of my time,” I defend with a grin.
“That determination,” dad says, voice warm and steady, “is why you’re going to thrive here.” His gaze holds mine. “And at your new job.”
The sun sinks lower, spilling long shadows across my new living room. Mom glances at her watch and sighs, the sound threaded with reluctance. “We should head out before it gets dark.”
A lump forms in my throat. Even though they live less than an hour away, I’m still sad to see them go.
I’ll be on my own in a town where my ex-boyfriend, who is also my boss, seems to lurk around everywhere I go.
Mom pulls me into a tight embrace. “We’re so proud of you, sweetie. Call us if you need anything.”
Dad follows with one of his signature bear hugs, the kind that presses the air from my lungs and snaps me right back to being five years old and invincible in his arms. “We’re just a phone call away, kiddo,” he murmurs.
“Thanks, you guys. I’ll be fine,” I manage, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind my eyes.
As the door closes behind them, the apartment suddenly feels vast and empty, despite its modest square footage. Night falls quickly, shadows stretching across these unfamiliar walls.
I perch on the edge of my mattress, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. My thumb hovers over the screen before I type in our group chat: Thanks for today. Love you both.
I set my phone on the nightstand when the unmistakable jingle of keys in the hallway slices through the quiet. My head snaps up, every nerve suddenly alert.
Must be my mystery neighbor, the proud owner of that monstrosity masquerading as furniture.
For a moment, I imagine marching out there and delivering a strongly worded request about hallway etiquette and the basic human concept of not blocking doorways with swamp furniture.
The impulse evaporates almost as quickly as it appears, snuffed out by bone-deep exhaustion. There will be another time for neighborly confrontations.
Tonight, I just need to survive my first night alone with my thoughts in this strange new space and try not to let Monday sink its teeth into me. Try not to dwell on my first day at work…on Jake.