Night Falls

Eight

One bathroom break and several snacks later, the sun was starting to set as the black car rolled off the freeway and into grassy lands, the warm glow of dusk reflecting off the blades that swayed in the cool breeze beyond the confines of the car.

There had only been one small town we had passed through, with a firehouse and bar all on the same street. The few cars that had been parked along the road were at least fifteen years old, and the only person you saw was an old man in plaid with a cap so low I couldn't see his eyes. The entire drive through town only lasted through Lemonade, and soon the paved roads had turned to gravel and loose rocks hopped off the ground and into the black paint of the car, causing Scott to wince with every tap and thump that echoed above the sounds of Formation.

There wasn't a single house along the empty countryside, and not a single car had passed us by since we got off the exit. And just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, I saw it; at first, just a silhouette, quick and fleeting through the tree line that obscured the view, but as we drove further, with no intention of turning, finer details began to appear. A small house, white and plain, with faded black shutters, and a small, but empty porch. The door had been red at some point, and as we slightly turn left, driving through the line of trees and into a partially paved driveway, I see the color had been diminished to more of a pink than a red.

The radio shuts off as Scott throws the car in park, a silence engulfing us as I stare out the window at my new home. It wasn't awful; it looked like an everyday country house that had probably been built in the 1930s if I had to guess, and had seen many occupants come and go over the years. It wasn't worn down, though it certainly wasn't kept up, but I was sure that if it didn't get a facelift soon, it was only a few years away from being condemned.

A car door opens, and I glance over my shoulder as Scott steps out without a word, the trunk popping open as he shuts his door. Dirt kicks up under him as he moves around the car, and as he hauls my duffle bags out, I figure it's time to join him, whether I want to or not.

With quiet movements, I step out of the car, my eyes still taking in the house as the trunk slams shut, and Scott appears next to me.

"Not exactly the Ritz." He smiles down at me, the lump in his throat bobbing as he clearly tries to break the ice.

"Home sweet home." I sigh, reaching my hand out to take one of the bags from him so that he'll have a free hand to get me inside.

"Thanks," he mutters as he strides ahead of me, and with two steps, is up the three porch stairs. He pulls opens the screen door with a rusted screech before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a key, placing it in the scratched lock and opening the front door. I hold the screen for him as he steps inside before I follow, stopping just across the threshold as I take my new home.

The front living space is open, with dark wood floors that probably haven't been redone since the house was first built. To the left of the doorway is a dining room, with a table as dark as the floors settled in the middle with six matching chairs surrounding it. Across the way is the living room, two green couches that were probably picked up off the side of the road framing a small tv with bunny ears on top. There's a dirty rug that once was white with a coffee table resting on top of it, reminding me of the Good Will furniture I had furnished my house with my senior year of college.

Directly ahead of me is a small archway that peeks into the kitchen, nothing but green countertops and a sink visible from where I'm standing, the staircase to the left taking up much of the tiny hallway that leads to the back of the house.

All in all, it's pretty much exactly what I expected.

Scott had placed the bag he had been carrying at the foot of the stairs before disappearing to the back of the house, and I take a few small steps to pick it up, deciding to head upstairs and check out the bedroom situation.