Page 16 of Her Pretty Words

I wish my dad would think of my career and life’s purpose as more than a hobby. I wish he could see the layers that make up the stories I write, but most importantly, see me.

I wish the town I grew up in referred to me as more than “Mr. and Mrs. Brookes’ daughter” or “Walter’s fiancé.”

No one in my real life bothers to know me. But Grayson, a man I’ll never see again, strangely seemed to care.

Chapter 7

Macy

Istand in the short driveway of my grandparent’s home and lock my rental car. The air smells of salt, and the waves sing their calming song against the beach behind the house, but everything feels different. It’s almost as if I’m looking through dirty glasses. The once bright home is now faded, like I turned down the saturation of a picture.

I’ve never visited Sanibel in the fall. I always came for summer vacation. The shiny silver Volvo that I rented shouldn’t be parked in the spot my grandfather’s truck belongs.

Unlocking the front door with tears in my eyes, the hinges squeak as I prepare myself for what’s on the other side. I shut my eyes, but humidity slams into my face like a rough day at sea. It smells musty, like the air hasn’t circulated the house in years. If I focus, I can smell the lingering hint of my grandma’s flowery perfume. I can almost hear her contagious laugh echoing off these walls.

I slowly open my eyes but try not to look around as I remove my shoes and leave them by the door. The cold terrazzo floors feel nostalgic under my bare feet. I crank open the dozens of small jalousie windows. They squeak and groan like they have since I was a little girl.

My grandparents never bothered to grease them, even when my mom complained about the muscle strain it caused to open them. The worn-out silver trim is covered in a layer of dust.

The outside breeze blows through the narrow house, creating a sound you can only hear when you bring a seashell up to your ear. The home was built so you wouldn’t need an air conditioning unit, at least that’s what my grandparents always said. I go outback, sliding the glass door open so more wind can cool the house.

The ocean sparkles and shines, not a single cloud in the sky, contrasting my cold and cloudy days in Idaho. The sun rays tingle my skin.

I tuck my legs into myself on the porch swing, closing my eyes to listen to the waves. The wind chime I helped my grandma make is what sends the dominos flying to my emotions, and I lose it. I cry for the little girl who misses her grandparents, who never got to say goodbye. For the twenty-three-year-old, trapped in a life she’s wanted to escape since she can remember. For lost dreams.

I breathe the salty air and let myself pretend, just this once, that this is where I live. That my grandma is just inside, cooking some fresh sea food that my grandpa caught. I drift off into a peaceful sleep and wake sometime later face to face with a pelican. It’s standing only three feet away on the porch railing. “Shoo,” I tell him, using my hands to scare the creature off, but he stares at me, waiting for a treat like I’m another tourist to feed him.

I lift my eyebrows. “I’m not feeding you.”

It cocks its head, as though calling my bluff.

I cross my arms over my chest and go inside. The pelican stares at me through the glass door like it has a much higher IQ than I do. I scoff at the bird and click the lock into place.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen are all visible from where I stand. They aren’t sectioned off by walls. A breeze drifts in as though I were still outside, blowing delicate strands of my hair. Without a single light on, the walls glow orange from the setting sun.

There are dozens of dead bugs on the floor. I don’t know how I didn’t notice right away. I dig around the utility closet for a vacuum, but my grandparents—bless their old-fashioned hearts—never owned one. Instead, I find a small handheld broom and dustpan.

The cool floors are hard beneath my hands and knees as I get to work, sweeping up small spiders, moths, even a few palmetto bugs shriveled up on their backs.

With no air conditioning or circulation for years, the heat created the perfect home for these insects. After only a few minutes of cleaning, my shirt is soaked through and the flyaway hairs that always get in my face are slicked back by my own sweat. Once the floors are bug free, my stomach twists and lets out an angry sound.

I don’t know why I bother checking, but the fridge is empty, save for an old bottle of ketchup and a loaf of bread; I nearly gag while carrying to the trash can on the side of the house. I should’ve stopped by a grocery store on my way in from the airport.

I drag my suitcase into my bedroom. My grandma took me to a furniture store when I was fifteen, old enough that my taste was somewhat mature, so I wouldn’t grow tired of what I picked out.

Her logic still proves true. My heart sings at the sight of my bamboo bed. My nightstand and dresser are made of the same color wood as my bedframe. Pastel orange flowers swirl along the accent wall.

I chose the wallpaper because I wanted a permanent sunset in my bedroom. I believed it to be the most magical time of day, because each night a different painting lights up the sky. Sometimes it looks like the clouds caught fire, and other times it’s a gentle pink that fades into purple. But no matter what happens in life, the sun is always promised to set.

It’s one of the few things you can ever truly count on.

I open the closet to find my light blue bedding in a vacuum sealed bag. There are a few shriveled up bugs on the mattress, giving me the heebie-jeebies. Thankfully, there is a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, which I use to pick up the insects.

After cleaning the mattress, I spread the sheets onto the twin bed, putting covers on the pillows and finally fluffing out the comforter.

I unpack my suitcase, neatly folding my clothes into the drawers. I pull on a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt that saysI look better bent over a book,laughing to myself as I do so. I bring my hair into a half up half down ponytail, letting a few strands in the front loose.

I step into my white tennis shoes and go out the back door. The tires of my teal bike are flat, so I pump air into them and then put my keys and phone in the basket. I ride half of a mile to The BARnacle.