Chapter 4 Isla
ISLA
The first thing I register is the smell of old wood, damp, and lavender sachets.
Stretching my hands overhead, I smile as I try to blink myself awake. The quilt made from leftover dress scraps shifts, exposing me to the chill.
Slowly, I open my eyes and take in the brown water stain shaped like a lopsided heart on the ceiling. Is it ridiculous to think of it as some kind of blessing? Like, somehow, Nanna is looking out for me.
“Thank you, Nanna,” I say as I roll out of bed, my feet landing on the uneven hardwood. “Oof.” It’s cold. I need socks. Or shoes. Or both.
Last night, I couldn’t get the heating to work. Or the electricity.
I messaged the executor of Nanna’s estate, and he told me that he’d had all the utilities turned off, given no one was living in the property, which explained the damp and the leaks and possible cracked pipes.
But even that couldn’t defeat me.
Because I’m somewhere that’s mine. And I have plans to start making sense of the house and finding out if there’s any firewood in Nanna’s wood store to warm the place up while I solve the heating and electricity problems.
I pull on some socks, sneakers, and a thick hoodie, then pad down the hallway, past the peeling wallpaper with faded blue lilies. The kitchen isn’t much better, with its cracked floor tiles, chipped counter, and cabinet doors that hang wonkily on their hinges and don’t seem to close properly.
But there’s a little heat in the space from the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the large siding doors leading to the yard.
Yesterday evening, I went to Karlie’s and collected my stuff.
I also stopped off at the grocery store, but I picked up the minimum given I have no electricity, which is kind of important for things like fridges and ovens.
When I told Karlie, she offered to loan me her air fryer, until I pointed out that it needed electricity too.
We laughed, and I thanked her for being a good friend. One I’m slowly but surely going to have to leave behind. I saw her pulling on what I think of as her club clothes: a pleated miniskirt, and a white shirt tied in a knot beneath her breasts.
She looked amazing.
Always was one of the prettiest of us.
But I felt sick in my stomach. Like she’s making so much effort to look good for men who just don’t care. She doesn’t see how foolish she’s being, how she’s giving a piece of her soul away into the hands of people who don’t cherish it like they should.
I glance at my phone—thank God for the portable charger I already charged at Karlie’s—and look at the time. It’s eight in the morning, on the weekend. I’m not sure what the chances are of getting my power connected, but I’m pretty certain that no one is going to be talking to me before nine.
Grateful I thought to buy some bananas, I eat one and wash it down with the carton of orange juice I bought and put in the entrance hall, which seemed to be the coldest spot in the house.
Once done, I get dressed and check out the list I made last night as I walked through the house with my phone as a flashlight.
It’s long. Like, really long. And in the daylight, I should probably separate it out by budget and importance and things I can do by myself or need others for.
But first off, I head outside and find that Nanna has a substantial amount of firewood stacked.
“Yes!” The word is said to no one, but the firewood feels like a victory. It takes a few trips to bring some logs and kindling inside, but getting the fire going feels like a very positive first achievement. Even though I’m headed outside, I’m going to keep the fire going to warm the place up.
Once done, I head out front to tackle the falling-down fence that might do even more damage to my car than my uncle did yesterday.
The Colorado morning hits crisp and bright. Birds gossip in the pines behind the house. And the fence creaks and groans under its own weight. One solid windy day from taking out my car.
“Well,” I mutter, hands on my hips. “Not on my watch.”
I pull out my camera and take some photos and videos. I’m toying with the idea of setting up a social media account where I post about the renovation of the house. It will give me something to focus on, something to grow, and will keep me honest in making progress.
Glancing across the street, I see there are no signs of life from Jackal and Shade, so I start recording.
I flip my camera to video and hold it away from me. For a second, I glance at my reflection and wince. Not wearing a full face of make-up every day is new to me. It used to take an hour and a litany of beauty products to make every flaw on my face disappear for life at the club.
An image flashes into my head, of checking the mirror after one very intense night with Grudge, and I looked like something out of a cartoon, with perfectly applied red lipstick smeared, and mascara tracks down my face. He’d told me I was a good girl and that he’d enjoyed what we’d done together.
I told him I’d enjoyed it too.
But I’d struggled to sleep that night because of the gaping hole I felt in the pit of my stomach left by the absence of any real aftercare.
Then, I remember what the last episode of the podcast series I’m listening to said. That perfection is the enemy of progress. And if I wait until I’m perfectly made up to do any DIY, this house will never get renovated.
“Embrace the new you, Isla,” I say to the camera, knowing I can edit it later.
“Hi, let me introduce myself. I’m Isla, and this is my new home.
I know. It doesn’t look like much, but there’s potential in the structure and love in the bones of the place.
It was my grandmother’s. And she passed several months ago, so there are pieces of her everywhere in this reno.
Come along with me as I work through the house, and in some ways”—I swallow, realizing I hadn’t intended for things to be this raw—“work through the grief.”
I hit pause.
Is that what I’m meant to be doing?
“You can always erase and edit,” I mutter, lifting the phone back to continue recording. “If you’ve got content you’d like to see, let me know. But today, I’m starting with something that could cause more damage if I ignore it. I’m gonna tear down this fence.”
I look around for something to rest my phone on so it can record a time-lapse of my efforts. I should have gotten a tripod, but I add it to the to-buy list on my phone, then jimmy together a stand from some wood and an old office chair that sat ruined by the garage.
When I’m done and it’s set up, I pop in my earbuds and hit play on the podcast I’ve been loving lately. Today’s episode is titled, “Forgive the You That Didn’t Know Better.”
I wonder if that’s truly accurate, in my case. I think that’s where some of the shame comes from. Maybe I did know better. I had to know, on some level, that it wasn’t healthy to keep throwing myself at men to make them want me.
Right?
The host’s voice is warm and non-judgmental as I grab the rusted crowbar I found in the garage last night.
“You are not defined by your past roles,” the host says. “Let me say that again. You are not defined by your past roles. Your worth isn’t measured by what others once expected of you. And in today’s episode, we’re gonna unpack what it truly means to forgive yourself for your past.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. It’s probably gonna take a lot more than that to get me from where I am to that opening sentence. Telling me something is true is very different from me actually deep-down internalizing that.
Bracing the crowbar against the first fence post, which is leaning at forty-five degrees, I heave, hard.
The wood is ancient and I expected it to be brittle.
But it isn’t. It’s soaked and soft. The earth holds tight.
After months of being frozen, it’s only really thawed at the surface where the weak spring sun has warmed it a little.
I pull again and my shoulders burn. I grunt, pulling back with all that I am.
Nothing.
“Okay, rude,” I mutter, shaking out my hands.
I try again. Sweat drips down my neck. And the podcast is talking about self-compassion as the crowbar slips from the post, digs unto the soil, and then flips dirt back up in my face.
“Shit,” I mutter to the post. “So much for looking like you’re about to fall over.”
I refuse to be defeated by job one on day one. And try to ignore the embarrassment of actually filming myself do that.
Over the next ten minutes, I try all sorts of things.
I sit on the ground with my back against it, pushing in the opposite direction, but all it does is sway.
I try grabbing hold of the post at the top, trying to circle it first, clockwise, then, counter-clockwise.
It budges a little, but never enough to be able to pull it out.
And that’s when I sense him.
Jackal has the kind of presence you feel before you see.
I pull out an earbud and hear his boot scrunch across the gravel.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he says.
Reluctantly, I turn to face him. He’s too handsome for his own good with his long dark hair and gray-blue eyes. But it’s also his chiseled cheekbones and tall stature. Plus, his voice always hit me like a warm hand on the back of my neck.
He’s holding a spade.
“Don’t call me that,” I mumble.
He ignores my comment. “I was watching you through my window.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, that doesn’t sound creepy and weird at all.”
“Relax,” he says, in that annoying, pacifying way he has. “I meant, I was watching you struggle out here. Didn’t think it would take an engineering degree to get a fence post out, so I decided to come see what the problem is.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m fine.”
He huffs. “No offense, Isla, but you’re about five seconds away from throwing your back out for the next month.”
I tense at his words, but deep down, I know he’s right. “I just need to do a bit of research.”
Jackal steps closer, his cologne faint. “Isla. Quit being stubborn when we can both take a look and figure it out right now.”
He doesn’t wait. Instead, he steps up to the post, buries his spade in deep with the heel of his boot, and then tosses a spadeful of dirt onto the sidewalk.
“Jackal. I have a spade.” At least, I hope Nanna did and it’s in the garage with all the other junk. “I can do it.”
But he ignores me, tossing compacted soil like it weighs nothing. Once he’s done, he drops the spade, circles the post twice, and then pulls it out with a lump of ugly gray concrete attached to the bottom.
I gape. “Are you kidding me.”
He tosses the post aside with a thud. “What? You loosened it for me.”
“Thank you for showing me what I’m working with, but you can go. I said I didn’t want help.” I wipe my forehead as I look to my phone sitting on the jimmied rig, filming me accusingly.
My only relief is Jackal isn’t wearing his cut. He’s wearing a plaid jacket lined with fleece.
“Heard what you said. But I also couldn’t watch you keep fighting the thing with a crowbar”—he lifts his spade triumphantly—“when I had a strong suspicion that the reason this shitty lump of wood didn’t just blow away was because it was anchored.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I had it under control.”
He snorts and moves to the next post.
“Jackal. Stop.”
“Nope.”
“Jackal!”
“Are you gonna keep calling my name, or are you going to use that crowbar to strip the panels between the posts before I’m ready to dig this next one out?”
Immediately, I jump for the crowbar and attack the panels with all the anger and frustration that Jackal’s presence is stirring up. I don’t know how to tell this man why I don’t want him here.
The panel goes flying onto the front lot, and Jackal yanks the next post free a minute later.
Something snaps. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s anger at having my first video ruined. Maybe it’s wanting to keep the last shred of control. “I don’t want to have to owe you anything.”
He stops mid-motion and slowly turns. There’s something sharp in his features that looks a little bit like hurt. His eyes lock onto mine. “When,” he asks quietly, “have I ever asked you for anything, Isla?”
When I think back over our interactions since he joined, I realize he’s right. He hasn’t. Maybe the occasional request to grab him a beer from the bar, but nothing of a sexual nature.
I used to be so confident with men, with insults, with sarcasm. And now, I can’t say a word because my throat is tight. It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to interact with the world.
“You think I’m doing this shit for you because I expect something back?
” He tugs out the elastic holding his long dark hair off his face and then bundles it into a man bun at the back of his head.
“I helped because you looked like you’re killing yourself, because the job is easier with two, because I wasn’t doing anything else beyond scrolling on my phone when I saw you, and because I give a damn. That’s it.”
A rock lands in my stomach. And I hate the heat that’s brewing in my cheeks. There’s the sting of shame too.
“I didn’t mean—” I don’t know the words that should come next.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping back. “You did, Isla. And I’m really fucking sorry for whatever it is I did to you. I’m gonna give you some space because consent matters, but you come find me when you’re ready, and we’ll talk about it.”
He drops the remaining post where it is, turns, and walks back across the street without another word.
The distance between our houses grows until it feels like it’s the size of the canyon.
I stand there, crowbar hanging from limp fingers, heart thudding. Maybe I’ve messed up something I can’t fix.
The podcast host in my ear says, “And it’s okay that not everyone carries the same memories of what happened as you do. You don’t need to explain your version of events and make others understand. You can make a choice today to be different and move on.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter to the host.
Because, right now, I can’t even make myself understand. So how the hell would I be able to make anyone else?