Moving. It’s like signing up for a stress marathon, right up there in the top ten life stressors, sandwiched between “death of a loved one” and “saying ‘I do’”—and that’s not even in the right order.
I glance around at the mountain of boxes cluttering the living room, and a part of me wants to scream. That’s the drama queen side of me—the one that’s convinced calm is a mythical creature. She’s done with the chaos and was hoping to hit the reset button here in Sweetkiss Creek. But let’s face it, she’s not as good at handling stress as she used to be.
“We’re done, ma’am,” the mover says as he stands in my doorway. “All of your boxes are in the rooms according to what was written on the outside of them. Truck is empty.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising from the spot by the couch where I’ve been busy digging through a container looking for my hair dryer. Because, of course, I remember packing it with my living room things. “You guys were the best. That was a big trip from California to North Carolina.”
“Lucky for me, though,” he says, nodding his head out toward the road that runs outside my property. “My grandparents live about an hour away in Asheville. Headed there now for a few days’ respite.”
Now there’s someone who looks at the brighter side of things. Smiling, I watch as he jogs over to the truck, joining the other two men who’re waiting in the cab. With a final wave, he hops behind the wheel and pulls away.
Leaving me alone, for the first time, in my house. MY house. MY FIRST HOUSE!
I take a giant leap from the front door into the foyer. In my mind, I am a graceful prima ballerina, one who has performed on all of the stages around the world to large audiences, receiving accolades and standing ovations wherever I go. However, I’m aware that if someone was filming this, I’d come across more “past-my-prima” than lithe dancer.
But that’s okay. No one is around to see me, are they? Cause I’m inMY HOUSE!
Giggling with no self-control, I wrap my arms around my torso and spin in a circle. Look, I’ve lived in Los Angeles for a long time. Getting the chance to own my own home, thanks to my best friend, and to move away from the city and a life filled with stressors, is pretty exciting.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and, tapping the app I was looking for, press start to kick my playlist off. The fortune that Bruno Mars’s “Uptown Funk” is the first song to play does not escape me. I like it. It’s an eight out of ten on the butt-shaking scale, at least for me.
I start moving around the place, dancing from room to room. I love this house so much. When you walk into the modest two-story home, you’re greeted by a small foyer that’s basically going to be a drop zone for boots, coats, and the occasional forgotten grocery bag. There’s a wooden bench that’s seen better days, but it’ll do the job—mostly holding a pile of my mismatched shoes, but it’s a job nonetheless.
To the right is the living room, where my old couch and a couple of armchairs have set up camp around an old fireplace. That fireplace is the true MVP of the house; I can already see it working overtime in the winter and making the place feel like a cozy retreat. The brick hearth gives it that “I totally have my life together” vibe, even if the rest of the room says otherwise. Built-in shelves along one wall will soon be blessed with books I swear I’ll read someday, and I'll add a few family photos and knick-knacks…they seem to multiply when I’m not looking. A big window lets in plenty of sunlight—and I can’t wait to sit in its warmth and read on my first quiet weekend.
The kitchen is a no-nonsense space with painted wooden cabinets that could use a fresh coat but haven’t bothered to ask for one, and the back door leads to a porch that’s perfect for sunset watching—or pretending I’m on top of all those DIY projects I’m planning on tackling.
The master bedroom upstairs is small and cozy, but complete with its own bathroom, and the other bedrooms are just as modest—basically enough room for a bed, a dresser, and a lot of wishful thinking.
All in all, my house is a mix of cozy charm and mild chaos—kind of like me. It’s not perfect, but it’s home, and that’s good enough for now.
My eyes closed, I make sure to belt out the words, singing nice and loud. I’m in the middle of a giant spin when I turn around and open my eyes to find a familiar face standing in the front doorway with a large basket in her arms.
“WHAT THE…!!” My scream is loud and long and I’m pretty sure I do a whole jogging and tap dance routine while standing in place.
“Sorry!” The visitor cackles as she puts the basket on the nearest cardboard box and covers her mouth with her hand in a sad attempt to hide her amusement from me. “In my defense, the door was wide open.”
“I was busy dancing,” I say, waving my hand in the direction of the door as I turn down the volume on my phone. “Couldn’t really close the door now, could I?” Slowing my breath down, I stop and cock my head to the side, smiling at my friend. “It’s so good to see you Georgie!”
“Bex Madden!” With a little squeal she runs to me and throws her arms around me. “Welcome to Sweetkiss Creek. I am still in shock that you’re here now. Who would have thought it could be this easy?”
“I wouldn’t call moving easy,” I say with a snicker, wagging my finger in the air. “One thing for sure, this is a lesson in patience. If the journey so far had its own soundtrack, let’s just say the song ‘Life Is a Highway’ would for sure be on there.”
Georgie frowns. “Not, ‘On the Road Again’? I would have thought Willie Nelson for the win.”
“Nope. No Willie on this trip, funny enough. But I didn’t pick ‘Highway to Hell,’ did I?”
Georgie is in on the secret that I like to put a soundtrack to all the moments in my life. It’s a funny habit from when I was little that has stuck with me as I’ve grown up and moved into an adulthood-adjacent time in my life.
“Well, you’re here. I’m sure there will be more theme-song moments and memories to be made, now that you’re on the East Coast.” Georgie scans the room, whistling with approval. “This place is super sweet.”
“Thank you,” I say as I peek at the basket she’d discarded on top of a moving box. “Books! Perfect. I’ve got just the spot for them,” I say, nodding toward the built-in bookcases in the living room that flank the fireplace. It’s good to have a bookstore owner as a friend, let me tell you.
“When you said you were going to need to fill some shelves, I took that as a challenge,” she says with a wink. “Get ready, I’ve got more to bring by as soon as you say when.”
“Once I have a chance to go through the boxes and see how much space I’m actually taking up on those shelves, I will let you know.”
“Amazing,” Georgie coos as she claps her hands together. Turning around, she scans the room before pointing out the large bay window that faces the back of the property. “Ummm, that’s a big hedge.”
