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"Not much," I admitted, wanting to sugar-coat it, but knowing it wasn't fair to her. "I am going to do some digging after we get some of your stuff. Are you almost done?"
"Yeah, I always save that hellbeast for last. I just need to put the boarding animals away."
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling down a private dirt road that must have been hell in the ice and snow all winter. Which was likely why she spent so much time holed up at her friend's places instead of her own.
"This is a big piece of land," Nixon said, looking at the low, mostly cleared lot that was lined by a crumbling post-and-rail fence. "Is there even a house here, or just that shed?"
"That shed is my house," Savea supplied, not seeming the least bit offended because, well, it did look like a shed.
There was a short, rectangular building that sprouted up to a single gable, with a peeling roof. The siding, at one time, had likely been white, but had taken on a hue of green. There was a front porch with crumbling brick and an overhang, the perfect place to sit and watch a storm or relax after work. Or it would be. With some work. Okay, with a lot of work.
"This is my grandfather's little farm. It fell into disrepair while he was still around. And then I took it over and, well, there is never enough time to work on it. But I want to someday. Restore it. Make it, you know, habitable again," she said with a smile before my hand closed around her wrist, pulling her back into her seat when she tried to get out.
"Let me go in and look around first," I told her, giving her wrist a soft squeeze. "Stay here with Nixon."
The front porch crunched underfoot. The front door squealed as it opened. The lock took jiggling to disengage with Savvy's keys. The floorboards inside were nice, wide, in need of a finish, but charming with their thick nail heads, their scratches and dents speaking to generations of use.
The roof was leaking, evidenced by the pots and buckets situated here and there. The walls needed skimming and painting. The majority of the furniture looked like it came with the house - old, worn, but clean.
There were touches of Savea around, though.
Shoes by the door, a pink hoodie laying over the arm of the couch, a paw print neon umbrella in a stand, a collection of different print-out mock-ups for flyers she was clearly trying to work on for the store.
The kitchen was small and dark, the cabinets without any character, the countertops tiled, the grout in between chipped thanks to endless scrubbings, the linoleum floor so old that there was no longer any original color left to them.
Beyond the kitchen was a hall with a bathroom that was straight out of the fifties with a lime green tub, sink, and matching toilet.
Beyond the bathroom was the last place in the house, Savea's bedroom. The same floor, walls, a metal twin-sized bed covered in girly pink blankets. The sliding closet door had fallen off its track, was sitting propped up against the wall, displaying all its contents.
As a whole, Savea was a jeans or leggings girl with some sort of oversized shirt on top. Because it was practical with work. But her closet boasted dozens of dresses for every possible occasion, high heels, different purses.
I had a sudden, strong, desperate need to see her in one of the dresses. Preferable the slinky black one that looked like it would just barely cover her ass.
Shaking my head, I moved back through the house, waving them in, feeling a bit like a creep for snooping even if she had done some snooping at my place as well.
"Is that really necessary?" she asked a few minutes later as I reached for the oversized black suitcase on the top shelf of her closet.
"This way you can pack anything into it. Your electronics, books, anything. Your days are gonna be a bit long without going into work," I added.
"I will have Padfoot to keep me company," she declared. "And I have like... over a decade of TV I could catch up on. Where did Nixon go?"
"Emptying out your buckets. I think we have more rain coming in tonight. This way we can save the floors."
"You guys have been too good," she decided, shaking her head as if she didn't think she was worth all the trouble. "I will make it up to you somehow. And I'll cook. And make your favorite dessert. What is it?" she asked, frowning, like it bothered her that she didn't already know he answer to that.
"Brownies. Fudgy."
"Fudgy brownies. Got it. Consider it done. And I'll take the couch."
"No."
"Then we will take turns with the bed."
