Page 117 of Spicy Ever After
“Hats, come back in so we can look at the bedrooms upstairs.”
I could put some bird feeders out here and some low maintenance potted plants like petunias or impatiens. Pops of orange everywhere. It would be so freaking cool.
“Hattie?”
Giggling, I turn and take a picture of Mom and Dad still standing in the open sliding glass door. Mom is wearing a scowl.
“Sorry.” I tuck my phone in my pocket and follow them back inside.
Dad makes a point of showing me the half bathroom and laundry room.
Hurray.
Then he leads us upstairs, and, holy crap, it has three bedrooms. A primary en suite and two smaller rooms joined by a jack-and-jill bath.
Mom reels on Dad. “Three bedrooms, Randall? Seriously?!” she hisses. “What is she going to do with three bedrooms?”
Dad throws up his hands. “Honey, think about the location. Think long term,” Dad says. “She could live here for the rest of her life. Free and clear.”
Since they’re talking about me like I’m not here, I’d rather not be here, so I walk back to the main bedroom and into the bathroom. I already want to climb into the big tub. Especially when I continue to hear them.
“What if she finds herself with child in a few years?” Dad asks. “What if her partner isn’t on board with that? At least she has room to raise a child here in a home that we’ve already paid for.”
“And you don’t think setting her up with a party pad isn’t going to fast track that situation?” Mom hisses. “She’s already got that farm hand.”
“She said he was a farmer, Hillary, not a farmhand,” Dad defends, and I want to hug him. “If he’s caring for his ailing father, I doubt he’d be a deadbeat dad if it came to that.”
This shuts mom up. For a few seconds anyway.
“Don’t forget. We’re right down the street. If she needs something, we could be here in under a minute.”
“How is she going to keep this place clean? Three bathrooms, Randall?”
Silence.
“We could always hire a service.”
Mom scoffs. “So she never learns to look after herself? Life skills, Randall. I still think we should explore a specialized residential?—”
I don’t want to hear anymore, so I shut the bathroom door and indulge myself. Climbing into the tub, I take out my phone and text Beck.
Me: IF SLOB IS A 0 AND NEAT FREAK IS A 10, WHERE DO YOU FALL?
He might be back on the harvester, so I might not get a response until tonight, but it’s worth a shot.
Beck: I say I’m a solid 7. More neat than sloppy, but not perfect. Things are generally clean, but maybe not in their proper place.
I grin at my phone because this seems in character for him. His dirty truck that had “clean dirt.” His soft, worn, slightly wrinkled button down. The tidy, old-fashioned kitchen with the scarred and scuffed farm table.
Mom is a ten squared. And she expects me to be a ten too. Talk about stress.
But sharing space with a seven sounds pretty sweet.
Beck: What about you?
No point in lying.
Me: I’M A 3 ON A GOOD DAY.
