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“Nothing too girly,” I say, following behind, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
Half an hour later, I realize that Cara and I have very different definitions of minimalism. Her cart is overflowing with bath mats, kitchen towels, dishes, pots, pans, scented candles, and some other stuff I can’t make out.
“Let’s hit a furniture store next. We can circle back for bedding and throw pillows and stuff once we have the key furniture pieces in place.”
I follow Cara to a furniture store. The amount of sofas and beds is overwhelming.
“Your place is about the same size as Fiona’s?” she asks.
“It is. Similar layout too.” I have no idea how she knows I’m staying in the same building.
“Thought so. Your landlord called the office to verify employment. This three-piece set should be perfect.” She walks to a small gray couch and two olive green chairs that look like an updated take on something from the fifties.
“I like it.” Until I learn that the pieces have a four-month delivery time.
“Let me guess? You don’t have that kind of time?” Cara asks when she sees the expression on my face.
“It’s a pretty standard wait time these days,” the store associate says.
“I’m starting to think I should have rented something furnished.” I head back to the car, resigning myself to the fact that I’ll be sleeping on a thin futon mattress if I want a bed tonight.
“Don’t give up. I have an idea. Follow me.” Cara drives us to the first of several thrift stores and I have to give it to the woman. She has an eye for putting things together. At least, I think she does.
“I can’t believe you talked them into delivering the couches and bookshelves.” The rest of our purchases are crammed Tetris-style into our vehicles, her minivan holding the majority of it.
“Let’s see about a new mattress, and then the only thing left is bedding.” Cara pulls out her phone and makes a call.
Then minutes and three-hundred dollars later, I’m the proud owner of a new queen-sized mattress to be delivered within the hour.
“You have some mad skills,” I say when we pull back into the parking lot of my new place. I’m thoroughly impressed.
“Oh, that was the easy part. We still have to get everything up to your place.” She opens the sliding door of her van, and I’m not sure how all of this stuff is supposed to fit into my place.
“Hold on a second.” I approach two teenage boys who are leaving the building. Twenty bucks and an hour later, everything is in my place, including the newly delivered mattress.
“It’s starting to come together.” Cara stands in the middle of my place, putting a few more of the mystery items on the books shelves I’ve moved from one wall to the other until she was happy with their placement.
“It is. It’s looking like a home.” I can’t believe the transformation. A large modern rug under the couch and chairs, similar to what I liked in the furniture store and showing little to no signs of wear, goes a long way to warming the room up. I doubt I’ll sound like I’m in a warehouse or airport when I make a call.
“Let’s go get you some linens and some food before it gets too late. You’ve got to be hungry—”
“I ordered food, and I’m pretty sure I can handle bedding. You’ve done enough. More than enough.” Right on cue, the doorbell rings, and the food is delivered.
“You’re welcome. And you didn’t have to do this.” Cara watches me spread out the containers across the counter. I over-ordered, but I have no idea what she likes and I owe her big time.
“Yes, I did. It’s the least I can do.” I look around, stunned by the transformation.
“I’ll grab a few things for your walls and a couple of throw pillows later this week.” She fills her plate, and we spend a pleasant evening having dinner. We talk about movies, books, and places we’ve traveled. It’s nice.
By the time we say goodnight, I realize that’s all it is. Nice. But Cara isn’t Fiona, and neither are any of the other women I’ve dated on and off over the years. None of them have held my interest for more than a few weeks. Because like it or not, there’s only one woman I can see myself spending the rest of my life with.
11
FIONA
“Are you sure you have nothing better to do?” my sister asks, handing me another stack of envelopes.
“Nothing I’d rather be doing.” I carefully copy the next address on the thick ivory envelope.
