5. The Guest House Problem
The Guest House Problem
Falon
On today’s to-do list, I completely ignored the fact that I was supposed to be refinishing the baseboards near my bedroom closet and opted for scraping paint off the old windows instead.
The paint may actually be as old as paint itself, and as I am learning, it might be easier to scrape off old tar than this paint.
Second-guessing my original plan to scrape, thinking it would be easier, has occurred to me.
I had been scraping paint for over half an hour, and I've been thinking about Bo Gates for the past twenty minutes.
Not thinking about him, exactly. More like replaying. The way he looked at the feed store. He was guarded, and maybe a little haunted. The way his voice softened when he said my name, like he was checking to see if I was real.
I scraped harder, reminding myself to keep it together.
I used to daydream about being with Bo back when we were kids, but Tyler was funny about that.
The white paint scrapes off the old glass in flakes, coating the floor and my jeans, and a few overzealous flakes land in my hair. I brush them away and keep working.
I'd been at this for an hour when my phone rang, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I glance at the screen. Mom.
I could let it go to voicemail. Maybe I could at least finish this little section first, make it look like I'd actually gotten somewhere, and not look like a renovation disaster covered in paint dust.
But it's Mom.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and answer. "Hey."
"Good morning, honey! How's the farmhouse coming along?"
"Slowly." I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear and grab the scraper again. "I'm working on the windows right now. Mrs. Anderson left a lot of half-finished projects."
"Bless her heart. She tried so hard with that place.
" Mom's voice shifts into chatty gear, the one you knew to buckle up for because it was going to be a long haul.
Mom was in gossip mode this morning. "Did I tell you Mabel's grandson is coming to visit next week?
All the way from Seattle. She's beside herself.
Apparently, David has been promoted at the pharmacy to assistant manager. Pearl must be so proud."
I scrape another section of paint. "That's great."
"And speaking of Pearl," Mom continues without missing a beat, "she's still seeing David, you know.
They've been together for months now, but apparently, things are getting a bit complicated.
Pearl said Bo feels a bit intrusive, of course, he would never say it, but Bo's been walking the block during their dinner dates at home, just circling until David leaves.
Movies on the couch aren't exactly romantic when your nephew is sitting three feet away.
" Mom tsks, and I can picture her shaking her head.
"Bo's trying to give them space, but where's the poor man going to go?
Half the town rolls up the sidewalks at eight. Can you imagine? That poor man."
My chest tightens.
Bo, walking the block in the cold. Killing time so his aunt can have privacy with her boyfriend. Trying to be considerate while also being... in the way.
"He could stay in my guest house."
The words are out before I can stop them.
There's a beat of silence on the other end.
"Really?" Mom's voice lifts with hope. "Falon, that's so sweet of you."
Wait.
Did I just say that out loud?
My heart hammers in my chest, but I force my voice to stay casual. "I mean, yeah. It's just sitting there. And it's got a bed and a shower. It's not fancy, but it's better than walking the block in April, right?"
"Oh, honey, that would be perfect. I'm sure Pearl would be so relieved. And Bo, well, I think he'd really appreciate it."
I swallow hard. "It's just common courtesy. Country manners."
"Of course." Mom's tone is warm, but I can hear the smile in it. "I'll let Pearl know. Thank you, Falon."
"Yeah. No problem."
We chat for a few more minutes about groceries and Dad's physical therapy schedule, but I'm only half-listening.
When we hang up, I stare at the paint scraper in my hand like it's going to explain what just happened.
Bo Gates.
Living thirty yards from my back door.
Using my kitchen. My coffee. My space.
I set the scraper down and look out the window at the guest house.
It's a good little building. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchenette that Mrs. Anderson's daughter probably would've loved if she'd ever gotten the chance to use it.
The cabinets are painted soft gray. The floors are refinished.
The windows let in enough light to make the whole place feel bigger than it is.
It just needs a few things.
A stove. A fridge that works. A sink that's actually hooked up to the plumbing instead of just sitting there looking decorative.
Which means Bo's going to need to use my kitchen.
For coffee. For meals. For?—
I shut that thought down fast.
It's fine. It's practical. It's temporary.
Tyler had always been funny about Bo and me, like there was some unspoken rule I didn't make but was expected to follow anyway.
And I did follow it.
For years.
But now Bo's back, and I just offered him a place to stay, and my heart won't stop pounding.
I grab the scraper and get back to work, but my hands are shaking.
An hour later, three windows down and feeling a little better about my progress, I crossed the yard to the guest house.
Frank was on his fence post watching me go, deeply focused on what I was doing; at least he wasn’t pecking the back of my heels, a habit he’s taken to when he follows me around the coop and goat pen.
Dispatch was sunning herself on the barn roof and couldn't be bothered to look up at all.
She was a princess one moment and the devil the next.
Each step echoes the thought of Bo staying so close.
I open the door and stare at the space I'd only looked at that one time when I toured the property before I bought the ranch. Back then, it had felt like potential. Now it just feels... close.
The house looks pretty much how I remember it.
Bright windows. Great color. Mostly clean. Mrs. Anderson had done great work here before her health declined.
The air inside is still and cool. Dust motes drift through the light coming in from the south-facing window.
I brought a quilt over last month, a pale blue and white one. Just a little something to cover the bed, because leaving it empty felt wrong.
I walk through slowly, taking inventory.
Bedroom: good.
Bathroom: fully functional.
Kitchenette: pretty but useless.
The sink sits there like a piece of art, farmhouse style, white porcelain, completely unhooked. There's a mini fridge in the corner that hums when it feels like it, which is never when you actually need it to. No stove. No dishwasher. No laundry setup.
Which means Bo's going to be at the main house.
A lot.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out.
Kevin: Hey! Still want to catch up? Coffee this week?
I crinkle my nose and shake my head.
The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Kevin Bennett. Nice enough guy who keeps texting like we're on the same page, even though I'm pretty sure we're not even reading the same book.
The contrast hits me hard.
I'm standing here making room in my life for Bo, imagining his jacket on the hook by the door, his boots by the bed, his coffee mug on my counter in the morning, while simultaneously trying to figure out how to gently push Kevin away.
I don't answer the text. It’s easier to just let that text be. A second later, my phone buzzes again. I knew what she wanted before I even answered.
“Hey, Milly, are we still on for Thursday?” I answered in lieu of a greeting.
“Yep, will you be home?”
“Yep, just have to stop at my parents' for a sec first thing.”
“Great, see you then.”
I shove the phone back in my pocket and lean against the counter, closing my eyes and returning my thoughts to Bo.
This is what I wanted, right? To help. To do the decent thing. Country manners. That's all this is.
I open my eyes and look around the space again.
And this time, I let myself picture it.
Bo's jacket is on the hook by the door. His boots are by the bed. His truck was parked in the drive. The light is on when I come home at night. The guest house was warm and lived-in instead of waiting and empty.
The image tickles my heart, and I hate how much I like it.
I push off the counter and head for the door.
It's fine. It's practical. It's temporary.
Bo's only here for a little while anyway.
He said so himself, he doesn't know how long he's staying.
Which means this whole thing is just a favor. Just proximity. Just me being a good neighbor and a decent human.
Nothing to worry about.
Except when I lock the door behind me and walk back toward the farmhouse, I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.
Proximity isn't neutral.
And I already know I'm in trouble.