Page 10 of Knot Baked Out For This
Inside: shadow and quiet and the overwhelming smell of "previous tenant made interesting life choices."
The place is empty except for a single battered couch under the window that looks like it's survived at least three decades, possibly a small war, and definitely some questionable romantic encounters I don't want to think about too hard. A listless breeze drifts through an open window, carrying the scent of baked apples and industrial-strength disinfectant that suggests someone tried really, really hard to cover up something I probably don't want to know about.
The floor is pine, scuffed to absolute hell and back, telling stories in its scratches and stains that I can't read but candefinitely feel through my shoes. There are two rooms—main space and a closet-sized bedroom that makes "cozy" sound generous—plus a cramped bathroom where the showerhead tilts at an angle like it's embarrassed to be seen in public and would rather we all just pretended it doesn't exist.
I dump the first boxes by the front door with more force than strictly necessary and kick it closed behind me with my foot because my hands are still full and I've given up on grace approximately three hours ago.
Then I make the critical decision to set Muffin free.
She emerges from her carrier with the regal disdain of a queen returning from exile, amber-green eyes flashing a warning that needs no translation in any language: touch me right now and I will end you. Her coat is pure Halloween incarnate—swirling copper, black, and cream patches that catch every stray ray of sunlight filtering through the grimy windows and somehow make her look like she's glowing with barely contained rage. She's small, barely eight pounds of fury and judgment, but she moves with the authority of a parade marshal who's seen some shit and isn't impressed by any of it.
I barely get the carrier set down before she starts her official inspection, because apparently we're doing this now, we're having the full property evaluation.
First, the perimeter. She moves along the walls with the intensity of a detective at a crime scene, sniffing each corner like she's searching for evidence of past crimes or possibly planning future ones. Window ledges get thoroughly examined. The space under the couch gets a full investigation that involves her entire head disappearing into darkness, and I briefly worry she's going to find something horrifying, but she emerges with just a dust bunny on her nose.
She shakes it off with profound annoyance—like the dust bunny personally offended her—and continues her audit of the premises.
She pauses at the far wall, where some prior tenant left a gouge that's shaped suspiciously like a bread knife. Or possibly just regular violence. It's genuinely hard to tell, and I'm not sure I want to know which.
Muffin looks at me, one eyebrow raised in that way only cats can manage, silently asking what kind of establishment I'm running here.
"Don't judge," I tell her, because I can feel the judgment radiating off her in waves. "We all have pasts. This apartment has a past. I have a past. You probably have a past I don't know about involving that house three neighborhoods over that you disappeared to for two days."
She's already moved on, tail flicking with the precision of a metronome keeping time to a song only she can hear and only she understands.
The window is next—the real test, the moment of truth. South-facing, overlooking Maple Street with all its aggressive autumn charm and questionable decorating choices. There's a ledge that's actually perfect, wide enough for both sunlight and a queenly calico with strong opinions about literally everything.
Muffin hops up with the grace of someone who's never doubted herself for a single moment in her life. She circles once, testing the angle of the sun. Circles again, checking the view and finding it acceptable. Then she flops into a patch of warmth with a satisfied grunt that suggests she's made her decision, her tail curling into the shape of a cinnamon roll that's either adorable or her way of mocking my profession.
Probably both.
She's home.
I wish it felt that easy for me. Just walk in, circle twice, decide this is acceptable and commit. But I've never been good at that—the committing part, the accepting-things-as-they-are part, the not-overthinking-every-single-decision-until-it-becomes-a-crisis part.
I peel off my hoodie—which is approximately seventy percent flour at this point, ten percent cat hair, and twenty percent my own anxiety sweat—drop it on the couch where it lands with a soft whump, and start the marathon of hauling the rest of my life up from the van.
Box by box. Trip by trip. Baking supplies that seemed reasonable when I packed them and now seem excessive. Clothes that haven't fit right in two years but I keep anyway because "maybe I'll get back to that size" or "maybe I'll learn to tailor" or maybe I just have hoarding tendencies I haven't fully examined. Secondhand plates from the thrift store that almost match if you squint and don't think too hard about it. The "Emergency Pumpkin" duffel bag that's mostly sweatpants and herbal teas with names like "Calming Meadow" and "Serenity Now" that have never once actually calmed me or brought serenity to any moment of my life.
Eventually the stairwell looks even worse than when I started, like a moving company exploded and then gave up halfway through. Sweat trickles down my spine in a way that's deeply unpleasant. My thighs burn with the fire of someone who's been meaning to start exercising for approximately six years and keeps putting it off.
I wish I could blame the flour bin—that thing weighs approximately one million pounds and may actually be a black hole in disguise—but no, I'm just catastrophically out of shape and in denial about it.
Upstairs, Muffin has claimed her throne by the window and is tracking every single move I make with eyes narrowed likeshe's scoring me for style and technique and finding me severely wanting in both categories.
"I'm doing my best," I tell her on my seventh trip up, wheezing slightly.
She slow-blinks, which in cat language means either "I love you" or "I'm deeply disappointed in your life choices." With Muffin, it's usually the second one.
I stack the boxes by category because I'm nothing if not aggressively organized when everything else in my life is complete chaos and spiraling out of control. Pastry gear in one corner—mixers, specialty pans, that weird bundt mold I've used exactly twice. Pantry staples in another—flour, sugar, the fancy vanilla extract I splurged on. "Hazel's Secrets" gets its own stack, though it's definitely not porn, mostly just old Boyz II Men CDs that I refuse to apologize for and some ugly Christmas mugs I inherited from my grandmother and can't bring myself to throw away even though they're objectively hideous.
The last bin is labeled "Personal" in handwriting that looks shakier than I remember, like past-Hazel knew this moment was coming and was already anxious about it.
I freeze, staring at the box like it might spontaneously combust or develop teeth.
Inside, I know exactly what's waiting. Framed photos I can't look at but can't throw away—pictures of a version of myself I barely recognize, smiling next to someone who turned out to be terrible in ways I'm still unpacking in therapy. Scent candles from my old bond that I should've burned or buried or launched into the sun but didn't because apparently I'm a glutton for emotional punishment and bad decisions. A silver necklace I'll never wear again—can't wear again, the weight of it a reminder of everything that went wrong—but can't quite let go of because some part of me is still that person who thought forever meant something.
My stomach sours, that familiar twist of nausea that comes with memories I'd rather set on fire than examine too closely.
