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We get off the phone, and I watch as Boyd gives me another wave then turns to walk back inside.
I take that as my cue to get my butt in motion, spinning on my heels and darting inside the little bungalow I’m calling home for the next week and a half.
I didn’t take a good look around the place when Linda first dropped me at the front door like a sack of potatoes, happy to be rid of me.
“No parties,” she snipped before hustling back to the behemoth of a home she, Ken, and their two boys live in.
I wondered if the best thing I could do for myself was to head straight back to the airport and catch the next cheap flight back to Boston.
Now, feeling a lot more encouraged about the direction this trip could possibly be headed, I’m looking at my little abode with fresh eyes. It’s an absolutely adorable place I would love to book on a vacation with my mom, if there were ever a chance to do such a thing.
It’s three rooms. A kitchen, a living room, and a bedroom with white shiplap from head to toe. The floors are a soft cream carpet that feels amazing beneath my feet, and there’s a beautiful white tile in the kitchen and bathroom.
It’s filled with romantic touches, like an antique chandelier in the living room, barn doors to close off the bedroom, and an old-fashioned clawfoot tub in the bath.
The deck outside has a handful of Adirondack chairs and a little shed off to the side with towels and sunscreen, as well as blow-up floaties and rafts. And then of course there’s the absolutely breathtaking view of the lake only a few feet away.
In a few words, it’s an ideal place to spend the next twelve days, though I can’t honestly say it’s just because of the sweetness of this little lakeside guesthouse.
The fact that Boyd is so close has my heart fluttering around like a damn butterfly, even though I know catching feelings on a short trip to the west coast is a bad idea.
But he lives in Boston, my mind whispers at me.
Shooing away those thoughts, I make a beeline for the bathroom, hoping to clean myself up a bit more than I did before boarding the plane this morning.
Apparently, some people do their hair and makeup and wear nice clothes on flights, but I can say I am staunchly opposed to such a concept. Every road trip I’ve ever been on has been firmly in the camp of makeup-free face and comfy yoga pants.
However, when I go out on dates, I like to glam it up a little. Just a smidge. I don’t want to look like I have cake on my face, but I do want to feel beautiful, and a hint of makeup goes a long way.
I shower quickly, making a mental note to stand under the rainfall showerhead longer next time, and then I add some leave-in conditioner to my hair to make it extra soft.
As my hair dries wrapped up in a towel on my head, I apply a little bit of this and that to my face. Lotion. A few dabs of concealer to help with the bags from the long flight. A light layer of foundation to minimize redness. And a smidge of mascara to open up my eyes a bit more.
I don’t even know what half the things are that people talk about when it comes to doing makeup. Baking. Contouring. Highlighting. I tried getting into it when I was in high school, but I just never had the money for the fancy shit like my friends had. Then, once I was older and had a full-time job, I realized I didn’t want to spend the time it takes to put on a ‘full face,’ as Fiona calls it.
So my ‘signature look’ usually makes people think I don’t wear makeup but keeps me feeling fresh and beautiful.
When my phone rings, I prance over to where it’s plugged in, excited to talk to Boyd.
But my mood sours just a little when I see it’s not my very handsome neighbor.
It’s my mom.
And then I feel even worse for not wanting to talk to her. She’s my best friend, and that’s not just lip service.
Michelle Roberts is without a doubt the most amazing person I know, working her ass off my whole life to make sure we kept a roof over our head.
She never relied on a man to take care of us. It meant a harder life for us—for her, more specifically—but it also meant we didn’t have to deal with some of the abuse and neglect and substance issues you hear about from so many people in poverty who cling to the first man who claims he can save you.
Knowing she’s on the other end of the line and probably just wants to make sure I got here okay, I shake out my hands and answer the call.
“Hey, mama!” I say, giving her my best and brightest.
“My baby,” she says, dragging out the long A sound. “I’m assuming you made it safely since I’m not seeing anything about plane crashes on the news.”
I groan. “Don’t say things like that. That’s terrifying.”
She cackles. “You know I’m just kidding. How was the flight? You didn’t sit next to anyone smelly, did you?”
