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Seeing where I was looking, King told me thatthe cleanersfound my keys on Lee’s––or as he saidLeland’s––counter and drove it over.
King practically spit the man’s name out, so I didn’t ask questions.
Of course, I didn’t get my keys back. King had them, using them to open my front door moments ago, before pocketing them again.
Standing here, in the living room of my small house, I wonder how it’s only been two days since I’ve been here, when it feels like forever.
When I last left home, I was wearing this same exact outfit, on my way to have my third date with Lee. A date that I’d pretty much decided would be our last, without realizing just how true that last part would become.
“The moving crew will do all the packing, I just need you to decide what comes to the house, what goes.”
I slowly turn to look at King, but he’s already busied himself looking around the place.
His words shouldn’t come as a shock to me, but I hadn’t really thought it through when he said we were meeting the movers here. I mean, yeah, when I think about it, obviously Mr. Controlling wasn’t just going to let me keep my house. I knew that. But still…
“What?” King’s looking at me now.
I widen my eyes at him, “You do realize this is kind of a big deal?”
He arches a brow, “Honey, this house sucks.”
My jaw drops. “It does not!”
“Uh,” he gestures around, “yeah, it does. And you know it.”
I stomp my foot. The tantrum not lost on either of us.
“Savannah,” he sighs, “you didn’t live here.” Before I can argue that––yes, this is my house and I definitely lived here––he crosses the room and grips my elbow, dragging me out of the main living area down the tiny hall, past the one bathroom, into my bedroom. “Show me where you are?”
“What are you talking about? This ismy house! I’ve lived here for…” it takes me a moment to remember.
“Nine years,” he finishes for me. “And there’s not a single one of your paintings on the walls.”
The statement stuns me. “Well, no. But…”
“You never even painted the walls.”
I look at the somewhat dingy white surfaces. “How would you…”
He walks over to my non-walk-in closet and yanks the door open. “Wow, shocker, you never even updated the storage.” The original single bar below the long shelf proves him right. “The only proof you’ve ever stepped foot in here are the smudges.”
I press my lips together, and I give up on my protest. I know what smudges he’s talking about. The small smears of paint near door handles. On door frames. Places I might have touched or leaned on when I came home from the small space I rented as a studio. The place I’ve really lived at for the past nine years. More really, since I found that place while I was still in college.
And I hate to admit it, but he’s right.
King is right about all of it.
This house has been mine for nearly a decade, but the sadness I feel over losing it is entirely for me, for my lack of connection to it.
These walls deserve better than what I gave them.
“What will you do with it?” I ask, not allowing this sadness to convert into tears.
King lifts a shoulder. “Sell it. The bones are fine. It’ll be a fun flip for someone, but I’m not interested in that small of a return on investment a place like this would net.”
“Spoken like a true finance bro.”
King chuckles, “I could tear it down, build a three-story home, sell it for six figures and fuck with the neighborhood housing costs, if that’s more to your liking.”
