Chapter 18
Scarlett
I watch Grumpy walk towards his house. Henrietta looks up at him like a dog who loves its owner and he looks down at her with nearly equal adoration.
It hits me that he was significantly less grumpy this time.
That will certainly ruin his nickname if he gives up being his crochety demeanor.
Something about this interaction left me feeling off kilter.
Maybe it was just the pajama pants throwing me off.
My phone rings with a facetime call and it’s Lydia. “Hey girlie,” I say when I answer the phone.
“Hey, did you hear about the big storm coming next weekend?”
Something about my former identity feels offended.
It wasn’t that long ago that I knew all the news, all the time.
I was the first one in the group to hear about any type of news.
Whether it was scandals, government officials being replaced, or even the weather.
I try to shake off the immediate reaction to feel defensive about not knowing and realize that I’m not paid to know those things anymore.
And that was part of the point of leaving.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. Her face on the screen shows a little grimace and then she swivels her phone around so that I can see her computer screen.
“They’re saying it’s going to hit Valentine with a major amount of snow. They’re saying that if it starts by Saturday it could be feet of snow. Feet Scarlett.”
Now snowfall in Colorado is not new, but Denver doesn’t typically get feet of snow at a time. Lydia, Kenzie and I have lived in Denver for so long that we aren’t used to snow like that but I’m not worried.
“Lydia,” I chuckle, “I appreciate the heads up, I’m sure I’ll be fine. At least the nice thing about my new gig here is, no commute!”
She contemplates this and concedes, “Yeah, I guess that’s true. But be careful okay?”
“I’ll be fine, I’ll be just like you. At home, still able to work and nice and toasty inside.” I give her a broad smile so she knows I’ll be fine.
“Alright, well if you need anything just let me know.” It’s the usual way she ends our phone calls. I don’t point out that by the time I need something, I’ll be buried in snow and she’ll be two hours away.
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you girlie,” Lydia says and she waves at the phone screen before hanging up.
I close my eyes and point my face up towards the clear blue sky.
The sun warms my skin and while it’s far from being warm outside, it’s hard to feel like a big scary snow storm is pending.
Besides, next weekend is a long time away.
Plenty of time for it to change their prediction. I’ve been there before.
Back inside the house I marvel at the fact that the more time that passes the more this little cottage feels like home.
I spent all day yesterday figuring out how to put together the book shelves and the comfy chair I ordered.
Somehow, the chair is even more comfortable than it looked in the picture.
I spent last night curled up under a blanket with a book in my lap.
Hours passed before I even realized. I can’t even begin to explain how healing it is to just sit and not need to be productive.
Between being able to rest and not knowing about the storm I feel a confliction inside me.
There’s still this slight pull to be that journalist. The one who knew it all and knew it first. That fiercely competitive reporter that took news reporting and claimed it as a sport.
But there’s another small part of me that’s proud of the steps I’m taking.
The peace I’m claiming. Taking charge of my life for what feels like the first time.
You would think that a high powered journalist would always be taking charge.
And in a way, I was. I would easily take charge of the office, of the questioning rooms, of interviews.
But I never felt in charge of my life. Every day I would set out to make that day different.
I would vow to leave the office by five.
Or turn my phone off when I go to sleep.
Set boundaries. And every day I would let the job control me.
I would put it first. Let it bulldoze me into thinking that what I needed wasn’t nearly as important as the job.
And now? Now, I read for pleasure. I ignore the news and the awful things that are inside it that I can’t control. I sleep. Every night. Uninterrupted. No midnight phone calls. No leaving the house at two in the morning when an unexpected story breaks. And it’s amazing.
But, if I’m honest with myself, the house feels quiet. Too still. Maybe I need to get a dog. Or a cat? Cats are supposed to be good on farms right? Maybe, I need to take a field trip to the humane society.
Until then, I’ll crank some music while I do some chores around the house.
Taylor Swift kicks off the playlist in my ear buds and immediately I’m in an even better mood.
I sing along as I pick up around the house, wash dishes and do some laundry.
Then I take the time to make some content.
Thankfully, I haven’t lost many followers and my paychecks have been pretty much the same since I left Denver.
As I wash dishes I find my gaze seeking out the house next door.
I don’t know what it is about that man that seems to get under my skin.
Maybe it’s the way we met, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not used to the farm boy mentality.
When he came over to help when Pedro escaped, I freaked out.
I let that defensive little voice in my head surface and tell him, I didn’t need him.
Now, let’s say that a similar scenario would have happened in Denver.
Say, I’m on the side of the road fixing a flat tire.
I am more than capable of fixing a flat tire because the one thing my dad did was make it so I never needed a man.
But, if a man were to stop and ask me if I needed help I would say no.
I’m good, I’ve got it. All with a smile on my face.
He would have taken a step closer and said something like, “Oh, but you don’t want to mess up your pretty clothes.
” I would have protested some more, with a smile still.
Another step closer and maybe he touches my face, my hair, my body somewhere.
“I’m sure you are capable, sweetheart, but let a man help you out.
” And then I would have had to hold back my vomit while I knee him in the nuts and become forceful enough for him to understand something I had already said twice, politely.
I’m not knocking Denver, I love it there.
But I’m finding that big city men are different from small town men.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, no pun intended, to tell Jake that I didn’t need his help.
But his reaction to that surprised me. I was tense and prepared for him to step closer but he never did.
He didn’t invade my space. He didn’t call me sweetheart.
He nodded his head solemnly and left. Just like that.
I’m not exactly used to a man hearing me on the first try.
When he first came over to get Henrietta his face was different.
Softer. More hesitant. It made me wonder if the last few times we’ve interacted, I haven’t been the grumpier one.
I glance back over at the neighbor and see an SUV pull into the driveway.
I should absolutely look away, I know this.
But instead, I find myself inching closer to the window so that I can see clearer.
The driver door opens and a beautiful woman about my height and build steps out.
Her hair is up in a claw clip and she’s wearing pale pink scrubs with strawberries all over them.
Is this the wife? Girlfriend? Friends with benefits?
I finagle my body over my kitchen sink to get an even closer look and when another body steps out of the SUV I lose track of where my head is in relation to the window and my forehead collides with the glass.
It makes a nice little thwack sound and I hit the deck like someone just yelled the word grenade.
My skin flushes with embarrassment and I pray that the house is far enough away that no one heard that.
Inching up from the ground, I peek over the window to see Cami run over to the beautiful woman and give her a hug.
They wave goodbye and I have the weirdest sense of relief when I realize it’s just his sister. What is wrong with me?