Chapter 3
Three
Holley
The disconnect notice is bright, cheery yellow.
Why do companies do this? Use stand-out colors as if I didn’t already know.
I look around me as if to see if anyone can tell the notice in my hand.
Yes, I know I’m behind on the bill, but damn do the neighbors need to see it like a beacon saying I don’t have my shit together?
Maybe to them it’s like a Post-It. note Like some harmless reminder.
Like it’s not threatening to shut my entire life off at eleven fifty-nine pm next Tuesday.
There is nothing harmless about this paper, at least where my mental health is concerned.
Stress feeds my anxiety and anxiety feeds my stress.
I’m on a hamster wheel of uncertainty that I can’t get off of.
I stand in the gravel driveway with my mail in one hand and that stupid yellow slip in the other, the cold mountain air biting my cheeks.
The sky is that washed-out winter blue, the pines so dark they are almost black against it, and my breath puffs in front of me while I read the words again just to make sure I didn’t hallucinate them on the way up from town.
FINAL NOTICE – PAST DUE AMOUNT: $438.12
SERVICE DISCONNECT DATE: DECEMBER 9
“Of course,” I mutter to no one but the cold mountain air surrounding me.
Because why not.
Behind me, my cabin looks… fine. Cute, even. My new beginning isn’t this fresh start I hoped for.
The paint is a little faded, but the porch railings are solid. The wreath on the door is one I got at a second hand store and fluffed up with fake berries. If you squint, it looks like something from a catalog. Okay maybe it’s magazine picture perfect only in my mind.
I clutch the notice tighter. Four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and twelve cents might as well be four thousand. Between my paycheck at the dental office and the payment plan I set up for the credit card judgment, there isn’t a lot of wiggle room.
After selling the house, I broke even on the mortgage balance owed.
My debt to income ratio is shit but my payment history and scraping together the down payment, I was able to get a mortgage for this one bedroom cabin by creative measures thanks to my best friend Connie who works for a lender.
Setting up a business plan, a limited liability company I bought the place as one of those short term rental investments.
The terms of my loan mean serious bookkeeping to show the business supporting the costs.
I’m new to this, however, so it isn’t carrying all of the costs yet. One day, I hope it can sustain itself and I can afford to buy a house for me to live in rather than this juggling I have been doing.
I flip through the rest of my mail. One postcard flyer for a Christmas parade in town. Two pieces of junk. And just to round out the festive mood there is a white envelope with COUNTY TAX OFFICE stamped in the corner.
My stomach drops. I tear it open with stiff fingers. The paper crinkles, the ink slightly smudged like it was printed in a hurry.
REMINDER: PROPERTY TAXES – PAST DUE after January 5, 2026
I don’t even read the number at first. I just stare at the words, feeling them sink in like stones.
Past due if I can’t come up with the money by next month. I had an escrow account in my previous mortgage that carried these costs. Not this home and I’m not prepared.
Of course they’re going to go past due. I’ll have to pay the interest and penalties.
It is what it is. I’m still trying to dig myself out of the crater my ex-husband left me in.
One shovel full at a time. Every time I think I’ve filled one hole, I find another one—some medical bill he never paid, some debt he let sit until it grew teeth and came after me.
I force myself to look at the amount. I know the notice they sent months ago is still unopened on my desk. Should I have faced it before? Yes. Did I? No.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss and the weight of the bills feels crushing.
“Okay,” I breathe looking at the numbers. “Okay. That’s…”
It’s not small. It’s also not as big as it could be. If I use the money from this week’s booking and next pay period’s grocery budget and don’t mind eating ramen or whatever’s on markdown for a while, I might be able to pay the electric and at least make a dent in the taxes.
Merry Christmas to me. At least I don’t have a husband to buy gifts for.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my scrubs. I stuff the mail under my arm and fish it out with numb fingers.
A notification from the booking app pops up.
Reminder: Guest arriving today – check-in 8:00 PM.
Reservation: 7 nights.
Total payout (after fees): $1714.20.
I stare at the screen, relief and dread tangling together in my chest.
Seventeen hundred fourteen dollars. I mentally begin breaking down where the money has to go.
Minus cleaning supplies.
Minus replacing the cheap coffee maker that died last week.
Minus the extra gas from driving to the park and back to work each day so I can sleep in my car while strangers stay in the only home I own. The change in my sleep location puts more drive time and fuel since the park is further away from my job than my home.
Minus the past due electric and affording the additional electric a tenant causes. I keep my heat cut way down and all the lights off. When renting the home, I can’t exactly tell someone not to use the electricity.
The dollars are spent before they ever hit my account.
Still. I have to hold onto the positive. It’s something.
“Thank you, random stranger,” I tell the screen. “Please have a very long, hot shower and use minimal heat.”
I tap the reservation details, making sure I’ve got everything straight. First thing that stands out is the late check-in. Well, that is an extra blessing because I need to get packed and prepared to be out of the house for a week.
Check-in: between 8 and 11 p.m. tonight.
Length of stay: one week.
Number of guests: 1.
Name: A. Brocato
No profile picture. No little blurb about “loves hiking and quiet retreats” like some people write. Just a verified ID and a short message attached to the booking:
Last-minute time out for a retired Marine. Need somewhere quiet to stay for a week. Will arrive late evening. Not picky as long as there’s a bed and hot water.
Well, he’s come to the right place for two and a half out of three. It’s quiet. The bed is comfortable-ish. The water is hot.
The host sleeps in her car and will take a shower with a day pass to a local gym. Not that any of that is his business.
I check the time. It’s a little after two. I worked through lunch to leave the office early so I could get up the mountain with enough daylight to clean. That gives me, what, six hours?
Six hours to flip my entire life from single woman barely hanging on to cozy mountain retreat with rustic charm.
“Okay,” I say again, louder this time, like I can talk myself into a different mood. “Time to move, Holley.”
I shove the bills back into their envelopes and jam them under my arm, then jog up the three steps on the porch.
The boards creak under my boots. I unlock the front door, and the familiar smell hits me—pine cleaner, coffee, and the faintest lingering trace of the outside air floating in with me.
Dropping the offending documents on the side table, I walk inside my home.
I always scrub the place top to bottom, but some scents never completely go away. It’s like my cabin remembers every single struggle even when I want to forget them. It knows my every tear and every fear as I have had to rebuild my life after divorce.
“Home sweet home,” I murmur, stepping inside.
The living area is small but bright, with knotty pine walls and a worn leather couch that’s more comfortable than it looks.
The coffee table is something I rescued from the side of the road and sanded myself.
A cheap TV sits on a thrifted console, the remotes neatly lined up for the DVD player, the TV, and the internet Wi-Fi box.
The woodstove in the corner is my pride and joy.
It saves me a fortune on heating when I’m here alone, though I always warn guests not to mess with it unless they know what they’re doing.
Too many potential lawsuits and the risk to burning my whole house down.
It is nice to have as a backup if a guest is here and the heat pump goes out.
But I would be lying if I wasn’t worried that the wrong person uses it and I lose everything.
Shaking off the thoughts, I get back to business.
First things first.
I drop my mail and purse on the counter and head straight to the tiny linen closet. I keep two sets of everything—guest and personal—and I can switch the cabin over in under an hour if I don’t get interrupted.
I grab the stack of my own mismatched towels and the faded sheets off the middle shelf, shove them into an empty laundry basket, then pull down the good stuff.
The fluffy white towels I found on sale last year.
The quilt set I splurged on with my quarterly bonus, all blue and gray and perfectly rustic cabin chic.
As I strip my bed, my phone buzzes again. Some part of me tenses, thinking it’s a collector or more bad news, but it’s just the weather app.
Weather Update: Mild temps through the week, lows in the upper 30s, no snow expected.
For once, something is on my side. I haven’t figured out what to do when I have the cabin booked and the temperature drops below freezing. Sleeping in my car won’t be a real option then.
I tap the expanded forecast. A little blue line dances across the screen, showing nighttime lows that are cold but survivable. Especially if I layer and bring a blanket.
I picture the park down the road, the gravel lot tucked behind the picnic area. It’s not exactly legal to sleep there, but if I park the car in the very back and keep my head down, no one bothers me. The sheriff has better things to do than chase off one sad woman trying to keep the lights on.