Over the past weeks, I’ve concluded that her mother has several things to beg forgiveness for. Georgiana is blind to it, but I can spot a neglected and emotionally abused child from afar. I grew up with four brothers and then there were seven of us with Uncle Bill and Aunt May. Not a single day went by that I wasn’t loved, exactly as I was, even though I struggled at school and was a handful because no one could pinpoint my issues.
I would have gone for some assessments once my dad came back permanently, but then the accident happened, and everything got derailed. When I ran away, my logic was that I couldn’t do this to Uncle Bill and Aunt May anymore, that they didn’t deserve any of the crap I subjected them to. Everybody thought I was acting up because of the accident’s trauma. I didn’t want to relive those moments before or after the accident and refused to talk about it. But the learning issues were something else. I was only mentally ready for those assessments a few years ago and still steered clear of dealing with the accident, until the other night, when I told Georgiana. Maybe I’m finally ready to go back to a shrink and come to terms with the accident. With her by my side, everything seems possible.
“When I came here from Miami,” Georgiana starts, trying her best not to break down, but her voice cracks and her body quivers against mine. “I never imagined these six weeks would pan out like this.”
“It’s been perfect, but you know we can just pick up where we left off when you come back, right?” I squeeze her shoulder softly. “And if you want me to come with you to Miami, you only need to ask.”
“You would?”
She sounds unsure and somewhat shocked, and I remind myself that Georgiana has never had anybody in her court before. She also hasn’t realized yet that I would do anything for her. “Of course I would.”
“What about the work you promised to do for Cash next week?”
“I’ll get it done afterwards. You’re much more important to me.”
At this, she heaves a deep sigh and I feel the stress seep from her body. I soak it all up for her just as she soaks up mine for me.
31
GEORGIANA
“It’s so empty.” My words echo in the barn where only a few power tools and the trash that we’ve generated over the weeks remain. It took us an hour to get the tiny house out of the barn and hooked up to the transport truck, and once it was out of the barn, we did a final clean-up of all the dirt and debris that accumulated during the build. Raiden wants to leave Bill’s barn as he found it—spotless.
I glance around the empty space. The end is upon us. With every space that empties, I feel myself empty too. I hadn’t realized how much I loved doing this and living this life with Raiden over the weeks we’ve spent together.
Whatever happens next, this has been by far the best adventure of my life. Skip the châteaux in France and they can keep all the haciendas in Mexico—this tiny house was me, heart and soul. That I’ve found Raiden en route seems like destiny and as if someone has a firm hand in plotting where our paths converge. I’ve never been one to believe in fate much, until lately.
Raiden wipes the sweat off his brow and my heart feels a pang of sorrow. Our lunch hours by the lake are also coming to an end. Now that the show is on the road, the dominoes are toppling over with everything else that needs to be done.
“Two truckloads should clear that pile of trash.”
“I can help.”
“No, I’ll do it. It should be quick. I’ll reverse my truck into the barn and throw it on and drive it to the landfill. Go home and do what you need to do.”
Raiden is considerate this way. He’s giving me a moment to pack and be alone in the boathouse before we leave. I keep telling myself that I’ll be back, but there’s an undercurrent that flows through my mind, whispering that this is all too good to be true and what if I never get to see this place again? Projects are like that: they arrive like house guests that demand all your attention, take over your life, and then leave, never to be seen again. With this one, I don’t want to let go.
“I’ll be ready to hit the road once you’re back.”
“Good. The trailer needs to be weighed, so with us driving faster, we could still arrive around the same time.”
I gather my things for the last time. My laptop, all the paperwork and files I’ve readied for the competition’s audit that I need to hand over today, and the drawings that used to be tacked up on the barn wall. Raiden helps me carry everything, and with a quick kiss, sends me on my way.
Back at the boathouse, I pause on the threshold and take in the space. It’s become very homey over the last few weeks as Raiden and I lived in the space to its max, cooking each other our favorite meals, watching TV, or reading together on the sofa. Who would have thought we’d both like domestic thrillers and whodunits? Raiden got hooked on Sherlock Holmes. I got hooked on Hercule Poirot. The best thrillers took us both for a twisty ride and an explosive ending neither of us predicted. Betting on how a book is going to end has become a favorite pastime of ours, and I sometimes have to hold back racing to the end of a book while he listens to the audio version.
I’ll leave the books here. Whoever comes to stay in the boathouse next can enjoy them. It takes only a few minutes to pack my things and with increased dread at saying goodbye, I park my suitcase by the front door. Raiden has booked a cleaning service to clean the boathouse tomorrow. There won’t be much to do, since between the two of us we’ve kept the place tidy.
With a deep sigh, I peel off my schedule for lunches and dinners from the fridge door. That week seems like decades ago now, and I smile at how we used to go at each other in the beginning. There’s nothing left to do but wait, so I take my laptop out of its bag and check my email. Still no word from my parents, and the brewing anxiety at the bottom of my stomach bubbles up. It’s inevitable that there’s going to be a final clean break or some sort of reconciliation between us, but with them being so uncommunicative, I can’t see how this can end well. Summers are busy, but surely they have to miss me. Even a bit…
I don’t want to dwell on all that, so I search for the National Tiny House Competition and Convention’s website. With all the communications between the secretary and Jack and his team, I’ve only visited the site a few times to see if there are any photos of the other entrants’ builds.
The page opens on a slideshow of tiny houses and goes on to tickets, location, and a list of the experts who will speak over the three days of the convention. I look at the menu bar and click on the National Tiny House Competition. I freeze as I see a photo of Raiden and me from that first day when Jack and his team arrived. Raiden looks like a deer in the headlights; I look like I’m about to drive over him with enthusiasm. I knew they took photos but had no clue they put them up here. For the next half hour, I spy out the other contestants. We’re a colorful bunch: some are couples, and the rest are family teams, siblings or cousins, and one father-and-son team. Raiden and I are the only team of strangers who attempted this together and the website points this out nicely. Will team Raiden and George make it? They’re off to a rocky start…
My eyes scan the page and I note with relief that this blog post was only posted yesterday. I bet they’re going to add more pictures over the next couple of days to keep people interested in the competition, even if they can’t be at the convention. There’s also a social media account and convention-related hashtags and I follow them all.
I scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and spot a link to the competition rules and judging. I have a hard copy of the competition rules and have gone over them at least ten times to make sure our boxes are all checked and that we’re not setting ourselves up for trouble. I click on the link and the faces of the six judges on the panel appear in circular frames.
My heart freezes for a split second before it starts pounding so hard, it feels as if it’s trying to kick its way out of my chest. I press my fist to my sternum, blinking, making sure I’m seeing right. There’s no mistaking it. I’m staring at myself, give or take a few years, as the visual age gap has closed thanks to expensive treatments and the occasional nip and tuck.