Like Cole, my house was going to need a lot of TLC. Unlike Cole, its curb appeal in its present state left a lot to be desired.
Then again, that was why I’d been able to get it cheap. Or relatively cheap. Considering the house consisted of less than one thousand square feet, had only one bathroom, and needed all new appliances, I wasn’t really sure that the six figures I was shelling out for the property could be considered “cheap” in anyone’s book.
But the place was about to be mine, and that made it worth any price to me.
Maybe that’s why I’d felt compelled to come here after seeing those drawings. They’d left me feeling edgy and unsure of who I was and what I wanted. And the fact that they had been so meticulously and lovingly created by Cole left me just as confused about what he wanted.
Considering all the canvases devoted to my image, you’d think he would’ve seized the opportunity to take me. But he’d walked away, and now my head was all but spinning.
The house soothed me. It was tangible. It was wood and brick and stone and nails.
With the house, what you saw was what you got.
With Cole, not so much.
I sighed, because that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? Why I’d driven miles out of my way and was going to end up late to meet my friends? Because every second of every day my mind was trying to unravel the mystery that was Cole. And not doing a very good job of it, either.
Frustrated, I got out of the car and walked to the front porch. I pressed my face against the window and looked inside, noting the battered hardwood floors that I would soon be sanding and refinishing. The dingy walls that seemed to cry out for a coat of paint.
This was more than a house, I realized. It was an anchor. Nine-hundred and twenty-four square feet tying me to Chicago and this life and my friends.
Katrina Laron.
Somewhere along the way, that’s the girl I’d settled on.
I pressed my forehead against the glass and sighed. Had I really just been griping about not being able to figure out Cole? Had I actually been frustrated because he saw me as pure and innocent? Pretty unfair considering I changed who I was every five minutes.
Hypocrite, thy name is Katrina. Or Catalina. Occasionally even Kathy.
God, I really was a train wreck.
Because the house didn’t yet belong to me, I technically wasn’t allowed inside. Technicalities rarely bothered me, though, because they only became a problem if you were caught breaking the rules. And even then, I could usually talk my way out of it.
The key was stored in the real estate lockbox, to which I also didn’t have access. I’d been here before, though, usually with my agent, Cyndee, and I’d been around the block enough times to know that one never misses an opportunity.
So when she punched in the combination, I’d paid attention to the code. I recalled it now easily enough—my father didn’t give a flip about my grades in school, but fail to remember something he told me to memorize, and I’d end up grounded for a week.
I entered the code, grabbed the key, and let myself in.
The air was stale and thick, and already stifling even though it wasn’t yet noon. But I breathed in deep anyway, because this stale air and everything surrounding it was going to be mine soon.
There was no furniture, so I didn’t sit. And I hadn’t come with any particular purpose, so I just started to wander, taking in the rooms, imagining how I would fix them up. Knowing that I could fix them up.
I sighed, understanding now why I’d been so determined to come here. Maybe I couldn’t get what I wanted from Cole. But I could damn sure get this house to fall into line.
It didn’t take long to circle through the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I took a peek at the backyard, then turned back toward the front door, my car, and my friends.