Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I fold the blanket and stuff it into the duffel, then stare at the bag for a second. It’s not much. A little pile of survival, nothing more.
“People go camping for fun,” I remind myself. “They pay money to sleep in cars and tents. You’re just… glamping without the glam.”
The joke falls flat even in my own head.
I zip the bag and set it by the door with my purse and keys. Then, because my mother’s voice is always in my head this time of day, I force myself to make a sandwich. Two slices of bread, a smear of mustard, some turkey that’s one day from the use by date. I eat it standing at the counter, my mind going back to the electric bill notice like I can will the numbers smaller.
Four hundred thirty-eight. Seventeen hundred fourteen coming in. Minus booking fees. Minus gas. Minus taxes. Minus everything else.
I punch the numbers into my phone calculator, fingers trembling. If I put the entire cabin payout toward the past-due electric and the taxes, I’ll still have a couple hundred left for gas and bare-bones groceries. Not great, but not disastrous.
The credit card debt will have to wait. Again. The collection agency will call. Again. I’ll answer and tell them I can send twenty-five dollars this month instead of fifty, and the guy on the other end will sigh and remind me that my balance is still X and the interest is still Y.
I swallow the last bite of sandwich and chase it with lukewarm tap water.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m not being sued right this second. No one is banging on my door. The lights are still on.
For now.
The thought makes my chest flutter.
I scrub my plate and leave it in the rack to dry, then go around the cabin lowering the thermostat a few degrees. No sense heating the place all the way up when I won’t be sleeping here tonight. I set it to a temperature that’s “comfortable for guests” in theory and “please don’t run my bill up” in practice.
In the bedroom, I check the nightstand drawers—empty except for the Bible someone left behind a few months ago, a couple of pens, and an extra phone charger. I straighten the lamp and fluff the pillows one last time.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Brocato,” I say to the empty room. “Please don’t notice that your host is one missed payment away from darkness.”
I get the rag off the bathroom sink where it has begun to dry out. In the kitchen I hand dry the plate from my sandwich and put it away. On my way back through the living room, I grab the county tax notice and the disconnect slip off the little table and shove them into the junk drawer under an old phone book. I’ll deal with them after the payout for this guest hits my account. After they leave. After I’ve slept, maybe, in a real bed that’s not on four wheels. Yes, then I’ll face the mess that is my life.
I slip my arms into my coat, pull on my hat and gloves, and shoulder my duffel.
Before I step out, I pause at the door and look back.
The cabin looks exactly like it does in the photos now. Cozy. Inviting. A place you might book if you wanted to forget your real life for a while.
I close the door quietly behind me and lock it using the door code, the deadbolt engages with the press of the pound key and my tiny bungalow is ready for business.
It all sounds so simply. Yet, everything in my life is chaos. I’m just juggling bills and sleeping arrangements while waiting on the calm to come in.
Four
Holley
The air outside has turned sharper, the temperature dropping as the sun slides behind the ridge. Long shadows stretch across the yard, the bare branches above me whispering as the wind slides through them.
I load my duffel into the trunk of my Civic, next to the plastic bin that holds my emergency snow scraper and a half-empty bottle of windshield wiper fluid. Then I lean against the car for a second, letting my breath puff out in slow clouds.
From this angle, I can see the whole front of the cabin. The wreath on the door. The porch light I installed myself, now set on a timer to click on at sunset. The corner of the window where the curtains gap slightly.
For a second, a pang hits so hard it’s almost physical.
This is my home. The only thing I walked out of this divorce that feels like a win, even if it came with a mortgage that makes my eye twitch. I am rebuilding my life and it starts here. I painted the walls. I planted the shrubs by the steps.
And now, whenever the calendar is full, I hand it over to strangers and pretend I’m just a businesswoman making savvy financial decisions instead of a woman sleeping in parking lots so I don’t lose the only place that’s mine.