Chapter 1
the sharehouse mix-up
CHAPTER ONE
Kiara
There’s nothing quite like the sting of cold, hard truth slapping you across the face. Swift. Often rude and unsolicited. A blow to your pride. It’s even worse when that slap comes from the hand of someone you love, or… used to love.
Okay, so I still love Iliana—my boss and best friend—I just don’t like her all that much right now.
“Your work is stale, impatient, and out of touch,” she’d said when describing my latest opinion columns.
Harsh? Maybe so, but not entirely untrue. Granted, she did try to soften the blow by also saying what I’ve been churning out of late is uncharacteristic of my talent, that I was better than what I was offering, instead perhaps tired, uninterested, or unchallenged.
“You need to leave this place, Kiara. Go on a sabbatical.”
“No, I don’t,” I’d said, resolutely.
“You and I both know you do. A change of scenery will be good for you.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Kiara…” She’d steepled her hands over her desk, and Iliana only ever ‘steepled’ when she meant business. “That troll on your last column spooked you.”
“He did not,” I’d lied. He’s just a misogynistic fool.”
“Nonetheless, I’m sending you on a month-long assignment.”
“What? Where?”
“I want you to open your eyes and mind to new people, scenery, and experiences.” Iliana had then slid brochures of Buxtonville, Philadelphia across her desk to me. “You’ve become too comfortable. Too set in your ways.”
I’d argued that my penchant for ritualism was safe and familiar, but she’d countered—and rightly so—that I was becoming biased and untrustworthy.
And as an opinion columnist, that would spell the end of my career.
“If your words can’t be trusted, no one will read them.
And if no one reads them, there’s no point penning them in the first place. ”
In all honesty, I agree with her. I am bored and bitter. Stuck in a rut. Passionless. And I can’t deny it isn’t infiltrating my work like a tidal wave of poison.
“I want you to discover how the small-town folk live. Are they happier? Healthier? Is their way of life better than their urban counterparts? And if so, why? Delve deep and break free of your metropolis habitude by broadening your horizons and opinions.” She’d then smirked like a Disney villain, icing my veins and cementing my pending torture. “Become a hippy.”
A hippy? I rest my elbow on the door trim of my cab, cradle my head in my hand, and sigh. What even is a hippy?
Collecting my cell from my purse, I Google the damn word.
According to Merriam-Webster, a hippy is usually a young person who rejects the mores of established society (as by dressing unconventionally or favoring communal living) and advocates a nonviolent ethic.
I scoff. Does she think I’m old and… hostile?
Besides that one time I deliberately swiped a stack of papers off an intern’s desk because he emailed my very important and highly confidential email to the wrong person, I can quite confidently say I’m mostly pleasant.
Non-criminal, nor confrontational. And I haven’t yet seen my thirty-third birthday, so I’m far from geriatric.
I read the definition again. Pfft. Of course I don’t reject the mores of established society.
Why would you in this day and age? Technology is a gift: a device for sanity and survival.
Coffee machines, cell phones, Wi-Fi, and Netflix, just to name a few.
Surely, there’s no shame in embracing and enjoying such things?
“Become a damn hippy,” I mutter.
“Did you say something?” my driver asks, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror.
I lift my head from my hand and stretch my neck from side to side. “How much farther?”
“We’re almost there.”
Sighing again, I stare at the lush green scenery, pops of oranges, yellows, and reds creating a beautiful Fall palette, very different to the concrete and high-rise buildings I see day in and day out. It’s rather lovely but also earthy: dirt, moss, critters, and… nature.
Why did I agree to this? I rack my brain, but it only takes a nanosecond for the answer. Because I’ll lose my job if I don’t, that’s why.
Despite being best friends for almost ten years, Iliana won’t keep me on the payroll if I don’t rediscover my investigative and literary spark. She can’t keep me on, even if she wanted to because the powers that be would take her job, too, and I’m not about to let that happen.
So, here I am, traveling to Hippyville for a mind-awakening experience, which will, hopefully, save my career.
According to Iliana’s email, my home away from home is a quaint, riverside cabin, which she’d booked this morning, surprisingly at such short notice.
But then… should I be surprised? If the brochures are anything to go by, Buxtonville is a far cry from a popular place like Hawaii.
No tropical beaches, Nordstrom, or Starbucks.
Just trees, river, corner store, and… trees.
Not exactly a vacation hot spot.
Oh, and apparently, the keys to the cabin are in the mailbox.
Not exactly high-scale security either.
Perhaps hippies are naturally trustworthy and safe, or maybe they’re na?ve and reckless? I make a mental note to research that particular question, the pending answer intriguing me.
“Here we are,” my driver says as he pulls into a gravel driveway, stopping alongside a two-story, mushroom-grey weatherboard cottage.
Peering through the window while he retrieves my bags, I wrinkle my nose at the dome of maples and oaks secluding the property from the outside world. Ambience: Blair Witch Project.
“I better not be murdered while I’m here,” I grumble.
Although, that would make an interesting column piece: Sabbatical Leads to Death. Stay Home; Stay Safe. A column I couldn’t write, of course, because I’d be dead—Irony at its best.
Reluctantly exiting the cab, my favorite suede boots squelch on the soggy ground underfoot. “Gross!” I tippy-tap to avoid sinking.
“I hope you bought some rainboots with you,” my cab driver says, chuckling as he points to my feet.
I laugh then lie. “Of course, I did.”
I didn’t; Kiara Moore does not own rainboots.
After paying him and collecting my luggage, I retrieve the keys from the mailbox—a painted cow made from a rusty tin, milk can, which is both weird and artsy—and then I make my way toward the cottage.
A gust of wind spirals leaves from the driveway, each one chasing another along the ground.
Birds squawk, the wood paneling of the house creaks, and a concoction of dangling cutlery and empty glass bottles chime in the breeze.
I shiver, the eerie atmosphere sending a chill through my bones.
Will anyone hear me scream if the need to scream arises? Will they even care?
A bush to my side rustles, so I scuttle up the rickety porch steps to safety in the event that some wild animal dashes out and tries to maim me.
I’m not fond of untamed furry things, big or small.
Things with teeth, claws… fangs. Damn you, Iliana.
You could have at least chosen a place with little to no threat to my life.
Setting down my luggage on the warped decking, I sidestep questionably hazardous planks underfoot while dodging pot plants hanging from the awnings, rainbow blooms spilling over the sides like clown wigs. I shiver again. Ambience: Stephen King’s It. All that’s missing is the red balloon.
A wooden love swing hangs from porch eaves, facing the Delaware River, sunlight glittering from the water’s surface.
I brush the seat and tentatively lower onto it, lightly rocking back and forth as I draw in a breath and admire the ethereal view.
Fresh, unpolluted air fills my lungs, and I can’t deny the cathartic feel of it.
Clean. Revitalizing. No smog or garbage stench.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
It’s been years since I’ve taken some time to myself, unplugged from the hustle and bustle and switched off from my daily grind.
Not that this treechange is a vacation because it’s not.
I still have work to do. People and places to investigate.
Comparative research I must compile and convey analytically.
I need to learn how to be a hippy.
The love swing makes a sharp cracking sound, so I spring up and stand clear, almost losing the contents of my bladder in the process.
Shuffling to where I left my luggage near the front door, I stop to pick it up while reading a chalkboard sign beautifully scrawled and etched with drawings.
Welcome to Treescape Cottage
where strangers become friends.
Eat, play, and be JOLLY.
The MOORE the merrier.
I smile curiously at the poem and play on words—my last name is Moore. How hospitable!
You wouldn’t find such a jovial greeting in the city. At least, I never have. Everyone is always time-restricted; chained to a demanding schedule. Astute and businesslike. You get the atypically pleasant barista or sandwich shop owner here and there, but that’s about it.
Maybe there is something in the air here, something warm, fuzzy, and pleasant. Yeah. Probably weed and hallucinate fungi.
I go to slot the key into the door, but the handle turns before I’ve had the chance to unlock it. Wow! Hippies are definitely not security-wise. Have they never heard of theft, home invasion, or squatters?
Shaking my head, I step inside, snib the lock behind me, and abandon my bags in search of the bathroom, hurrying past a lounge with a fire crackling in a stone hearth and some weird cartoon with a blue dog blaring from the TV.
I pause my steps, look toward the ceiling to where the lights are all switched on, and narrow my eyes.
It’s all very odd, but I’m too close to soiling myself to think more of it, so hurry into a hallway where I find the bathroom.
Wasting no time, I wrench my pants down, squat over the porcelain bowl, and…
The door springs open and a small child bursts in.
I scream, and pee—more out of fright than necessity.
“Hello!” he says, as I clench my pelvic floor muscles. The cretin smiles and waves. “I’m Parker. I’m five.”
Blinking, just in case I’ve inhaled said hallucinate fungi fumes, I poke his shoulder to try to determine if he’s real or not.
He giggles and pokes me back. “Who are you?”
“Jesus!” I shriek and tug my pants to my thighs.
The little pervert shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”
“Wha—”
“Parker! What’s wron—” The door swings open again, and a man skids to a stop when he sees me.
I scream.
“What the hell?” the guy says while yanking his son to his side. “Who are you?”
I blink.
He blinks back.
Heat soars through my body like lava and erupts at my cheeks. “Do you mind?” I yell, pointing at the door. “Get out!”
His eyes dip to my lap, then back up again. “Shit! Sorry. We’ll just…” He ushers the kid back into the hallway and shuts the bathroom door behind him, and all I can do is clutch my chest as I stare at it, my breathing sharp, my pulse erratic.
“Oh, my God!” I say, panting. “What just happened?”
Scared to move much less make a sound, I quickly secure my pants, stand up, and then I grab the handle of a toilet brush—the only weapon-esque thing I can find.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly open the door.