25. Chapter 25
Rosie
The princess claimed a kingdom of her own. It was one bedroom and a garage.
I’ve heard the saying not to cry over spilled milk. My grandma used to say it to me when I was little, and I honestly never understood it. If you spill milk and it’s frustrating, then it’s totally okay to cry about it.
However, I can see that if you cried every time you spilled milk, that could get a little old.
I know this because each time I’ve opened the freezer to pull out something to eat and have seen every individually wrapped meal with Dean’s reheating instructions on it, I cry.
The first time was the worst. I ran to the freezer after he texted me and then lay on the floor crying until Dominic found me there and asked me why I was crying, and the only words I could get out were food and why, and I think he wondered if the flu had actually gone to my brain. Which was fair, really.
Embarrassingly, two days later, I’m still tearing up at the sight.
Like right now, as I blink back tears while I heat spaghetti and meatballs in the microwave. That Dean made.
Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
I miss him so much. It actually feels worse than a breakup. At least with a breakup, there would be some anger or hurt feelings. I don’t have any of that. I’m not hurt or angry that Dean left. I’m just miserable.
I hear a knock on the door, and then my dad peeks his head in.
“There you are,” he says.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, turning away to wipe the tears from my eyes. He doesn’t need to see me crying over spaghetti.
“I just wanted to check on you and see how you’re feeling,” he says.
“I’m much better,” I tell him.
I’m physically better—I can get things done without needing a nap. But mentally, I’m kind of a disaster.
I’m not telling him that part, though.
“Good to hear,” he says, coming farther into the kitchen.
The microwave beeps, and I open the door, pull out my steaming dinner, and set it on the island.
“I heard Dean left,” he says.
So that’s what it feels like to be stabbed in the gut. How fun.
I wonder who told him. Dominic, who saw me crying over frozen food? Emma, who texted me earlier to check up on me? It might have been the Ednas. I haven’t talked to either of them, but that means nothing in this town.
It could have been any of them, and honestly, it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” I say, and then blink rapidly several times. “He’s in Manhattan now.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Just when the farm sells,” I say. And then he’ll have no reason to come back to Autumn Ridge, unless the festival somehow turned him into a leaf peeper and he’s planning an annual pilgrimage.
Somehow I doubt that.
“Well, I just thought I’d check up on you,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I expect him to say goodbye, but he doesn’t. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets.
“Also, I wanted to tell you that Alvina and I broke up,” he says.
“Oh.” In my own freezer-full-of-food heartbreak, I’d forgotten all about that.
“It’s for the best,” he says.
It’s kind of strange for him to drop this on me when we never even discussed his dating her in the first place. I guess he knew I had talked to Emma and Dominic about it.
How does this work exactly? If it were Dominic or Emma, I’d tell them I was sorry and give them a hug. Unless I hated who they were dating. Then I might tell them they could do better.
Somehow none of that seems to fit my current situation.
“Do you think you might . . . want to date again?” I ask, not sure I want the answer.
He shrugs. “I think so.”
So, not a one-and-done thing. That’s . . . great.
“I know you kids don’t love it,” he says, giving me a smile tinged with something like sadness.
“It’s just weird. That’s all,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I know. It’s weird for me too. But I’m still pretty young, Rosie. I’m not sure I want to be alone.”
“You have us.”
“Yes, but you’ll all get married someday and have lives of your own.”
Bold of him to think I’ll ever find someone. My track record isn’t exactly stellar.
Maybe I should get a cat.
“You’ll have grandchildren to dote on,” I say. “Or possibly a grand-cat.”
He gives me a strange look.
“Never mind. I’m just saying you’re not alone, Dad.”
“I know I’m not,” he says. “But I’d like something that’s mine too. Someone to come home to. Is that so bad?”
I’d never really thought about what he might want beyond us. Somehow, I’d only ever thought of him as Dad.
“Of course not,” I say, giving him a soft smile.
I go to him and put my arms around him.
“You deserve all the happiness, Dad,” I say, holding onto him.
He kisses the top of my head. “So do you, Rosie.”
We say goodbye, and he turns to leave, but just before he’s out the door, he looks back.
“You got that balloon payment covered next month?”
I go still. “How do you know about that?”
He gives me a look. “I hear things.”
Of course he does. I’ve spent months trying not to tell him because I was so sure he’d worry, hover, and try to fix it for me.
Apparently, he knew anyway. And somehow managed not to do any of those things.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’ve got it covered.”
Thanks in part to a certain someone who, despite my best efforts, insisted on paying for his room. But I’m not thinking about him right now. Even if his spaghetti is getting cold on my counter.
As long as nothing breaks or springs a leak, I’ll be fine come November.
“Proud of you, Rosebud,” he says before leaving.
After I eat my spaghetti and meatballs—only tearing up once, which I’m calling progress—I get to work on cleaning some things up around the inn, getting stuff ready for the guests coming this weekend.
My dad’s words keep coming back to me while I fold towels, putting the big fluffy white towels in one pile and the ugly brown ones in another.
Something that’s mine.
I want something that’s mine, too. And if I’m being honest with myself, that something is Dean. But I’ve already done the math on that. I know it doesn’t work.
And unlike my fantasies, he never said I want to leave my career and move to Autumn Ridge and work at the inn with you, my beautiful goddess, Rosie.
Of course, Dean would never say any of that. He also wouldn’t say it in the British accent I gave him in my head.
I have the inn, though, and that’s mine. The best part is that it’s hardly ever lonely here anymore, not with guests coming and going, and I’m proud of what I’ve done with the place. The reviews that have been coming in seem to agree.
But when I carry the ugly brown towels into my room, my eyes land on the Live, Laugh, Love sign hanging over the couch.
I hate that sign. No, that’s mean. It’s a perfectly good saying. We should all live, laugh, and love a little more. But why is it still hanging in my room? This space is supposed to be mine, and yet it still has the Jacobsens all over it.
I set the towels down on the desk, then climb onto the couch, balancing on the cushions as I pull the sign off the wall.
“Goodbye, live, laugh, love,” I say to the frame.
Then I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my overalls, snap a picture, and send it to Dean.
Me: Look what I took down.
It doesn’t take long before he responds.
Dean: Good.
Me: Do you want it? I’ll save it for you.
I send a laughing emoji.
Dean: No.
We’ve been texting a bit here and there. It didn’t take me long to learn that Dean is a bit of a dry texter. Which wasn’t all that surprising, to be honest.
I set the frame on the desk, but now there’s a perfect rectangle where it used to hang, making the taupe paint I’ve never been a fan of look even worse.
I could find another picture to cover it. That would be an easy fix.
Or, I could paint over it. I’ve got plenty of leftover paint in the garage. This wall would look lovely in Fairest of Them All. Or plain old white, according to Dean.
I stare at the rectangle, then toward the garage, and, without overthinking it too much, I go grab the supplies.
Two days later, and that Live, Laugh, Love sign has had a massive snowball effect.
I started with only the one wall—painting the whole thing from top to bottom. But then that wall turned into more walls, and then sometime around two in the morning, I ran out of paint. I considered using the other colors. Maybe my room would be a hodgepodge of all the different room colors.
But that’s not what I wanted. So that night, I slept in the Snow White room because of the paint fumes, with a plan to go get more in the morning.
Did I choose that particular room because that was the last place Dean slept before he left and I wanted to feel close to him, like a weirdo? Of course not. But also, maybe a little.
The next morning, I went to Berk’s Hardware to get more paint so I could do the entire room. It was money I hadn’t budgeted for. But, for some reason, I was okay with it. And when I was done painting, I knew why. It was so much better. The room was brighter and felt somehow bigger.
But I didn’t stop with the paint.
That evening I went to my dad’s house—the house I grew up in and moved out of only six months ago—and borrowed a few things. And by borrowed, I mean took. I will not be returning them.
They were things out of my old bedroom. Books, trinkets, some frames.
The only thing I took that could be a little iffy if my dad found out was a vintage patchwork quilt my grandma made in muted pinks, creams, greens, and faded blues.
I filed it under an ask-for-forgiveness-rather-than-permission kind of thing.
The quilt was for my bed, and it was perfect. I put the trinkets and books on the bookcase and made a spot in the center of the top shelf for the fairy-tale book that had belonged to my mom.
Then I made a collage of pictures I love on the wall. Some of me with my family. A couple of just my mom. A few from places I’ve traveled.
Then, because the furniture setup felt wrong, I made Dominic come over and help me feng shui it.
“What does feng shui even mean?” he asked me as we turned the bed so the light from the window would hit it, then switched the couch and desk, putting the couch where the desk used to be and moving the desk to the end of my bed, right by the window.