Chapter 8
Scarlett
After we finish our pizza we go over Lydia’s map plan to get down to the work. We crack jokes and relive stories as we pack up my life in several little boxes.
“Remember the time we all went to the rodeo and tried to set Scarlett up with a cowboy?” Andee asks.
“You know, just because someone wears a cowboy hat to a rodeo doesn’t make them a cowboy,” I say.
“Wasn’t he a bull rider though?” Kenzie asks.
“He was in finance!” I say, my body feeling lighter thanks to the company and the margaritas.
“Cowboys can have hobbies,” Mia says. “How did that go anyway?”
“Well, when we walked out of the rodeo and I saw his BMW the dream of a cowboy hookup was demolished,” I say sadly. “He was about the farthest thing from a cowboy.”
“Bummer,” Andee says.
“You know, it really was.” I agree.
“Maybe you’ll find yourself a cowboy in Valentine,” Kenzie says.
“Oh Kenz, I love that you’re so optimistic all the time. Please don’t ever lose it,” I say.
“It gets harder every day.”
Lydia goes in for a side hug with Kenzie and I feel my heartstring pull at these two being the last two standing in Denver.
I’ve always been just a phone call away from seeing these two and now we’ll have to schedule our visits like boring old adults.
For a second I think I’ve made a mistake but then Mia pipes up.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says.
“Think about what?”
“Not doing this, I see that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“The look that you’re thinking maybe you shouldn’t move so far away, I saw it too,” Andee adds.
I bite the inside of my cheek, my friends know me too well.
“You’re going to be fine and we’ll text and call and facetime and visit as often as we can,” Lydia says, coming over to me for a hug now.
“Okay, okay, I know,” I say. “But seriously, you gotta let me get settled and fix up the house before you come to visit.”
We move on to the next task on Lydia’s list and for a while we work in silence. It’s another hour or two before the apartment is completely packed up and my entire life is in boxes. The girls take off and I’m left in a room full of silence and nothing but my own thoughts.
Exhaustion settles deep in my muscles and at first I think I’ll be able to fall asleep on the couch without a problem. Hours later and it’s obvious sleep isn’t going to happen. I stand from the couch and walk over to the windows overlooking the city.
They call New York the city that never sleeps and while that’s true, Denver isn’t far behind.
Lights flicker around the other apartment buildings.
It’s well after midnight and I can see a light on inside the office building across the street.
Someone burning the midnight oil, I guess.
An ambulance siren sounds from a few blocks away and a police siren soon follows.
All my life I have loved this city. Loved its bustling culture.
Loved the people all piled up on top of each other.
And I think somewhere I still do but in this moment, looking out over the city, I try to picture what it will look like to stand inside my own house and look out over acres of land that is all mine.
I close my eyes and imagine I’m standing in my kitchen, looking out the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck out back.
I imagine I have a rocking chair on the deck and I watch the sun set over the hills behind the field in the back.
My chest bursts with excitement at the idea and I head over to the couch to try again at getting some sleep.
The next morning when I wake from my fitful sleep I feel a rush of fear, anxiety, and homesickness.
After all the good vibes from the girls last night I’ve come down from my high to be stuck at the bottom.
I worry that I’ve made a terrible mistake but, I reason with myself that my lease of the apartment expires today and I have to pay my first mortgage payment in a few weeks so I might as well give it a try.
With living close to work and everything convenient I haven’t had a vehicle since I was in my twenties.
Now, I hop into the driver’s seat of my new–to me–Ford F-150.
I feel like I’ve just been injected with testosterone as I start it up and hear the roar of the engine.
In here, I feel like maybe I am the bad bitch my friends say I am.
Everything I own and care about is loaded into the back of the truck and I ignore the flutter in my stomach as I put the truck in drive and hit the gas pedal.
My new life begins today.
The radio begins to play The Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine and I crank the radio up and sing at the top of my lungs. By the time I’ve driven two hours the flutters in my stomach have calmed slightly and I enter the town of Valentine.
Valentine is an adorable town in southern Colorado.
A place where the mountains surround a rare stretch of flat fertile Earth, perfect for farming.
Miles of farmland surrounds the little town which consists of only a handful of streets.
Main street is covered with little ma and pop shops.
A cafe, a restaurant, a few little boutiques, and at the edge of town is a grocery store right next to a feed store.
A glance at the signs shows me that they’re likely owned by the same people.
Get your feed, and your food all in one place! It reads.
The homes on the side streets are equally adorable, humble homes.
Almost like small cottages of a variety of colors.
It reminds me of something I would have seen in a picture of Greece or somewhere in Europe.
With the sight of this idyllic town, my nerves have transformed to pure excitement.
I finish driving through town and take a left just outside of it.
Down a dusty dirt road I finally lay eyes on the property.
My property. Five beautiful acres of flat usable land with a small ranch style cottage.
It was once painted white with black shutters like almost all the classic farmhouses you see in pictures but the white paint is peeling in many spots and a couple of the shutters are either hanging on by a screw, or gone completely.
At first glance, it isn’t much to look at but it’s mine. And that’s all I need.
On the ride over here I decided that my truck deserves a name.
So I pull Frieda into the driveway and sit still for a few moments, just staring at this space I get to call mine.
Instead of seeing the peeling paint and the things that will need fixed, I just see the potential.
A fresh coat of paint, maybe a dark forest green.
Replaced boards on the front porch and flowers everywhere.
I can almost hear the rooster crow in the backyard where the coop sits.
Thinking about that makes me giggle as I think of Mia and her hilarious comments.
Finally, it’s time to get out of the truck and get started. I could sit here all day and dream up the potential in this place but eventually, I’m going to have to get the work done.
The boards of the porch practically screech under my weight as I make my way to the front door.
The paint peeling up on both the siding and the door itself is so much worse up close.
The key slides into the lock and with a click, I have unlocked my future.
Yes, I know that’s corny but it feels true.
The door swings open with an ominous squeak and the open floor plan echoes just as much as my empty apartment did last night.
Just like I did with the outside of the house, I look around seeing only potential before me.
The entire house really isn’t too much bigger than my apartment but knowing I won’t hear my man bun neighbor have loud dirty sex all hours of the day and night, or Mrs. Gibbons yell at me if I don’t walk around with the softest of steps, makes it feel huge.
Just inside the door is a small dining room and I notice the table has been left.
I didn’t know that was going to happen but it’s one less piece of furniture I need to purchase in town.
Next to that is a decently spacious kitchen, no island but still plenty of counterspace.
It’s definitely not been redone in decades but I kind of feel like I can vibe with it.
The cabinets are metal and painted white, a few touch ups and maybe some new pull handles and it’ll feel improved.
There’s plenty of counterspace and I run my fingers along it, picturing the sourdough bread and cookies I’ll bake in here.
On the other side of the open space is the living room.
Unfortunately they did leave the orange shag rug on the floor but that will be easy enough to dispose of.
The floor looks to be original hardwood and once I get some of the more important things done I hope to sand it down and give it a fresh coat of stain.
I make my way to the back of the house where the only bedroom sits on the left and the bathroom on the right.
Both leave a lot to be desired but both are livable.
A few repairs, some coats of paint, lots of sweat, hopefully not too many tears and I will make this house my own.
“Hello?” I jump with a start as a deep growling voice distracts me from my daydream. “Hello? Who’s there?” He calls out again, sounding impatient.
I pause before leaving the bedroom, taking stock of the empty room knowing I don’t have any weapons or really anything to defend myself with if this man means me harm. Before I leave the room I spot the curtain rod hanging above the window and I reason that it will have to do.
Slowly, I leave the bedroom, curtain rod in my hands like I’m holding a baseball bat and the game is on the line.
When I enter the small hallway I see a man standing in my dining room, looking pissed off at me.
He’s tall, his shoulders impressively wide.
His red and black plaid shirt is rolled up showing his forearms covered in tattoos.
His hair is salt and pepper and lays mussed on top of his head.
The beard covering his face is thick and full and spattered with gray hairs.
Honestly, if I weren’t so terrified right now I’d probably consider him hot in those wranglers that fit his thick thighs like a glove.
“Who are you?” I ask and I’m so proud that my voice comes out firm and unwavering. The look on his face changes from pissed to confused when he notices the curtain rod in my hands.
“Who are you?” He shoots back, trying to gain back that pissed off look.
“I live here, who the fuck are you?” I ask again, standing a little straighter, slightly lowering my impromptu baseball bat as his confused look returns.
“No you don’t, this house belongs to Blaine Garretson, he’s been my neighbor for years.” I can hear the fight fall out of his voice once he walks farther away from the dining room table and takes in how empty the living room is.
“Does it look like Blaine lives here anymore?” I ask, lowering the curtain rod even more.
“Well, it doesn’t look like you live here either,” he claps back. I swear if he were twelve he would stick his tongue out at me.
“I’m moving in dipshit,” I say, my grip reaffirming on the curtain rod. Although it is out of anger this time instead of terror. How dare this guy walk into my house and mansplain how he had a neighbor live here for the million years he’s been alive.
The confusion on his face would be satisfying if he didn’t also look distraught.
He stammers, “But, wait. I…” he pauses and looks at me again, maybe really seeing me for the first time.
“Nevermind.” He turns on his heel and marches right out of the house, not bothering to apologize, or even close the damn door.
I walk out the door and stand on the porch, watching his bulky frame walk towards the house next door.
Great. We really are next door neighbors.
Well, at least there’s a field between our houses.
Hopefully it’s my field and I can plant something tall and not be able to see him over there.
With a deep breath I shake off the encounter and start unloading my truck.
My truck, in my driveway, of my little farmhouse.
The thought brings a smile back to my face.
Let the neighbor be crazy, I’ve got a life to live.