“Where are you going to go?”
Slumped against the hallway wall, I place my palm across my forehead and exhale. “I don’t know? I’ve got some money saved. I was thinking of going somewhere remote. Somewhere I could just get away and figure things out on my own.”
“Like a tropical island?”
“No … more like … maybe … I don’t know.” I chew my bottom lip. “Back home.”
“Home … as in Kansas City?”
“Home as in … Bonesteel Creek.” I squeeze my eyes tight. We haven’t so much as mentioned Bonesteel Creek since we fled our family farm over a decade ago, leaving life as we knew it in a cloud of gravel dust.
Life was grand. Until it wasn’t. But deep in my heart, and in ways I can’t explain, it’s still home to me. In my mind, it’s still chock full of love and laughter and the kind of memories that make my heart so full it feels like it’s about to burst.
“You’re going to move to South Dakota?” The repugnance in her voice is ripe. She clearly doesn’t share the same memories as me, but she was younger then and her fond recollections aren’t quite as vivid as mine.
“I’m not moving there,” I say. “I just want to go there for a while. A month, maybe two?”
“But … why though? We don’t have any family there. At least not anymore,” Aubrey says. “And I can’t imagine there’s anything there to do for fun. What’s the population? Fifteen hundred, sixteen hundred at best?”
“I’ve been wanting to go back for a while now. Just never had the chance. I kind of feel like it’s now or never.” Rising, I shuffle to the office and take a seat at the desk. Lifting my laptop lid, I cradle my phone on my shoulder and pull up this new RentBnB website I keep hearing about. A quick search of Bonesteel Creek, South Dakota pulls up only three listings: a dated two-bedroom ranch within city limits, a five-bedroom hunting lodge just past the county line road, and a sprawling white farmhouse complete with a wraparound porch and picket fence.
“Why are you so quiet? What are you doing?” Aubrey asks.
Clicking on the farmhouse, I zoom in on the picture.
“Holy shit.” I flip through the interior photos.
“What? What?”
“I think our old house is on RentBnB.” I click through the pictures, my heart beating in my chest as a grin claims my mouth. “It is. Oh my god. Aubrey, our old farmhouse is for rent! Seventy-five dollars per night. And it’s available immediately!”
“That’d be weird to stay there though,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
“I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s a sign.”
My phone dings from across the room as I’m knee deep in my first suitcase. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’m not sticking around here. I messaged the owner of my old house on RentBnB two hours ago, but I’m not holding my breath.
Taking a break from packing, I grab my phone and check my email for the eleventh time since this morning.
To: Leighton Hart ([email protected]) From: Casey Tibbs ([email protected]) Subject: Bonesteel Creek rental
Hi, Leighton.
Just wanted to let you know I received your message via RentBnB. There are a few other parties interested in renting the house during the dates you requested, one of them looking to stay this weekend and through the end of the month, but since you’re wanting to book the place for sixty days, I’m willing to give you first dibs.
There’s just one issue—payment via RentBnB takes several days to clear, and if you’re needing the house by tomorrow I’m not sure that’s going to work. The only other option would be for you to wire me the payment today.
I could meet you there first thing tomorrow … or whenever you arrive … with the keys and answer any questions you might have. It’s a really neat house, full of a lot of charm and history, and the location is quiet and picturesque, perfect for a relaxing getaway.
Let me know if you’re okay with wiring the payment and I can send you a contract via email. I’ve done it that way in the past and have had no issues, but I understand if you’d rather not.
Feel free to call me as well. I’ll be around all afternoon. If I don’t hear from you by 5pm CST, I’ll be renting to the other party.
Hope to hear from you.
Casey Tibbs
(605) 555-4482
With juddering fingers, I dial Casey’s number, and he answers almost immediately. I can’t let this house get away. I have to get out of here. And this might be my only chance—ever—to go home one last time.
Chapter Three
Leighton
There’s a tan line on my left finger where my engagement ring used to reside, but the tighter I grip the steering wheel of my rented Impala, the more it fades away.
Thirty-six hours ago, I watched Grant walk out of our luxury Scottsdale townhome without so much as an apology. Once I composed myself, I called my sister, booked my stay, and packed my things.
And now I’m here.
Parked near the side yard of my childhood home. An electric buzz hums through me. Hope? Excitement? Fear of the unknown? I feel everything all at once, and I love it.
The proprietor is supposed to meet me at the door to hand off the keys and answer any questions. I’ve already paid the five grand, which covers sixty nights here as well as a cleaning fee and deposit for incidentals.
A sleepy Australian shepherd mix pokes its head up from the back of a dark blue vintage pickup truck outside our old machine shed. Rising, it wags its tail before hopping down and coming to investigate.
The ring of my phone in the console cup holder startles me.
Once again it’s Grant.
And once again, I choose to ignore him.
There’s nothing he can say or do at this point to convince me to give him another chance. An apology would be nice, but it wouldn’t change things. The damage is done, and I’ve never believed in second chances.
Tossing my phone in my bag, I climb out of the car and pop the trunk. My two suitcases are filled to the hilt, crammed full of almost everything I have. Clothes. Shoes. Jewelry. Photos. A few keepsakes. Grant owned everything else in the apartment we shared, and looking back, I wonder if it was just a tactic to keep me around. He owned everything. I had nothing—only him.
Soon after graduating law school and moving west, he insisted we start from scratch. He wanted all new everything, the kinds of things that a Maserati-driving, Gucci loafer-wearing attorney would have.
We threw out our stained futon, hot plate, and faded dorm bedding and embarked on our new journey courtesy of his shiny—and new—black American Express card.
The dog watches me, blinking its mismatched eyes and keeping a conservative distance before taking a seat on the dirt-and-gravel driveway.