Chapter 2 Daisy

Daisy

By the time I finish unpacking, the place looks slightly less like a rental and slightly more like someone actually lives here.

My clothes are folded into the dresser or hanging in the closet upstairs. My makeup is spread across the little shelf beside the bathroom mirror. My books have taken over half the shelves in the living room, which instantly makes the room feel better.

I stand in the middle of it and turn in a slow circle.

This is great.

So great.

But.

I narrow my eyes.

Something is missing.

Actually, several things are missing.

The couch is beige. The walls are white. The bedding upstairs is white too, because apparently whoever furnished this place had a personal vendetta against color.

It’s clean and comfortable, but it doesn’t feel like me yet.

I look toward the stairs.

Then toward the kitchen.

Then back at the living room.

“I need stuff.”

Saying it out loud makes it sound significantly more important.

Back home, I worked as much as I could before leaving. I saved enough that, if I’m careful, I have at least three months of rent sitting untouched in my account.

And now I don’t even have to pay the first month.

Which means I can afford to spend a little.

Not irresponsibly.

Just enough to make the place mine.

That distinction becomes increasingly questionable about twenty minutes later when I’m standing in the home section of a department store holding two different pink blankets against my chest.

One is pale blush.

The other is more of a dusty rose.

I stare between them.

The dusty rose wins.

I drop it into the cart and keep going.

There’s something stupidly exciting about shopping for a place that belongs to me.

I’ve had bedrooms before. I’ve had shelves and drawers and corners that were technically mine. But this is different.

No one else gets a say.

If I want a pink blanket, I get a pink blanket.

If I want towels covered in tiny flowers, nobody can tell me they look ridiculous.

So I get those too.

I find a small lamp for my bedroom, cream-colored with a scalloped shade that makes me smile the second I see it. A plant that the tag claims is easy to keep alive, which feels like a direct challenge. Two throw pillows, one pale pink and one with little embroidered green leaves.

A bath mat.

A candle.

Then another candle because the first one smells like vanilla and the second smells like peaches, and those are clearly different purposes.

I stop myself at a third.

Barely.

Near the kitchen section, I find a mug with tiny strawberries painted around it.

I pick it up.

Put it down.

Walk three steps away.

Turn around.

Pick it back up.

“This is why you’re going to be broke,” I mutter.

The strawberry mug goes into the cart anyway.

By the time I reach the checkout, I have considerably more stuff than I intended to buy and absolutely no plan for getting it home.

That realization hits me as the cashier starts placing everything into bags.

Right.

I walked here.

I stare at the growing pile.

Then at my tote bag.

Then back at the pile.

This was poorly thought through.

Very poorly thought through.

Still, I make it work.

Mostly.

The lamp goes into my tote with the shade sticking awkwardly out the top. The towels get stuffed around it. One bag holds the blanket and pillows. Another gets the bath mat, candles, and mug wrapped in approximately seventeen layers of paper because I inform the cashier that I have to walk twenty minutes with it.

She gives me a sympathetic look.

I probably deserve it.

The plant is the real problem.

I end up carrying it tucked against my hip with one arm while the bags hang from every available finger on the other hand.

The walk back is horrible.

Absolutely horrible.

I make it five minutes before I regret every life decision that led me here.

The tote digs into my shoulder. The bag handles cut into my fingers. The plant keeps brushing leaves across my face every time the wind shifts.

At one point I stop beside a bench and seriously consider sitting there forever.

Instead, I put everything down, flex my hands, and stare at my reflection in a dark shop window.

My hair is coming loose from the clip at the back of my head.

My cheeks are pink.

“Almost there,” I tell myself.

It is not almost there.

But eventually, somehow, Bellamy Street appears.

Relief washes over me.

I shift the plant higher against my side and keep going.

My house comes into view a minute later.

My house.

I don’t think I’m going to get tired of that anytime soon.

Then I notice the car.

There’s a sleek black car parked in the driveway beside the larger half of the house.

Expensive-looking.

Very expensive-looking.

I slow slightly.

Right.

Neighbors.

In all the excitement about getting the place, I never actually asked Jenna who lived next door.

I look toward the larger half.

No one is outside.

The front door is closed. The porch is empty.

The black car sits there looking suspiciously polished compared to my current situation, which involves a plant trying to attack my face.

Hopefully whoever lives there isn’t awful.

Or loud.

Or the kind of person who throws parties every Thursday through Sunday until four in the morning.

I glance up at the upstairs windows.

There are a lot more of them on that side.

Maybe a family lives there.

Actually, that would be nice.

A quiet family.

One with children who go to bed at eight.

Perfect.

I adjust the shopping bags again and head toward my door.

Then again, who cares?

They can be mildly annoying.

They can play music sometimes.

They can have friends over.

Because I have my own place.

I have a front door I can close.

I have a kitchen.

I have a bathroom where nobody else’s toothpaste is going to mysteriously appear in the sink.

I manage to get the key into the lock without dropping anything, though the plant nearly meets an unfortunate end against the doorframe.

“Sorry,” I whisper to it.

Talking to the plant on day one probably isn’t a great sign.

I push inside and immediately lower everything onto the living room floor.

The bags land in a heap.

The tote slips from my shoulder.

I carefully set the plant beside the window.

Then I straighten and let out the longest breath of my life.

Worth it.

I start with the blanket.

It goes over the back of the couch, instantly making the beige considerably less offensive.

The pillows go beside it.

I carry the plant to the windowsill and rotate it twice before deciding which direction looks best, which is ridiculous because I’m pretty sure plants do not have a good side.

The strawberry mug gets washed and placed in the cabinet.

The towels go upstairs.

So does the bath mat.

The lamp lands on my nightstand.

I plug it in and switch it on.

Soft warm light fills the corner of the room.

I stand there for a second.

Better.

Much better.

By the time I’m done, the place still looks simple.

But now there’s pink downstairs.

Green by the window.

Little flowers in the bathroom.

A stupidly cute mug waiting in the kitchen.

Tiny pieces of me scattered throughout rooms that this morning belonged to no one.

I walk back into the living room and drop onto the couch.

For a while, I just sit there.

My legs ache.

My hands hurt.

I should probably eat something.

Instead I look around and smile.

This is mine.

Outside, somewhere next door, a car door slams.

I glance toward the window.

Then I sink deeper into the couch for a nap.

Neighbors can wait.