Chapter 3 #2
Upper thirties, no snow. I can handle that.
I make the bed quickly, tucking corners military tight.
I watched so many videos on giving the best guest experience and having the bed done right was at the top of the list. Once that’s done, I haul the laundry basket into the little bedroom closet that houses my clothes and is now “owner’s storage” with a cheap lock on it so I don’t have to constantly remove all of my personal belongings every rental.
I stuff my comforter and personal pillows into a giant trash bag and wedge it in on top of everything else.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I move through the cabin on autopilot, following the routine I’ve built since I started renting the place out.
Strip my family pictures off the wall—wedding photos burned before I moved, but a few from childhood do grace the space, my mom and me at the beach, my dad and I fishing in a little paddle boat.
They go into a plastic bin that slides under the couch to be returned to their hooks after my guest leaves.
In the meantime some dollar store pics are hanging in their places.
My standard toiletries from the bathroom get dumped into a canvas bag and shoved under the sink. I put out the little travel-sized shampoo bottles I buy in bulk and the cheap but not-too-cheap soap that gets me good reviews. Adding the plush hand towels, I make sure the bathroom looks pristine.
In the kitchen, I wipe down every surface, scrub the sink until it shines, and set out the welcome basket on the table. It’s a discount store basket with two packets of hot cocoa, a couple of tea bags, and a handwritten note on cardstock:
Welcome to Holley’s Hideaway! I hope you enjoy your stay. There are instructions for the fireplace and Wi-Fi on the fridge. If you need anything, text me through the app. – Holley
Holley’s Hideaway. The name always makes me roll my eyes, but I let my sister talk me into it when I first listed the place. “You gotta make it cute,” she instructed. “People eat that up. Make it catchy.”
Apparently, she was right. Bookings picked up after I added the photo of the porch at sunset and the overly whimsical name.
I rinse out the coffee pot and set up the machine with a fresh filter and grounds, so all the guest has to do is push the button. I replenish the little jar of sugar packets and the powdered creamer. I make a note to pick up more tomorrow.
Everywhere I look, there’s something else to scrub, wipe, straighten. A lamp shade crooked, a throw pillow needing a fluff, a mysterious smudge on the sliding glass door that I swear I already got after the last guest left but somehow there is still a mark.
Outside, I can hear the faint rush of the creek, still flowing a little faster from the recent rain. The air smells like wet leaves and chimney smoke from one of the other cabins down the road.
“This is good,” I tell myself as I sweep the floor, working the broom under the couch with long strokes. “You needed this booking. You can do anything for a week.”
I try not to think about the fact that the anything mentioned includes sleeping curled up in the backseat of my old Honda Civic with a blanket and my coat, brushing my teeth in the park restroom, washing my face with cold water in the early morning before driving to work or the gym if it’s a full shower day.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I set the broom aside and check it. It’s a text from Megan, the hygienist I eat lunch with at the office.
Megan: U make it up the mountain okay? Road looked sketchy when I left town.
Me: Yep. All good. Just doing my Cinderella thing
Three dots appear. Stop. Vanish. Reappear.
Megan: U sure ur ok? U looked tired as hell today lol
Me: Wow ty I’m fine. Just a last minute guest. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Megan: Girl u BETTER not be letting randos stay there while U stay too
I swallow.
We’ve danced around this conversation before.
She thinks I go stay with my sister in Asheville when I have guests.
I’ve never actually said that, but I’ve let her assume.
Letting her know I sleep in my car at the park feels like crossing some line I don’t want to look at too closely.
While Megan is sweet, my private life is well private.
I don’t want to be the top office gossip topic.
Me: Nah I crash at my sister’s or a friend’s place. Promise.
This isn’t a complete lie. I like to think of it as half true. My car and I are very close friends.
Megan: Ok. Be careful. Text me if u get murdered.
Me: Will do
I set the phone face down and pick the broom back up, my throat tight.
It’s not that I’m ashamed, exactly. Lots of people are struggling.
Lots of people are doing whatever they have to do to keep the bills paid.
But there’s something about it—about handing over your bed and your shower and your entire home to a stranger and climbing into a car to sleep in a dark parking lot—that feels like failure.
Like I did something wrong somewhere, and this is the price.
The stupid thing is, I know I did something wrong. I married a charming liar and believed him when he said he’d take care of things. Signed on the dotted line next to him because “we’re a team, babe.”
The team dissolved. The signatures did not.
I finish sweeping and empty the dustpan into the trash. The clock over the stove says 3:15. If I hustle, I can be done by four, pack my travel necessities for the week, and maybe rest for an hour before driving down to the park after dark.
I move through the bathroom with my cleaning spray and rag, wiping imaginary toothpaste flecks off the mirror because my brain swears they are there even when my eyes don’t see them, scrubbing the non-existent ring out of the antique tub until my shoulder aches.
When everything smells like chemicals and fake lemon, I rinse the rag in hot water, wring it out, and hang it over the faucet to dry.
When I leave I’ll grab this on my way out and put it in my dirty laundry bag for in the car.
Last stop is the loft.
The cabin is technically one-bedroom, but to maximize guest ability I made the second “bedroom” come to life in the loft.
It’s this small area with a futon, a cheap lamp, and a rug that hides the worst of the floor scuffs.
Families with kids love it. Single travelers often ignore it.
But on the off chance today’s guest wants to sleep here instead of the bigger bed it will be ready.
I climb the narrow stairs, watching my step.
The railing wobbles, something it has done since I bought the place.
I make a mental note to reinforce it next weekend if I can find time between guests and work and breathing.
I tell myself this every time I come up here and still end up too busy to get to it.
Upstairs, I fluff the futon cushions, fold the spare blanket at the end, and straighten the stack of board games I thrifted for ambiance. Monopoly, Scrabble, Candy Land—all boxes taped up, missing random pieces, but it looks good in the listing photos.
The loft window frames a slice of the mountainside, brown and gray and green. It looks like a postcard picture. The view is worth every penny this place costs me.
Quiet. Remote. Peaceful.
At least for the paying guest because truly I work too much to enjoy what I have here.
Back downstairs, I pause in the middle of the living room and do a slow turn, checking for anything out of place.
The couch is at the right angle. The throw blanket is draped just so.
No Legos or dirty socks or late-night ice cream spoons, because this isn’t that life.
I have never had that exist for me even though I once longed for it.
This isn’t a family home full of cheerful chaos.
It’s a product. A service. A stage set for someone else’s vacation. A place for people to come make memories to cherish.
“Good enough,” I say softly. And I remind myself this season of life for me is about making new dreams and goals.
My body disagrees. My ribs feel tight, my lower back throbbing from bending and scrubbing. I haven’t eaten since ten a.m. when I inhaled half a granola bar between phone calls and scheduling appointments.
I run a hand over my face and glance at the clock again. 3:45.
If I sit down now, I might not get back up. There’s still my car to prep.
I head to the little closet by the door where I keep my emergency kit. In case of storms, in case of the power going out, in case of needing to vacate my home so I can afford it. Also in this closet is my weekender stuff for times I have guests.
My “go bag” lives on the top shelf. It’s a faded navy duffel with a frayed strap. I pull it down and unzip it on the kitchen bistro table.
Inside, everything is already half-organized from the last stay.
Travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush. A pack of baby wipes.
A change of underwear and socks. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that doubles as pajamas.
A flashlight with half-dead batteries. A phone charger cube that is all charged to sustain my battery until I get to work and can charge it regularly again.
One paperback book I picked up at the thrift store for a quarter and haven’t had the brain space to read more than three pages of.
Deodorant, a hairbrush, and other common daily needs.
This is going to be longer than a one or two night stay that I am usually booked for. So I mentally begin inventory what else to grab and toss in the bag.
I add my current work uniform—a set of clean scrubs rolled up tight—times five for next week, and my sneakers.
Along with a week of panties, bras, socks, and pajamas.
I toss in a Ziploc bag with a few ibuprofen and allergy pills.
Another with a handful of tea bags. I move to top off my shampoo, conditioner, soap, and lotion bottles as I continue mentally playing over all the things I need for the time away from home.
The weather forecast flashes through my mind. Upper thirties. No snow.
I go to the hall closet and grab the old blue fleece blanket draped over a hanger. It’s thin but warm enough if I keep my coat on. The heavy quilt would be better, but if I pack that, I’ll just think about how it belongs on my bed. On me. Not in the backseat of my car.
Besides, the app promised mild temps. I’ve lived my whole life in the mountains of North Carolina, I can deal with cold easily.
I don’t get uncomfortable until we get into the freezing temps or we are dealing with snow and ice.
If the weather lies to me, I’m suing someone. In my imagination, at least.
I fold the blanket and stuff it into the duffel, then stare at the bag for a second. It’s not much. A little pile of survival, nothing more.
“People go camping for fun,” I remind myself. “They pay money to sleep in cars and tents. You’re just… glamping without the glam.”
The joke falls flat even in my own head.
I zip the bag and set it by the door with my purse and keys.
Then, because my mother’s voice is always in my head this time of day, I force myself to make a sandwich.
Two slices of bread, a smear of mustard, some turkey that’s one day from the use by date.
I eat it standing at the counter, my mind going back to the electric bill notice like I can will the numbers smaller.
Four hundred thirty-eight. Seventeen hundred fourteen coming in. Minus booking fees. Minus gas. Minus taxes. Minus everything else.
I punch the numbers into my phone calculator, fingers trembling. If I put the entire cabin payout toward the past-due electric and the taxes, I’ll still have a couple hundred left for gas and bare-bones groceries. Not great, but not disastrous.
The credit card debt will have to wait. Again. The collection agency will call. Again. I’ll answer and tell them I can send twenty-five dollars this month instead of fifty, and the guy on the other end will sigh and remind me that my balance is still X and the interest is still Y.
I swallow the last bite of sandwich and chase it with lukewarm tap water.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m not being sued right this second. No one is banging on my door. The lights are still on.
For now.
The thought makes my chest flutter.
I scrub my plate and leave it in the rack to dry, then go around the cabin lowering the thermostat a few degrees.
No sense heating the place all the way up when I won’t be sleeping here tonight.
I set it to a temperature that’s “comfortable for guests” in theory and “please don’t run my bill up” in practice.
In the bedroom, I check the nightstand drawers—empty except for the Bible someone left behind a few months ago, a couple of pens, and an extra phone charger. I straighten the lamp and fluff the pillows one last time.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Brocato,” I say to the empty room. “Please don’t notice that your host is one missed payment away from darkness.”
I get the rag off the bathroom sink where it has begun to dry out.
In the kitchen I hand dry the plate from my sandwich and put it away.
On my way back through the living room, I grab the county tax notice and the disconnect slip off the little table and shove them into the junk drawer under an old phone book.
I’ll deal with them after the payout for this guest hits my account.
After they leave. After I’ve slept, maybe, in a real bed that’s not on four wheels.
Yes, then I’ll face the mess that is my life.
I slip my arms into my coat, pull on my hat and gloves, and shoulder my duffel.
Before I step out, I pause at the door and look back.
The cabin looks exactly like it does in the photos now. Cozy. Inviting. A place you might book if you wanted to forget your real life for a while.
I close the door quietly behind me and lock it using the door code, the deadbolt engages with the press of the pound key and my tiny bungalow is ready for business.
It all sounds so simply. Yet, everything in my life is chaos. I’m just juggling bills and sleeping arrangements while waiting on the calm to come in.