Chapter 2 #3
All the cute places get snatched up immediately. I know Dark River has them. I’ve seen the charming downtown, the tree-lined streets, the apartments above the shops with their window boxes and fairy lights. People just grab them and never let go.
I’m about to close the laptop and admit defeat for the night—maybe have a glass of wine and a conversation with Gerald the water stain about my life choices—when a new listing pops up at the top of the page. Posted fourteen minutes ago.
I sit up straighter, clicking through the photos.
It’s a studio apartment in downtown Dark River, second floor of one of those restored brick buildings.
The photos show hardwood floors and big windows with what looks like original molding.
A compact but functional kitchen, and a small but updated bathroom with a clawfoot tub that makes me want to take a bath immediately.
The location means I could actually walk to the coffee shop and the bookstore and that little Thai place I keep meaning to try. And it’s only a five-minute drive to school. The rent is at the top of my budget, but not over it. Available immediately.
I read through the listing three times to make sure I’m not missing some horrible catch or scam.
Coin-operated laundry in the building, which is fine.
No pets, which is also fine since I sadly don’t have any.
I click on the contact information and start typing an email, attaching the rental application that I’ve had ready to go for weeks now, and hit send.
My heart’s racing like I just ran a marathon. Fourteen minutes since it was posted. Someone else has probably already reached out. Multiple people, probably. Maybe the landlord has a whole list of applicants and I’m at the bottom because I sent an email instead of calling.
Is it too late to call? It’s 6 PM. That’s reasonable, right? Or is that desperate? Is there a difference?
I refresh my email. Nothing, which is to be expected, but I groan anyway and close the laptop harder than necessary. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, startling me out of my apartment-hunting despair. I glance at the screen. Sophie, the only one of my four sisters I’m currently speaking to.
Sophie: You alive out there? Starting to think you got eaten by a bear since you didn’t reply to my last message. Stop ignoring meeeeee.
I snicker and pull up her previous text from two days ago. Right. She’d been asking if she could start wearing the cashmere sweaters from the boxes I left in her garage storage.
Me: No bears yet. Just first graders, who are arguably more dangerous. And your last message was asking to raid my cashmere collection, which I am not even entertaining.
Sophie: Rude!! Well you’re not here, so I guess I’ll just tell people they’re mine then.
I roll my eyes. Sophie’s only a year and a half younger than me, and we’ve always been closest. Probably because we’re both family disappointments in our own ways—me for walking away from the family company, her for refusing to take things seriously enough to please my oldest sister, Sloane.
Sophie: Also, you won’t like this, but Sloane is on a warpath about Q3 numbers. Fun times over here.
Me: Shocking. Sloane on a warpath. Never saw that coming.
Sophie: She asked about you at dinner last week. Made some comment about you “playing teacher.”
I stare at the screen. Of course she did. Sloane never understood why I left KidStream, the educational app company our parents built together before their ugly divorce when I was fourteen, before Mom died four years ago.
My three older sisters run it now, and to Sloane, me teaching in some small town is a betrayal of the family legacy and not living up to my potential.
Never mind that Mom and Dad actually believed in education when they started the company.
Never mind that I tried to fight to keep it that way after Mom died and got outvoted three to two, even with Sophie on my side.
Me: Tell Sloane I said hi. And by hi I mean
Sophie: lol. Miss you. Call me this weekend?
Me: Miss you too. And I will.
I set the phone face-down on the nightstand and stare at the water stain on the ceiling. The Florida-shaped one. Leaving KidStream meant leaving behind a guaranteed career path, stock options, the family name on something that used to matter.
It also meant leaving behind board meetings where we debated how many ads we could show kids before parents complained, and strategy sessions about optimizing “engagement metrics” that really meant, “How do we keep children staring at screens longer? How do we get them addicted?” Sloane, Morgan, and Erica stopped caring about whether the apps actually helped kids learn the second they realized exploiting screen addiction was more profitable.
Sloane can call it playing teacher all she wants. At least I’m not making money off manipulating seven-year-olds.
I roll onto my side and grab the remote. The TV flickers to life with some cooking competition I’ve seen three times already, but it’s noise and that’s enough. My phone buzzes and I nearly drop it grabbing it off the nightstand.
Danny Cooper: Hi Emma, I’m the property manager for the Harbor Street studio. Got your application and everything looks great. I’ve got a showing this Sunday morning at 10 if you’re available? Let me know and I’ll send you the address.
I read it twice to make sure it’s real. Sunday morning. An actual showing.
Me: Yes! Sunday at 10 works perfectly. Thank you so much!
Danny Cooper: Perfect. 247 Harbor Street, second floor. Bring any questions you have. See you Sunday.