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I knew it was going to be small.
Everything about it seemed small.
And, yeah, it was.
The main living area was open-concept. Right inside the door was a petite couch across from a wall-mounted TV. There was a small dining table to the side of the galley kitchen. Again, yes, tiny. But there was a stove and a decent-sized fridge. A microwave. Coffee pot. What else could we need?
“I wasn’t expecting it to be furnished,” I said.
“Is that a problem?” Seth asked. “I could move shit out.”
“No, not a problem at all. I like your shit,” I told him. “The ad just didn’t say that.”
Actually, it was another selling point. The current unit we were living in had come furnished. Because, as Miss Patricia informed us, the previous owner had died. I tried not to wonder if he had died on the bed where my kids slept, or on the couch where I did.
I didn’t have furniture or the budget to get any. I figured, if I had to, I could try driving around to get some free curb stuff, or try the local humanitarian store.
Whatever it took, I would figure it out.
There was a half wall behind the kitchen that led into a minuscule hallway that had one closet, a bathroom, and then, finally, the bedroom.
There wasn’t much in it, just a full-sized bed and an old nightstand. But there might be just enough room for me to push the bed against the wall, and get Hazel her own, smaller, bed. They were too old to share anymore.
“Unfortunately, the closet is made even smaller by this,” Seth said, pulling open the door to reveal an apartment-sized stacked washer-dryer unit.
I could have cried at the sight of it.
No more lugging laundry.
No more avoiding creepy supers.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling the uncomfortable sloshing around at what I had to ask next, at the idea of this whole opportunity slipping through my fingers.
“What are you asking for the rent?” I asked, not sure if it was the hope or the dread that slipped into my voice as Seth slid the closet door closed.
“Five hundred,” he said with a little nod.
“Wait… what?” I asked, sure I misheard him. Because there was no way someone was renting a house—even a mini house—for only five hundred dollars. I paid more than twice that for the shitty apartment we were living in.
“Five hundred,” he repeated.
“Oh, okay. What about utilities?” I asked.
“Included.”
“I’m sorry. Is there some kind of leak in here or something?” I asked, shaking my head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating.”
To that, Seth’s smile stretched wide.
“I’m gonna level with you, honey. I don’t need the money. I just don’t want this place sitting empty. Because I’m not around as much as I’d like, so I’d rather there was someone here to keep an eye on things. I don’t need to gouge anyone on the rent.”
“But the utilities,” I insisted. “If this place was empty, you would be paying less on them.”
“Not much,” he said, shrugging.
“Water, at least. Let me pay something toward the water.”
“No.”
“The garbage. This is four extra people. We’d produce more trash.”
“Good. Then there might actually be something at the curb each week, so I don’t feel like I’m paying all that money to put a nearly empty pail out.”
“You’re being too generous with this,” I said, even as my mind was racing with all the possibilities for the money I’d be saving on rent and utilities.
New shoes for Isaac, for sure.
New wardrobes and supplies for the next school year.
Ballet and baseball.
Maybe the occasional splurge of ordering in.
Or, at the very least, decent meals that I could eat without feeling guilty for taking a share out of.
Oh, and Isaac’s birthday. I could get him that big, stupidly expensive Lego set he’d been pretending he wasn’t eyeing up at the store.
“I would be a shitty fucking person if I charged more than five hundred for a place this small,” he said, shaking his head. “I, for one, like being able to look myself in the mirror.”
And why wouldn’t he? With a face and body like that?
“You’re positive?” I asked. “You don’t want to see if someone else offers more?”
“I’m sure,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Well, okay then,” I said, my heart soaring as I placed my hand in his, feeling it squeeze tight to seal the deal. “Oh, what about, you know, first, last, and security?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I don’t have my shit together like that. I don’t even have any kind of paperwork printed out yet for you.”
“Come on. At least a security deposit. I have children,” I reasoned.
“How much damage could they actually do?” he asked. “A little spackle and a coat of paint can fix most things. And the floor is that Lifeproof shit. It’s fine.”
“At least a hundred or so to cover the possible paint and spackle?” I tried once more.
