2. Two
The sky opens like a busted water balloon on the drive to my little house. Well, not my little house, but the one I thought could be mine. It’s spring on the coast, which doubles storm chances and creates sudden explosions of rain and lightning, as if the sky has anger management issues and can’t control itself. But anyone living in Wilmington, North Carolina quickly grows used to weather-related outbursts.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens as a car passes—its headlights highlighting my bare ring finger. How can I miss something I wore for less than an hour? Dean’s words backstage recycle in my thoughts. “I’m so goddamned embarrassed. I’m heartbroken, Rowan. Seven months together, and… I think… I should go on that trip with my acting buddies. I need to get away, let the smoke clear. Three months of traveling for extra work will do that… I need space.”
Space.The word sounded menacing, like a hissing snake. And ridiculously vague like Ross and Rachel and their infamous “break.”
“You want space over my one stupid mistake? I get nervous in crowds. My answer is yes—how many times can I say it? How can I fix this if you aren’t here?”
He had no answer. Only he marked us as to be continued like a TV show that may or may not get picked up for a new season. I didn’t bother telling him about the little house, knowing he’d see it as more evidence of my uncertainty.
The thing is—I want to marry Dean. But his proposal shocked me. We’d never discussed marriage, and I’ve learned not to expect it anyway. One abusive relationship and many horrid first dates have turned the hope of my twenties into jaded resignation in my thirties—some people are meant to be alone. I figured I was one of them.
But my mistake turned his yes into a maybe, and pulling into the driveway under a curtain of rain, I wonder if it’s still possible.
I race to the porch under an umbrella, heels clicking in puddles and hand fumbling for the beach bum keychain. A motion-censored light helps guide the key in the door.
It’s muggy inside, as an empty house with closed windows and no AC running should be. I leave my drenched raincoat and umbrella hanging on the door handle and move inside, switching on lights as I go.
Seeing it like this is good—when darkness hides its charm, the heat feels oppressive, and the storm gives it a creepy vibe. Tomorrow, I’ll return the key to Jane with a confident, “No, thanks. I’ve changed my mind.”
She’ll understand, though Mira won’t. I’ll stay where I am, extend my lease, and wait for Dean to return, hoping we can buy a house together.
But I do love this little house. It reminds me of my favorite picture book, The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton. The house in the story looked like a cozy, quaint oasis—the perfect home to retreat to, away from the world. But the world built up around the quiet country house, sending it into disrepair and sadness until the family moved it back to the country where it could be a happy little house again. With Mom in the military, I always wanted a moveable house—something small and cozy that we could take anywhere. This place reminds me of that home, and I long to be the change that makes it happy again.
But Dean’s happiness overrules my nostalgia. He’d never want this—too small and too many projects. That’s why most people don’t want it, according to Jane.
Still, this place ticks all my boxes. We must’ve looked at a hundred houses before this came on the market. Everything else felt too new, too sterile, too not me. The little house hasn’t seen new carpet or an appliance upgrade in at least thirty years, but I like that about it—it’s a testament to how good things last. It’s small with a manageable yard. Close to school. In a quiet, established neighborhood. And oozing with charm and possibilities. There’s even a porch swing!
Most importantly, it would be mine. Grandpa Ro used to call property ownership the American dream, and sharing it with others made it even better. For him and Betty, that meant foster kids and me when Mom was deployed. “Renting a tiny apartment is money down the drain,” he often told me. “You deserve a real home, Rowan.”
Everyone does, but as an army brat with a single mother who moved twelve times in as many years, his words felt especially true. Mom made our nomadic life the best it could be, but I’m more determined as an adult to be rooted in a place I love. With Mira here and the beach nearby, choosing Wilmington to be my hometown was a no-brainer. Picking this place to be my home felt just as easy.
I plop onto the fireplace’s brick hearth, exhaustion mixing with confusion. And sadness. I accidentally broke Dean’s heart tonight, and now, mine’s breaking, too.
Rain pelts the windows and roof in an angry drumbeat, the sky dumping its frustrations—wish I could do the same. Lightning flashes brightly through the unobstructed windows, and thunder shakes the foundation.
But I scream when a pound, pound, pound rattles the front door.
“We know you’re in there! Open up!” an angry male voice orders as I rush to the door. “It’s the police!”
“Vernon!” a woman chides. “You can’t say that!”
Dumbfounded at the entryway, I peer into the hole hesitantly. In my first apartment, I went through a mystery phase, during which I deduced that the perfect way to murder someone would be to shoot them through a peephole. It’s the efficiency of it, you see—quick with no blood spatter.
Answering doors always incites my anxiety anyway.
A small army of hooded rain jackets and flashlights stand on the other side, one holding a frying pan. But no guns in sight, thankfully.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” I demand, my voice cracking.
“Neighborhood watch, and if you don’t open this door, we’re calling the police.”
So, not the police. I slip out my phone, wondering if I should call them myself. I peep again to see them in a whispered argument, the smaller one waving the frying pan. There are four of them—the two animated ones in front, a tall one with his arms crossed directly behind them like a bouncer, and a fourth, leaning, as if bored, against a porch column. The bouncer steps between the arguers and gently taps on the door.
“Ma’am, this house should be vacant. We saw the lights and grew concerned. If you can alleviate those concerns, we can all go home to bed.”
Swinging the door open prompts their flashlights. I twist to the right and raise my left hand to block the beans. Spotlights on my scarred side make me want to shrink away, but I straighten myself and force a smile. Game face, Rowan.
“I’m Rowan Mackey. My sister-in-law and real estate agent, Jane Freely, lent me the key for a final walkthrough. I apologize that it’s late, but I didn’t think anyone would notice… or care if they did.”
“Oh, are you putting in an offer?” The one with the frying pan, now lowered, is a woman. And British. But I can’t see their faces, for the lights still blinding me and their hoods shadowing them. Her light rolls over my green chiffon dress and wet toes, peeping from my strappy black heels. “Oh, fancy frock. You look lovely, dear!”
“Have you just enjoyed a night on the town?” the man beside her asks conversationally.
The leaning raincoat pushes off the column with urgency, slapping down their flashlights. “This isn’t an interrogation. The house is fine. The neighborhood’s safe. Criminals don’t look like her.”
I grimace with offense, assuming he means my scarred face.
“I’ll have you know that some criminal masterminds dress up,” the other man says, finger raised. “This bank robber in the fifties wore a black suit and tie to every robbery. Oh, and a very nice hat. Started a trend, he did.”
He meant my clothes. Of course. My shoulders dip with relief—I’m being oversensitive.
“Oh, come now, Jack,” the woman says. “What’s the harm in a little chat? It might rustle you up some story ideas. What do you do, Rowan?”
“I’m a teacher.”
She gasps while the man at her side steps forward. “Teachers are the unsung heroes of society. My mother, God rest her soul, taught for nearly fifty years.”
“Vernon, hush.”
Lightning flashes, and thunder drowns her next words. With rain spitting into the porch sideways, it seems proper social protocol to say, “Would you like to come in?”
The frying pan lady steps in first. “Rose McGinty.” She drops her raincoat at the door, revealing a mop of gray-red curls. “Me and Vernon live across the street.”
“It’s a great neighborhood,” he says, following his wife’s lead—raincoat discarded—and moving inside after a firm handshake.
“Tom Goodman. My wife Marcy and I live across the street, diagonally. A pleasure to meet you, Rowan,” says the radio-voiced bouncer.
The fourth man, Jack, ducks by me with a grunt, not removing his raincoat or lowering his hood. His gruffness feels like an icy draft through an old castle, sending a shiver through me.
The regular living room light reveals that Rose and Vernon are in their sixties and wearing button-upped pajamas with rain boots. Tom is younger, but his white-gray ponytail suggests not by much. The only thing I discover about Jack is that he’s tall and annoyed. He keeps his hood on and lurks near the front door as if desperate to run out of it.
“Forgive our intrusion, dear.” Rose sits on the fireplace hearth. “But we thought you might be a vandal or using the place as a sex den.”
“Are vandals and sex dens frequent problems in this neighborhood?” I ask, only half-serious.
Rose gasps while Vernon stutters, “What? Oh, goodness. No.”
“Relax, Vern. She’s only kidding,” Tom says.
I stifle a chuckle. “Well, it’s good to know you’re looking out for the place.”
“There’s safety in numbers,” Vernon says. “When Rose saw the lights—”
“I was up late reading.” Her girlish grin makes me wonder what book.
“We called Tom for backup and Jack for muscle,” Vernon explains.
“I’m not the muscle.” Jack’s gruffness sounds less sharp.
“I’m the muscle.” Rose holds up her frying pan.
“Right. Jack’s got the best knees. He’s supposed to run for help,” Vernon says.
“You were saying, love? About teaching?” Rose prompts.
“Oh, high school English at Coastal.”
“That’s Jack’s alma mater.” She bounces, clapping her frying pan. “A proper English teacher. The neighborhood could use one of those.”
“A shrink would be better,” Jack mumbles.
Rose waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind him. Writers can be so irritable.”
I’m about to ask him what he writes to forge a connection like I would with a disgruntled student. The only way to break a bad attitude is to get them talking, Grandpa Ro used to say.
But Vernon chimes in with, “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Solid.” He pounds his fist on the brick above his wife’s head as if proving his point. “But I suppose you’ll take a sledgehammer to it.”
“Gosh, no. I’d pull up the carpet and paint the walls, but no major renovations. I love the old brick and fifties tiles in the bathrooms. I even love the kitchen—the antique gas stove and small fridge. The little green tiles with pictures of fruit remind me of my grandparents’ house. They had a kitchen banquette, too—that’s where I did my homework when my mom was deployed. It makes the kitchen feel like a retro diner, don’t you think? I’d reupholster the cushions probably. I don’t know what I’d do with the converted garage yet, but I’m okay with not having one. I have so many books. Maybe I’d use it as a study.”
Their mystified stares force my mouth shut. Rose gives Vernon a pleading look before both turn to Jack like they’re seeking his approval. He folds his arms over his chest.
“The previous owners, Margot and Ben, turned it into a music room,” Vernon explains. “She was a piano teacher. Students came and went nearly every day. In the evenings, they’d open the bay door, Ben’d get on his fiddle, and they’d have mini-concerts. We’d come over with our lawn chairs and listen from the driveway. Those were… good times.”
His head droops. I suspect the good times ended not by choice but by a change no one wanted. Grandpa Ro pops to mind, along with a quick montage of friends, neighbors, and houses left behind in moves growing up. “I’m sorry. It must’ve been hard to say goodbye.”
Vernon waves off my sympathies, his gray eyes looking slightly damp. Jack peers out from under his raincoat curtain, letting me see him for the first time. He’s younger than I expect, given his cohorts. Dark hair brushes pinched brown eyes that are more thoughtful than menacing and bookended by fine laugh lines he’ll one day call wrinkles. But not yet, even though his face seems permanently fixed in a scowl. Heathcliff meets Rochester meets Severus Snape. His inexplicable contempt drips off him like the raindrops on his coat. Who wants to live next to that?
“Ben and Margot loved this place,” Rose coos. “Lived here fifty years. Raised Corey here. He—”
“Don’t go there,” Jack warns sternly.
Rose winces and rethinks. “I was going to say that they used to have living room campouts with their grand-babies and read to them until they fell asleep.”
Vernon chuckles. “They called it The Little House, you know, after that picture book.”
My hand covers my mouth, like surprised women in old books overcome by emotion (and super tight corsets). Gosh, Rowan, what’s next? Will you faint?
“Oh, you know it?” Rose perks up. “That’s an old one.”
“Well, books are her business, being an English teacher,” Vernon laughs. “Right, Jack?”
He groans while I say, “Mom used to read it to me. It’s what I call this place, too. The Little House. Growing up, I wanted a house I could take with me. We moved so often that home felt like a shapeshifter. As soon as we settled into one, we traded it for another. Gosh, I’m sorry. I just love that book.”
Tom steps forward with hippie-like authority. “Well, if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.”
Now, I stare, a little baffled. Identifying with this house the same way its previous owners did strengthens my connection to it, especially when Rose fumbles around the built-in bookshelf and pulls a worn copy of The Little House from the cabinet.
“See, love? Margot left it behind for the new owner.”
She hands it to me, and in a room full of strangers, I hug the book that made me want this house in the first place.
A bit breathless, I manage, “But I don’t believe in signs.” Lightning and then thunder join my declaration, making my shoulders tense.
“Everyone knows that book,” Jack says sharply. “It’s not a sign. It’s a damn coincidence. Can we go home now?”
“Don’t mind him. He’s always like this when he’s not writing, and this house is special,” Rose whispers, though he still hears her. He cuts her a narrow-eyed look of warning. “So, how soon can you move in? …You are moving in, right?”
“I love this house. It’s totally me. And you’re lovely people. Mostly. But it’s been one of those surprising, exhausting, exhilarating, and confusing days that changes everything.”
“Oh, do tell, pet,” Rose implores sweetly. Jack’s face twists again like he’s about to scold her.
To cut him off, I say, “I botched my boyfriend’s surprising public proposal by blurting yes, no, maybe, before saying a definite yes, and now he’s asking for space. Space? Like I’m a helicopter girlfriend or a child hanging onto his leg—an irony because I’m not needy.”
Jack huffs. “All women are needy.”
I square my shoulders. “Ha, with that narrow-minded attitude, I bet you’re single.”
Rose, Vernon, and Tom laugh.
“He’s as single as the day is long,” Vernon confirms.
“Do go on, Rowan. This is stimulating,” Rose says.
“A needy woman wouldn’t buy a house without telling her boyfriend, which I almost did. He doesn’t even know I was house hunting. I didn’t want him to feel trapped or obligated to share the responsibility. But leave it to me to get engaged and nearly broken up with on the same night, not that anyone would ever predict the former, least of all me.” I motion casually to my face.
“Why not, hon?” Rose asks, looking straight at me.
I smile like she could be my new best friend, though I wonder about her eyesight. “I don’t get many dates. Not that I’m complaining.”
She looks confused while the others stay silent.
“Anyway, he’s leaving for three months to pursue his acting dreams—he’s an actor, well, and a teacher. Hopefully, when he returns, we’ll pick up where we left off, as if my verbal hiccup didn’t happen. Buying a house without him would hurt my chances of convincing him that I mean yes. So, this won’t work for me anymore.”
“Eh, if you love something enough, you find a way to make it work.” She pats my hand as she says it—a trick I pull with distracted students when I see them daydreaming—and it works on me, too. I love Dean enough to make us work, and I love this house enough to wonder if it might fit into that equation. Could it?
Vernon steps closer, locking eyes with sternness. “Think of your children, Rowan, and the school district.”
A laugh surfaces at his strong conviction—though he’s right about the district, my district. It’s the best in the area. “You’ll have other buyers, ones who have children. Maybe even a shrink or a nice… podiatrist or something.” I don’t know why I said podiatrist, but they graciously overlook it—except Jack, who looks almost amused.
“Oh, people with children don’t want the place,” Rose says. “Too small, they say.”
“Too much work,” moans Vernon.
“No garage,” Tom adds.
“If it doesn’t sell soon, Margot’ll resort to renters.” Rose whispers renters like it’s a bad word.
“We renters aren’t all bad,” I say.
“I’ll buy the place,” Jack huffs. “Can we go home now?”
Rose leans in. “See how he is? Complains the whole time when he could’ve popped off as soon as we knew you weren’t an ax murderer. He’s not that bad once you get to know him.” Rose turns to him and sternly says, “Devin and Corey would approve. She’s delightful and honest and hardly wants to change the place. What more do you want, Jack?”
He stiffens bitterly before heading for the door.
“We should go, too,” Tom says. “Thanks for indulging us, Rowan.”
“Oh, yes, and if it helps, we have no homeowner’s association fees and are within walking distance of the cross-city trail. Do you bike or jog?”
“Let’s go, Vernon.” Rose pushes him to the front door.
I follow behind, anxious for home now that the rain’s let up and ready to put this day and the little house behind me.
Rose flashes a demure smile on her soft, pink face as we exit. “This doesn’t happen every day, you know.”
My head cocks, wondering what she means.
“Falling in love with a house,” she grins. “Saying yes should be easy.”