Page 39 of Thirst For Me
“Well, go get her some water, Sophia,” June says pragmatically, pressing a key on a keychain with a wooden apple on it into Sophie’s hand.
“Sophie,” she corrects her.
I wonder if she flubbed my nameandSophie’s on purpose. June is already striding away. She’s rather spry for a septuagenarian. Wiry and athletic in her gardening smock. I’m still panting from trying to keep up with her.
She turns around just before she’s out of earshot, silvery bob blowing in the breeze. “And don’t worry about the bucket!” shecalls. “We’re not expecting any rain.” Then she’s gone around a bend in the path.
Sophie looks as confused/apprehensive as I feel. “Bucket?”
We approach the cottage warily. The weather-beaten wood, desperately in need of repair. The faded old curtains in the dirty windows. The sadly sagging porch. The unwelcoming piles of farm junk on either side of the door.
An old, hand-carved sign mounted over the door, somewhat crooked, saysCozy Cottage.
“Really,” I say flatly.
“It might haveoncebeen cozy,” Sophie says optimistically.
“Fifty years ago.”
“Come on. Don’t we love old things?” She works the key in the lock, which at least seems to have been installed this century.
“Sure. Like, retro-old. Vintage vibes. Not falling apart and moldering.”
When we step inside, unfortunately it just gets worse.
The windows, left to gather dirt on the outside glass for years, let in little light. When I find the light switch and turn it on, it doesn’t help much. The cottage is gloomy, barely furnished, and tight.
“Well, there’s the aforementioned bucket.” It’s a steel pail, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. Above it, obvious water damage stains the ceiling and the drywall has a hole in it.
“At least they’re being proactive?” Sophie says.
“Proactive would be burning this place down.”
“It did look better in the pictures ...” she admits.
“Yeah. I think those were as old as the cottage. It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1970s, and not in a good way.”
“It’s not that bad. It’s just ... rustic.”
“I know,” I say in horror. “I don’t do rustic, Soph.”
“Me neither, but we’ll figure it out. Do you think there’s internet?”
“Jesus Christ. I didn’t even think to ask. I’m now realizing that I may be much less intelligent than I took myself for.” I blink at her. “Is this my fault? Is the universe punishing me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
I follow her to the bedroom area. It’s not far. There’s no hallway, just a couple of doors off the kitchen/living room. There are two bedrooms, as promised, but they’re so tiny, each fits only a twin bed and a wooden chair.
And there’s one very small bathroom with a tiny shower cubicle, toilet, and a sink with no space for the amount of hair products Soph uses.
“Shit. I’m so sorry I’m crashing your space,” I tell her. June offered me this cottage as lodging for any staff I brought with me, which meant Sophie was supposed to have it all to herself. Kyle and I were going to be staying at the Vance Oceanfront resort, half an hour up the highway—one of the most luxurious resorts on the island, and the lodging of his choosing, which he was paying for. “I’d take us to a hotel, but I really can’t afford it, and no way would I let you pay for even a fraction of it.”
“It’s fine. I’m totally happy here,” she says. “I got you.” She starts singing the Jack Johnson song.
I groan. “I seriously don’t deserve you. I’m taking the smaller room.” I haul my bags into the bedroom that is somehow even tinier than the other, leaving her to the one in back with the bigger window.
I can make anywhere home with Sophie, right?
