AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My eyes briefly flick to the rearview mirror, to where my daughter sits in her car seat, her sleeping face reflected back at me through another small mirror positioned at her feet. Maybe I can take advantage of the fact that she’s sleeping and try to do some unloading before she wakes up. It’s been a long day for my baby girl, and driving all day with a toddler is not for the weak, that’s for sure.
The fatigue of the long journey finally hits me, and I close my eyes for just a second, wanting to give them a brief rest—though the reality of knowing I still need to get Junie inside and settled as well as do some serious unloading from my car doesn’t make those few seconds all that restful. Not for the first time, I wish I’d taken my mother up on her offer to let us crash at her place tonight. Her words from a few days ago taunt me.
“Why do you have to make everything so difficult? You’re going to be exhausted. Come here and get a good night of sleep. You can unpack everything the day after you get to town.”
Why do I have to make everything so difficult?
My original thought process did make sense. I assumed I’d be arriving in the late afternoon and would have plenty of time to get our stuff unloaded and manage dinner. Then we’d get to spend our first night in town in our new place, just the two of us. I didn’t want any help; I just wanted the evening to ourselves.
Of course, the reality of driving such a long distance was completely different than I pictured. At almost two, my energetic Junie Bee struggled with being in her car seat for so long, which meant significantly more stops than I’d planned so she could get out her wiggles, get food, go to the bathroom. Now, it’s nearing ten o’clock, and any hopes of an early evening of settling into the little green cabin are long dashed.
Snuggling into a made bed—even the twin mattress in my childhood bedroom—sounds infinitely better than lugging in the heavy air mattress that’s shoved somewhere in the back of thecar, probably in the least convenient spot because I was rushing this morning and not paying attention to how I was loading up our few possessions. Even so, I promised myself when I decided to move back to Cedar Point, I was coming back to make my own home, not to just return to the roost. Part of that is defining new spaces for myself, new routines, new relationships. It would be too easy to tuck myself into my parents’ house and just let them take care of us. I might bethebaby of the family, but I’m notababy anymore.
Not to mention I have myownbaby to take care of now, and part of that is doing as many things on my own as I can. Especially considering all the help that has already been extended my way. My job at Briar’s store. Mom taking care of Junie. Dad getting this rental set up. It all came together because people who love me offered to step in and help, and even though it killed me, I took it. I knew being here would be a better life for my daughter, and no amount of pride is going to get in the way of giving Junie the best that I can.
I need to prove to them—to my parents and my siblings, but also to myself—that I am capable of handling things. That I’m not the same Busy, always getting herself into jams and needing to be rescued from her own choices. It’s why it took me so long to finally come back in the first place, because I had things I needed to prove to myself.
That I could finish my degree, for one. That I could handle being a mother on my own was definitely another.
So, even though it would beeasierto go to my parents’ house tonight and sleep in beds there—instead of living on an air mattress for the foreseeable future—I know sticking to my original plan is the better move. Even if it’s the more exhausting one.
I sigh, the fatigue weighing even heavier on me now than it was a few minutes ago. Then I shove open my door and stepout of the car, the sticky air of the early-summer night clinging to my skin. I shut it gently, glancing briefly in the back to make sure Junie is still sleeping soundly, then head to the front door, tugging out my phone to reread the instructions Lois sent me about the keys.
Key is taped under the pot out front
Sounds about right.
Chuckling to myself, I take the two steps up onto the wraparound porch, spotting the beautiful hydrangea plant in the orange pot next to the front door. Tilting it slightly, I reach under…
But no key.
I glance around, wondering if maybe I’m just looking under the wrong pot. The light on my phone illuminates the area, and I scan for another one before following the porch to the back of the house, facing the lake.
Still nothing.
I pull up Lois’ number and give her a call, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Growling under my breath, I stalk back to my red RAV4 and pull open my door, digging around in the center console until I find two bobby pins. I don’t care if I need to break a window. I’m getting into that house tonight. But I can start with something less dramatic, like picking the lock.
I take a quick look at Junie again, finding her sleeping peacefully, then quietly shut the door and head back to the porch. Dropping down onto my knees, I bend my bobby pins and get to work.
Picking a lock is one of those weird things I learned as a teenager that I’ve actually used a few times in real life. Once my freshman year of college, when I got locked out of my room and didn’t want to pay a fee to have the RA come open the door, then again last year when I accidentally locked myself out of myapartment with Junie on the inside. I was a bit hysterical on that last one, sobbing and imagining my daughter—who couldn’t even crawl yet—somehow getting her hands on a knife or catching the place on fire. It really is wild what horrifying visions the mind of a mother can conjure up.
I hear a click and grin to myself, knowing I’ve moved one of the pins inside the lock into place. I adjust my bobby pin, searching for the next one.
“Can I help you?”
I shriek, the sound of a male voice coming out of nowhere and scaring the absolute shit out of me. Scrambling to my feet, I extend my hand with the bent bobby pin in front of me like I’m brandishing some kind of weapon, my eyes locking on the silhouette of a man standing at the base of the porch’s few steps.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, putting both hands up as if to calm me. “Just trying to figure out why you’re breaking into my place.”
I blink a few times, my bobby pin still stretched out before me, and I glance around, wondering what the hell he’s talking about.
“Breaking intoyourplace? This isn’t your place.”
The guy takes a step up onto the porch but freezes when he sees me take a step back.
“Hey now,” he says, his voice calm and soothing, like he’s trying to reassure a feral cat. “My name’s Reid. I live here. Have for the past three years.”
