Chapter Seven
Kelly
"You're having a what?"
Nicole's voice comes through the phone loud enough that I have to pull it away from my ear. I'm sitting on the porch with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, watching the sun go down behind the trees. It's cold but I don't care. I've been inside all day and I needed air.
"A Galentine's Day party," I say. "You know, like the show. Leslie Knope. Waffles and friendship."
"I know what Galentine's Day is. I'm just surprised you're hosting one. You hate hosting things."
"I don't hate hosting things."
"Kelly. You once hid in your bathroom for twenty minutes during your own birthday party."
"That was different. There were too many people and someone brought a plus-one I didn't know." I pull the blanket tighter. "This is small. Just you, Mona, and Brit. Four people total. I can handle four people."
"In your dead grandmother's house in the middle of nowhere Virginia."
"It's not the middle of nowhere. There's a grocery store."
"One grocery store?"
"There's also a hardware store. And a gas station that sells really good fried chicken."
"Oh well, a gas station with good fried chicken. My mistake. Clearly you're living in a thriving metropolis."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate. But fine, I'll allow it. What's the house like? Is it creepy? Old houses are always creepy."
I look over my shoulder at the back door.
The kitchen light is on, warm and yellow.
"It's not creepy. It's just... old. Full of her stuff.
I keep finding things in drawers and closets, little pieces of her life I didn't know about.
Last week I found a shoebox full of letters my grandfather wrote her during the Korean War.
I sat on the floor and read them for three hours. "
"Kelly." Her voice goes soft.
"I'm fine. It was actually nice, in a sad way. Like getting to know them again." I watch a bird settle on the porch railing, puff its feathers against the cold. "The house is good. I think I'm good. I just miss people sometimes. Hence the party."
"Hence." She snorts. "Listen to you, using fancy words. Virginia is making you fancy."
"Virginia is making me talk to myself because there's no one else to talk to."
"What about cottage man? Doesn't he count as someone?"
I hesitate a beat too long.
"Oh my god." Nicole's voice sharpens. "Kelly. What was that pause?"
"What pause?"
"That pause! That very obvious pause when I mentioned the man who lives in your backyard!"
"There was no pause."
"There was absolutely a pause. I've known you for twelve years. I know what your pauses mean." She gasps. "Oh my god. You like him."
"I don't—"
"You do! You like cottage man! This is the best day of my life."
"It's really not that serious."
"It's extremely serious. You haven't liked anyone since David, and David was boring. Tell me about cottage man. Tell me everything. Is he hot?"
I glance toward the cottage without meaning to.
Travis's truck is there, but I haven't seen him since this morning when he came by for coffee.
We sat at the kitchen table for an hour, talking about nothing, and then he said he had some things to take care of and left.
I've been thinking about it all day. The way he looked at me when he walked in, like he was relieved I was real.
The way his hand brushed mine when I passed him the sugar.
"The cottage man is fine," I say carefully.
"Fine? That's all I get? Fine?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me if he's hot. I want details. Height, build, face situation. I need to form a mental picture."
"He's tall. Like, really tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair that's always a little too long. He has this face that doesn't give much away, but when he almost smiles it's..." I trail off.
"It's what?"
"I don't know. It's something."
She's quiet for a second. "You've got it bad."
"I don't have anything."
"Babe. You just described his almost-smile. You have it so bad."
"February thirteenth. You'd drive down the day before, stay the night, we'd do the whole thing on the thirteenth, and then you could leave on Valentine's Day or stay another night if you want."
"And what exactly are we doing at this Galentine's party?"
"I don't know. Drinking wine. Eating food. Talking about our lives. The usual."
"That's every time we hang out."
"Yes, but this time there will be themed decorations."
She laughs, and something in my chest loosens. I've missed this. I've missed her. New York feels like a lifetime ago, and it's only been a few weeks.
"I'm in," she says. "I'll text Mona and Brit. They're going to lose their minds that you're hosting something voluntarily."
"It's not that big a deal."
"It's a huge deal. You're evolving. Growing. Becoming a person who has people over to her house."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm absolutely going to make it weird. That's my job as your best friend." She pauses. "How are you, though? Really. How's the book? How's the house? How's the mysterious cottage man?"
I glance toward the cottage without meaning to.
Travis's truck is there, but I haven't seen him since this morning when he came by for coffee.
We sat at the kitchen table for an hour, talking about nothing, and then he said he had some things to take care of and left.
I've been thinking about it all day. The way he looked at me when he walked in, like he was relieved I was real.
The way his hand brushed mine when I passed him the sugar.
"The cottage man is fine," I say carefully.
"Fine? That's all I get? Fine?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me if he's hot. I want you to tell me if you have a crush on him. I want you to tell me literally anything interesting, because I've been stuck in this office for nine hours and I need to live vicariously through someone."
I hesitate. Nicole has been my best friend since freshman year of college. She was my roommate, my maid of honor at the wedding that never happened, the person who helped me pack up my apartment when I decided to leave New York. If I can't tell her the truth, who can I tell?
"Babe. You just described his almost-smile. You have it so bad."
I don't have a response to that. She's not wrong.
"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks.
"Nothing. I'm going to do nothing. I came here to write a book and figure out my life, not to fall for some random guy my grandmother took in."
"Sometimes life has other plans."
"Well, life can shut up."
She laughs. "Okay. So this party. February thirteenth?"
"Yeah. You'd drive down the day before, stay the night, we'd do the whole thing on the thirteenth, and then you could leave on Valentine's Day or stay another night if you want."
"I'm in. I'll text Mona and Brit." She pauses. "But Kelly—if something does happen with cottage man, I expect a full report. In detail."
"Goodbye, Nicole."
"Love you!"
"Love you too."
I hang up and sit there for a while, watching the last of the light fade from the sky. The cottage windows are glowing now, warm yellow against the blue dusk. I wonder what he's doing in there. If he's thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him.
This is probably a bad idea. I know it's probably a bad idea. But I can't seem to make myself care.
The next morning, I'm making a list.
Food for the party. Decorations. Wine—lots of wine. Extra blankets in case anyone gets cold. I need to clean the guest rooms, figure out the sleeping situation, make sure there's enough hot water for four people to shower.
I'm standing at the kitchen counter with a notepad when Travis knocks on the back door.
"It's open," I call.
He lets himself in, bringing cold air and that clean soap smell I'm starting to associate with him. He's wearing a flannel today, green and black, and his hair is still damp from whatever he does in the mornings.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning. Coffee's in the pot."
He pours himself a cup and leans against the counter, watching me write. "What's that?"
"Party planning." I tap my pen against the notepad. "I'm having some friends over next week. Galentine's Day."
"Galentine's?"
"It's like Valentine's Day, but for friends. From Parks and Recreation?" He looks blank. "It's a TV show. Never mind. The point is, I'm having people over on the thirteenth. Three friends from New York. They're staying the night."
He nods slowly, processing. "You want me to clear out?"
"What? No." The answer comes out faster than I intended. "Why would I want that?"
"I don't know. You've got guests coming. Might be easier if you don't have to explain the random guy living in the backyard."
"You're not random. You're Travis." I set down my pen. "And I'm not going to kick you out of your own home just because I have friends visiting."
"It's not my home. It's your property."
"It's your home as long as you're living in it." I hold his gaze. "You don't have to make yourself scarce. You can do whatever you normally do. If you see us, say hi. If you don't, that's fine too. No pressure either way."
He's quiet for a moment, looking at me with that expression I can't quite read. Then he nods.
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Your friends know about me?"
I think about my conversation with Nicole. The way I described him. The list I made without meaning to.
"They know there's someone living in the cottage," I say. "I haven't gone into detail."
"Probably smart."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, but there's something underneath it, something I can't identify. "Just that you don't know much about me. Might be hard to explain someone you don't really know."
I want to argue. I want to say I do know him, that I know the way he takes his coffee and the way his face changes when he's thinking hard and the way he looks at me sometimes like he's afraid I'm going to disappear. But that feels like too much to say out loud, so I just shake my head.
"I know enough."
He doesn't answer. Just takes a sip of his coffee and looks out the window at the gray morning sky.
"You need help setting up?" he asks. "For the party. Moving furniture, putting up decorations, whatever."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to." He looks back at me. "I'm offering."
Something warm spreads through my chest. "Yeah. Okay. That would be great, actually. I'm useless with a hammer."
"I've noticed."
"Hey."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. I'm collecting them now, these almost-smiles, keeping a tally in my head.
"I'll come by the morning of," he says. "Help you get everything ready."
"Thank you."
He nods and sets down his empty mug. "I should go. Let you get back to your list."
"Travis." He stops at the door, hand on the frame. "I mean it. You don't have to hide while they're here. You're allowed to exist."
He's quiet for a second. Then he says, "I'll think about it."
The door closes behind him, and I watch him walk across the yard to the cottage. There's something about the way he moves, the set of his shoulders, that looks heavier than usual. Like he's carrying something I can't see.
I want to know what it is. I want to ask. But I told him I wouldn't push, and I meant it.
So I go back to my list instead, and I try not to think about the way he said I'll think about it, like existing was something he had to decide whether he deserved.
The next few days pass in a blur of cleaning and planning and trying not to overdo it. I scrub bathrooms that haven't been touched in months, wash sheets that smell like lavender and old closets, stock the fridge with more food than four people could possibly eat.
Travis comes by twice. Once to check on a funny sound the heater was making, which turned out to be nothing. Once to bring me firewood, a whole stack of it, because he noticed I was running low.
"You didn't have to do that," I said, watching him carry armfuls of split logs to the pile by the fireplace.
"I know."
"Is that going to be your answer to everything? 'I know'?"
He set down the last load and straightened up, brushing bark dust off his hands. "Probably."
I laughed, and he looked at me with that expression he gets sometimes—like he's filing something away, saving it for later.
"Your friends get here tomorrow?" he asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon. Nicole's driving down with Mona, and Brit's coming from DC."
He nodded. "Let me know if you need anything moved or set up."
"I will."
He left, and I stood there in my living room surrounded by firewood and clean sheets and the strange feeling that I was preparing for something bigger than a party.
Nicole texts me that night: We're leaving at 9. Should be there by 3 or 4 depending on traffic.
Can't wait, I type back. Drive safe.
Always do. Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be fun.
I put down my phone and look around the house. Everything is ready. The guest rooms are clean, the food is prepped, the wine is chilling. There's nothing left to do but wait.
Through the window, I can see the cottage. The lights are on. Travis is in there, probably reading or watching TV or doing whatever he does in the evenings. I think about walking over, knocking on his door, asking if he wants company.
But I don't. Because if I go over there tonight, I don't know what I'll say or do, and I'm not ready to find out.