Chapter 2
After weeks of anticipation, I push open my front door and cross the threshold of my new home for the very first time. I draw in a deep breath like one does when sitting in a brand-new car, only to quickly discover that that’s one sensation that does not transfer to old, in-need-of-love houses.
The sharp, biting odor the previous owners left behind hits me like one of the crumbling bricks on the fireplace, and my eyes water while my senses struggle to adjust. The floor groans beneath my feet as I walk deeper into the room, like it’s an old house’s way of saying hello.
Sunlight spills in through the open blinds lining the far wall and the falling dust looks more like confetti than the culprit behind my itchy sinuses.
I wasn’t under the impression that I was getting a turnkey-ready home when I sent in the down payment for this house.
Houses in rural Texas might seem like a steal compared to the prices in metro Denver, but even I knew landing a three-bedroom house on five acres for just over one hundred thousand dollars meant there’d be plenty of work.
It’s just that now, seeing everything in person, I can’t help but notice the way the scratches marring the original hardwood floors are a little deeper and the need for new paint on the chipped walls is a little more dire than I’d anticipated. And those are just the cosmetic things.
This should probably scare me, but instead, it does the opposite.
From its bones to mine, I can feel down to the studs that this is where I’m meant to be.
It might be more work than I anticipated, but every project will turn this forgotten old house into something that nobody will be able to deny is worthy and loved.
It’s my opportunity to create the home I never thought I’d find.
I abandon my suitcases in the middle of the floor and wander from room to room.
The house might not be a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it feels like one to me.
At a whopping 2,200 square feet, it’s more than three times bigger than the one-room apartment I left in Denver.
I feel every square inch as I twirl around in the open kitchen and skip up and down the narrow staircase until my lungs burn.
There isn’t a single room that doesn’t need at least a coat of paint, and my fingers itch to turn my Pinterest board dreams into reality.
It takes me more trips than I hoped to unpack my car.
By the time I finish setting up the blow-up mattress in my new bedroom, the honeyed, amber glow of the golden hour pours through the open window overlooking the back of my house.
When the caffeine-fueled determination begins to fade and my stomach starts to growl, I’m faced with two options:
1) Eat a leftover protein bar from the road and soak in the claw-foot tub I’ve been dreaming of since the moment I saw it.
2) Freshen up, venture into town, and celebrate my arrival with a cocktail and a hot meal.
As a lover of both lazy nights in and craft cocktails, this choice isn’t one I take lightly.
But after careful consideration and a directive from my stomach that anything less than a meal simply won’t do after a day of fast food, going into town is the clear option.
This is, after all, the first night of the rest of my life.
If I want to immerse myself into my new community, there’s no time like the present.
After donating nearly all my winter clothes, I was able to fit almost my entire wardrobe—footwear excluded—in my suitcases.
I unzip them both and flip through everything until I spot one of the sundresses I unearthed while I was cleaning out my closet.
The dress might be at least four years old, but the tags are still firmly in place…
just like on the other seven dresses I forgot I bought for the vacation I never took.
It’s lavender with little red flowers scattered all over and, miraculously, still fits me like a glove. It’s perfect for my Celestial debut.
The sun begins to set as I rush through my makeup and hair routine.
I quickly draw on the cat eyeliner I perfected during the early days of lockdown and coat my lashes with mascara.
I spritz my curls with water, cover them with mousse, and cross my fingers that it will rid them of the frizz that built up over the drive and unpacking the car.
It’s not much, but hopefully it’s enough to make it look like I’ve tried.
I slip my feet into the sexy metallic sandals Gabby gave me as a going-away present.
They cost a fortune and I tried to tell her no, but she insisted that my well-worn sneakers were no way to walk into my new life.
I wish I had a full-length mirror to see how right she was.
Instead, I carefully apply my favorite red lipstick before leaning into a small mirror haphazardly hanging on the wall and whisper to my reflection, “You got this, Starr. Everyone is going to love you.”
And if they don’t? Who cares? I only sold my childhood home, quit my job, and uprooted my life to be here.
Dear god.
Please let them like me.
—
Wispy clouds dance above me as a pink-and-purple sunset chases the blue out of the vast Texas sky while I drive back into town.
The beauty is almost enough to distract me from the twinge of sadness that creeps in as the sun sets below a mountain-free horizon.
My fingers itch to leave the steering wheel and snap a picture to send to my mom.
Our text messages are filled with snapshots of the sky. She’d love this.
Or at least she would have.
There are more people out now than when I drove through town earlier, and the small town is buzzing with untapped energy.
Beneath the darkening skies and twinkling lights zigzagging over Main Street, the quaint downtown buildings look even more magical now than they did hours ago.
I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s even better than I imagined.
Unlike the nightmare that is finding parking in downtown Denver, I find an open spot right away.
I check my rearview mirror one last time, take a deep breath, and join the strangers I hope will soon become friends on the sidewalk.
Some offer smiles, while others wave. A small few don’t seem to notice me at all.
It’s like the first day of school all over again, and the endless possibilities are as enticing as they are terrifying.
Pleasant conversation fills the air, but despite my propensity to eavesdrop when the opportunity arises, I can’t focus.
As soon as I told anyone I was moving to Texas, they would warn me about the heat.
Colorado may have a reputation for snow, but any native knows that the summers get hot.
I’d spent enough time hiking trails on summer days that even though I knew it would be bad, I figured I was prepared.
News flash. Nothing could prepare me for this.
The cool breeze I’m accustomed to is nowhere to be found, and instead, humidity lingers heavy in the night air.
Even with the sun out of the picture, heat still clings to my skin as beads of sweat fall beneath the mass of curls covering my neck.
It’s so distracting that I don’t even realize I’ve followed the crowd away from Main Street until a little town square only accessible by foot appears in front of me.
It’s like I’ve stepped out of the real world and onto the set of a Hallmark movie.
Tiny shops and restaurants with different color doors and awnings enclose the space.
Baskets overflowing with flowers hang from every streetlight, and music plays from speakers embedded in the pavement.
Peals of laughter and elated shrieks of joy echo off the buildings as kids sprint through the water fountains at the center of the square.
Water shoots up from the ground with impeccable timing as toddlers and teens alike try to anticipate where it will come from next.
Benches dot the space, filled with grateful parents who watch the aquatic babysitter wear out their little ones.
If it weren’t for the persistent growl of my stomach, I’d sit down and join them.
I wander around the square, my meandering steps in direct opposition to my empty stomach, and take my time to look into all the adorable storefronts.
I peek through the window of the closed flower shop and steal a glance at the vases stuffed with blooms. A chalkboard sign sits outside a coffee shop, the seasonal drinks sprawled across it in perfect penmanship, and I make a note to swing by tomorrow to try the iced blueberry vanilla latte.
The bell above the door of Joanie’s Ice Cream rings over and over again as crowds file in and out holding cones piled high with different flavors.
For such small town, Celestial has an impressive number of restaurants.
I’m on the verge of being overwhelmed by choices when a large group of women files out of the door to my left and their boisterous voices draw the attention of almost everyone around me.
Crumb and Crust is written in bold, white script letters on a turquoise-and-yellow awning hanging above the door.
I have no idea what kind of food they serve inside, but thanks to the women who just left, I don’t care.
Nobody leaves a restaurant as happy as they were unless they’ve had their fair share of good food and, likely, better drinks.
Which happens to be exactly what I’m in the market for.
The noise of the square falls away as soon as the window-plated door closes behind me.
It smells like heaven and carbs inside, and my stomach cramps in anticipation.
Customers fill every booth, and mountains of food cover the tables.
If the women outside didn’t already have me convinced, one look around the cozy space would have.