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I guess you could blame that on Beck. He’d be the husband to my housewife, except we weren’t actually married—housewife is just sorta an expression. And just right then, his piss poor attitude was souring what should have been a cheerful mood. But, hey, what else was new?
My mom told me to stop dating musicians, and I just couldn’t listen.
I continued to smile so hard I thought I heard my teeth creak as Evans looked me up and down and then fussed with the cuffs on his expensive suit. After a moment, he gave me a thin smile, then nodded.
“Well, your credit check and down payment went through,” he said with a snotty little sniff as if everything I was could be boiled down to bank statements. “The keys are on the counter. Rent is due on the first. There is no grace period.” He looked me up and down, which clearly insinuated that I was someone who might need a grace period.
I mean, as much as I wanted to be pissed… I totally was someone who could have used a grace period. I wasn’t exactly rolling in reliable dough at that point… or like… ever. I just couldn’t stand living with Beck’s mom anymore.
It wasn’t that Carol was bad, but she was still someone who identified as a “boy mom,” even though Beck was twenty-five and should absolutely be able to do his own laundry and pay his own bills. Carol still cleaned up after him, cooked for him… Hell, she did everything but wipe his ass.
I cleared my throat loudly, trying to bring my thoughts back to the present. “Um, yes, I understand, Mister Evans. I will have rent right when it’s due.” I elbowed the long, thin man at my side, hoping he might contribute anything at all to the current conversation.
Instead, Beck kicked a rock near his scuffed-up cowboy boot. He insisted on wearing them because he thought they made him look “authentic,” even though the boy had never stepped foot on a farm. He’d probably piss his pants if a horse even stood near him.
“Won’t we?” I said, disguising my gritted teeth through a harsh smile as I looked at my boyfriend.
“What?” he murmured.
“Won’t. We. Have. Rent. On. Time,” I hissed.
He stuffed his hands in his jeans and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
Lionel Evans stared down at us from his higher perch atop the porch steps, then nodded. Without another word, he shoved past, trying to give us as wide a berth as possible, and then began to walk down the path to his Tesla. Halfway down the path, he lifted his hand with a limp, uncaring little wave and yelled back, “Any other paperwork is in the email. Send it. Forward it to my secretary.”
“O-Okay,” I said hurriedly, then tried to end the sentence with a friendly wave. It probably seemed spastic instead of cheerful.
Beck and I watched him peel out of our new—sorta—gravel drive and send up twin plumes from his tires as he did.
“Well…” I said as I turned back to Beck, who was still kicking rocks around. I tried to inject my voice with as much hope and cheer as possible. “Well… let’s check out the inside! I saw a few pics in the email, and it really looks like they fixed the place up!”
Beck scoffed. “Like polishing a turd. This place will never be nice. Marn, it’s the Murder Shack.”
I tried not to let his comment sting me. Beck was always digging into me a little, slinging little barbs my way. I just really needed him to see the upside. I needed this. We needed this.
I softened my tone and did my best to inject some sincerity into it. “Hey, we… we just really needed out of your mom’s. It’s been two years, Beck. Don’t you think it’s time for us to live on our own?” I cleared my throat as I gently suggested it. “Maybe look into something… stable.”
He looked at me sharply, his face a storm cloud. “You mean abandon my music career, Marn? It’s just about ready to take off.”
He stormed up the steps and into the house, leaving me behind on the dusty gravel. So much for being carried over the threshold or any sort of cute couple’s moment. I bit back a sigh and tried to remind myself how Beck was feeling. Not that he ever gave me the same courtesy.
I looked up at the house’s exterior, imagining all the ways I might be able to make the outside look cute. The wooden planks that composed the outer walls had been faded and peeling, but I was relieved to see they’d been freshly white-washed. The roof was patched and uneven, thanks to a mishmash of mismatched shingles. Some of their edges curled with age, but others looked new, which I supposed was good. At least they’d tried, even if it sorta looked like a shitty quilt. Ivy crept up the sides of the house, attempting to reclaim its territory and intertwining around the window frames. Honestly, it was sort of cottagecore in its way, and I was convinced with some cute decor outside and maybe some fresh plants, it could be really cute. I could see myself drinking coffee out on the porch, even if it was sagging a bit.
The few email pics I’d received had shown the once-dilapidated house with a fresh coat of paint, flooring, and new kitchen fixtures. As I walked in, however, my hope popped like a bubble. It was clear the pics had been purposely flattering, and we’d received the good ol’ “landlord special.” Sure, there was a fresh coat of gray paint and some new flooring in the kitchen, but it was all cheaply done. I hated that Beck had been right, so I tried to keep up my smile.
The air was musty, even with the sharp chemical smell of newer paint, and I prayed I wasn’t detecting a hint of mildew. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot as I moved through the entry foyer. Directly ahead of me was a skinny staircase, and then to the immediate front and right were the kitchen and the sitting room. The windows flanking the wooden front door were tall and narrow, which allowed sunlight to filter through and into the hall. It made it seem bright but also highlighted how uneven the paint job was. I bit my lip and stepped into the living room, pushing through the dust motes that hung in the air.
“At least the wallpaper is gone,” Beck called from the living room.
I followed him in and looked around. “Yeah, and the fireplace tiles are still original, which is sorta kitschy and retro. Don’t you think?” I looked up at him. “This could be really cool. You can put your vinyl collection in here and—”
He blew past me, walking toward the kitchen.
“I bet he killed someone in there,” he said offhandedly.
I bit back another sigh and followed Beck into the kitchen. Beck just had to bring up the murders, but what old farmhouse didn’t have a creepy past? Besides, they’d been hearing about Ripper Randall since they were in preschool, and the old legend was wearing thin. I figured it was like a game of telephone. It probably wasn’t even mostly true, and I doubted the kitchen had been used to chop up and cannibalize people. More importantly, creepy history or not, Ripper Randall’s old homestead was about the only thing I could find that we could afford. I didn’t exactly make a killing at the diner.
In the kitchen, the countertops bore signs of hasty repairs, and I spotted more than one unevenly patched hole or mismatched cabinet pull. The sink looked new, though, which was nice. There was a bit of a rotten egg smell very faintly in the air, as well as a hint of rust, which meant we had hard well water we’d have to deal with. Most of these old houses didn’t have city water, though Delaney wasn’t exactly what you’d call a city. I graduated with a whopping one hundred and three kids, and most of us were still in town. Not a town of doers, we Delanians. We had one alumnus move to Los Angeles in 1998, and I think some of the middle-aged folks were still riding that high as if it was impressive to know someone who had been a bit part on Days of Our Lives.
