Becca
Home, sweet home.
I sigh, sagging deeper into my seat as my sturdy SUV chugs along Main Street, which splits the town of Drover in half like a watermelon. The songwriter for “Sweet Home Alabama” would’ve written “Sweet Home Drover, Texas,” if he’d known about this amazing place.
It has the best Tex-Mex, with strong, icy margaritas to quench your thirst. A friendly supermarket with everything you could want, including Hart Beer from the local brewery, which goes amazingly well with barbecue.
And best of all? No traffic jams.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine then drag my suitcase into the two-story home I bought with the fifth painting I sold, the one that got me noticed.
I’m proud of that particular milestone. Mom was right when she said I would become an accomplished artist whose masterpieces people would flock to buy. I’m not quite there yet, but I can feel it in my bones like bad weather. It’s coming, and I’ll get there one day so long as I keep working.
And when I get my original studio back, I can create even better art. After all, almost all the pieces that are creating buzz now were initially conceived while I was working there. My current place is okay, but it’s lacking a certain something I can’t seem to put my finger on.
My boots tok softly on the hardwood floor, providing a counterpoint to the low rumble my suitcase makes as it rolls along. I hit the switch on the wall in the living room, and the ceiling fan starts turning. Dust motes stir in the air, glinting like fireflies.
I make my way to the master bedroom upstairs. The bed’s unmade, the pink sheets wrinkled and scrunched, the pillows lying skewed, one of them on the floor. I never make my bed in the morning. I’m going to be back in it in a few hours later, so why waste the time when I could be doing something productive? Like going downstairs and getting my first cup of coffee. Max gave me an amazing, state-of-the-art espresso machine last Christmas, and on my birthday he got me a subscription for gourmet coffee beans that get delivered on the first of every month.
Making a mental note to make a fresh cup, I pick the pillow up from the floor and toss it on the mattress. Will an unmade bed bug Devlin? Hard to tell, since he’s probably used to living in hotels with housekeeping. It bothers Grandma, so I sucked it up while I lived with her.
Well. If unmade beds bother him, he can stay in the guest bedroom and make that bed to his heart’s content every morning. I’m not completely unreasonable.
After dumping my clothes into the laundry basket and depositing my toiletries on the vanity, I go to the kitchen. Some minutes later, the espresso machine has filled the area with the deliciously satisfying scent of Jamaican Blue Mountain. I sigh softly and take a sip.
Knocks come from the door—three rapid ones like whoever’s at the door is running out of patience, then followed by a slower, steadier one like they just remembered nothing’s life or death at the moment. I smile. Only one person knocks like that.
“Come on in!” I yell from the kitchen.
Tasha walks in, her unbound hair flowing past her shoulders down to her mid-back. It’s dyed blue, and she’s wearing a pair of black plastic-framed glasses. They’re non-prescription, but she likes to wear them from time to time because she says they make her feel extra smart. A T-shirt two shades darker than her hair reads “Friendship Forever” and stretches across her sizable breasts, and black jeans hug her hips. Bubblegum-pink flip-flops slap the floor as she comes closer.
I got her the shirt. And I’ve told her she can just come in without knocking, but she says she can’t because what if I’m having sex? I always roll my eyes. I don’t bring men to my place, ever. Not even Jeff’s been here.
I don’t want people who might not be around for long to leave a mark on my home. When men move in, they always leave something behind—even if it’s just a memory. I wonder briefly if that’s why Jeff broke up with me—because he could sense that I wasn’t really into him. Then I shake my head. If he’d been the one, I would’ve let him in.
Now Devlin’s going to be living here, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s only for a year, and I’m not going to let myself get too involved when there’s a cutoff looming. It’ll for the best, since he wants to have a lot of sex. He’s a dream in bed, but I’m going to leave every reminder of that bedroom performance here.
Once I get the house from Grandma, I’m moving back to my childhood home and its warm, loving memories. I’ll be happier there. It’s going to be a reboot on my life.
“So, how was your trip?” Tasha is practically vibrating with curiosity, which is amusing. But then, patience isn’t her forte, and I’m sure she’s going crazy with the need to hear about what happened in Vegas. She knows all about my situation with Grandma and the childhood home. “Did everything work out?”
She texted me while I was at the airport to check up on me. I told her I’d talk with her after I got home. She’s probably been watching my driveway the entire time since then. Not too difficult, since she lives next door.
I extend my left hand. “Ta-da! I’m married!”
She pumps her fist in the air. “Yes!” Then she stares at me long and hard. “Girlfriend, you could’ve just sent me a photo of that.”
“Really? Would that have been enough to keep you from rushing over?”
“Not even,” she says shamelessly. “I need details.”
“Things got a little complicated. Hey, you want some coffee?”
“You know I never turn down your coffee.”
I smile and make her a cup. We sit down, and I tell her everything, starting with the wedding at the chapel.
“So, Bruce didn’t even show?” Tasha asks, sounding stunned.