Page 119 of Once Upon a Fall

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.

“You know what? I don’t actually know,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes.

I had purchased some fairy lights for the Sleeping Beauty room to incorporate the fairies I had somehow forgotten, but decided the room didn’t really need them, so I kept them for myself and hung them above the window.

Was it a bit childish? Dominic thought so. But this room wasn’t about what Dom thought, or what guests would want, or whether the theme matched, or if it was a good business decision. The only theme this room had was Rosie.

And Rosie as a theme is a mix of things that probably shouldn’t go together but somehow do.

Apparently, making one space mine wasn’t enough, because the day after I finished my room, I started on the garage.

There were shelves and drawers the Jacobsens had left behind, so I pulled my car out, parked it on the street, and got to work cleaning them off, labeling everything, organizing the boxes of random supplies stacked along the wall, finding space for all the cans of paint, sweeping the floor, and finally giving all my tools an actual home instead of random places around the inn.

After that, I took the box of pie tins back to Pam Vasser. Because even if she paid me a million dollars, I will not be running the festival ever again.

Okay, I absolutely would do it for a million dollars. Honestly, I’d probably do it for considerably less.

With the pie tins gone and everything finally where it belonged, I was ridiculously pleased with myself.

Now, after a full weekend of guests coming and going, I’m still surprised every time I walk into my room and take in the changes or open the garage door to see everything organized with my car parked inside, and I get this little jolt of happiness all over again.

And I also feel something else: both spaces—my not-so-perfectly-decorated room and my garage that’s still a work in progress—feel like mine now. For once, I made something just for me.

So naturally, Hal shows up the next afternoon to ask if he could put his truck back in the garage.

“Oh,” I say, after he’s done with his sob story.

It’s basically a repeat of the first one. His wife wants the truck gone, and it’s his dad’s, and he can’t seem to part with it just yet.

“It would only be for a week or two,” he says. “I promise.”

“Right,” I say, thinking about all the things I just moved around in there and all the work I put into it.

I could make room for Hal’s dad’s truck. I could move my car to the street and relocate the boxes I just stacked up against the wall to the back corner, and if I needed a tool, I might have to shimmy my way between the drawers and truck, but I could do it.

But . . . I don’t really want to.

The thought makes me feel itchy, like I shouldn’t be having it. But I just got that room nearly to what I want it to be. I only need to buy myself a workbench and a pegboard to hang things on, and it will be my dream garage.

Hal’s truck was never part of that dream.

But that feels selfish and wrong. Yes, it’s my garage, but I’m not really using it as much now that the guest rooms are done, and my car survived on the street just fine before. Hal only needs the space for a couple of weeks.

Of course, that’s what he said last time too, and one week somehow turned into three. I’m guessing it would have been even longer if Dean and I hadn’t moved the truck ourselves.

Still, I could say yes. I could move my car, shift everything around, and make it work. I’m good at making things work.