Chapter Text
You’re on the fifth page of Zillow, and it’s starting to feel like a digital graveyard. Every apartment you click on is either too ancient, too far, or way out of your price range. Sometimes all three. Your finger scrolls lazily on the touchpad, eyes glazed over the endless carousel of empty rooms, beige carpets, and lighting so harsh it could interrogate a confession out of you.
The vintage red sofa you’re sitting on has developed a permanent dip in your spot, a dent that probably mirrors your current emotional state. You’re curled up in your corner of Grace’s couch, chin resting on your knee that’s propped up on the cushion, laptop balanced against the armrest. Your hair’s twisted into a messy bun that’s seen better days, and you’re wearing Wyatt’s old gym T-shirt.
Shit. You hadn’t even realised it was his until a faint whiff of men’s deodorant hit you like a bad flashback. You have been on autopilot ever since the breakup that you didn't recall putting it on this morning. Wyatt’s T-shirt. Great. You make a mental note to ceremoniously burn it in a furnace. Not that you have a furnace. You live in Southern California. But still, the thought of flames engulfing the cotton fabric feels oddly cathartic.
It’s been four months since you caught him in bed with Sylvia in your apartment. You were too shocked to react. You didn't even argue with him or make a huge scene. You simply packed your belongings and moved out the day after. Sylvia's a fitness influencer (tiktok @sylviaspoon), reformer Pilates enthusiast, and self-proclaimed “glute builder.” Her followers might believe her when she swears her butt is "built, not bought” but your friends suspected that she had a BBL. Grace even zoomed in on one of Sylvia’s posts once, pointing out a suspicious shape near her hips. You're afraid to ask how many hours she spent investigating.
Over time, you realised that Wyatt’s sudden obsession with fitness wasn’t just about “getting healthy.” It was because of another woman. He started weighing every gram of food and buying a small pharmacy’s worth of supplements. Always going on about "hitting his macros." When you suggested tagging along to the gym so you could work out together, he brushed it off with some excuse about how it “wasn’t really a place for a girl like you.” Then he even commented that you probably wouldn’t be able to keep up anyway.
“Paul! No! Don't you dare!” Grace’s voice snaps you out of your spiral of humiliation and memory. Her tuxedo cat, Paul, looks over his shoulder guiltily as he was caught biting the new addition to the household. A dracaena plant, its long, glossy leaves practically begging to be chewed on. Grace, sitting cross-legged on the floor with yarn in her lap, waves a crochet hook at him like it’s a sword. “Paul, if you vomit one more time, I swear I’m stripping you off your wet food privileges,” she says, her red curls bouncing with every swat.
Paul flicks his tail, undeterred.
You can’t help it, a small smile tugs at your lips. Grace’s apartment is a jungle. Not in the metaphorical, lively-energy way, but in the literal sense that she’s two plants away from needing a machete to reach the kitchen. “Grace,” you say, eyes still focused on your laptop, “I think your living room is a plant short to qualify as a forest reserve.”
She looks up at you from her crocheting, beaming. “I know, right?? Aren't they all gorgeous? My babies are thriving! I'm proud to say that my monstera deliciosa is finally looking monstrous. I even named him Big D!” You roll your eyes, “Yet, you’re one pothos away from losing Paul in here.” Grace's eyes widens and she gasps. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my babies purify the air. You know and I know how the air in LA is like. You should be thanking me for the clean oxygen.” she narrows her green eyes while pointing her hook at you.
Paul, the supposed beneficiary of said oxygen, chooses that exact moment to attempt a stealthy bite on the dracaena again. Grace lunges forward with her crochet hook, yarn flying, and he darts away with an indignant meow. Then, Paul saunters over to the hallway, ensuring a safe distance from Grace's hook, plops himself down, and begins to groom himself.
You shake your head and continue scrolling. It’s a never-ending loop. Studio apartments that look like storage units, bungalows that cost as much as a kidney (or two) and places that insist on describing themselves as “cozy” when they actually mean “claustrophobic.”
Grace hums under her breath, looping pastel yarn around her hook, already halfway through what looks like another bag. She’s been crocheting everything as of late. Bags, stuffed keychains, coasters, and even a headband for Paul once. That reel went viral, mostly because halfway through wearing it, Paul launched himself into a frenzied zoomie circuit and unraveled the entire thing.
Now @knotsograceful has gained over twenty thousand followers on Instagram.
You sigh, loud enough that she looks up. “Still no luck?”
“Nope. Everything’s either from last year or way too expensive,” you say, clicking out of yet another listing. “[Y/N], you know you can stay as long as you need, right?” she says gently and pats your thigh. “You’re not a bother. I mean, the couch is technically vintage and you might be accelerating its demise, but I don’t mind.” You laugh and gave her a side eye, “You’ve said that every week for the past four months. I’m starting to think you’re the one in denial.”
She gives you a look, the kind that says she knows you’re deflecting. “i cannot deny that what you've gone through is a lot. There’'s no timeline for healing. You take all the time you need.” You nod, even though you’re not sure you believe that. You’ve spent countless nights staring at the ceiling to know you can’t keep using heartbreak as an excuse for inertia. “Yeah, I know... But it’s time. I need my own place. I can’t wallow forever.”
“And yet you’re wearing his T-shirt,” she points out, not even glancing up from her stitches. You look down and groan. “Ugh, I hate that you’re observant.” She says smugly, “I’m an artist, I crochet and I notice things.” You mumble something about selective vision and go back to your scrolling. Then, something catches your eye.
A new listing popped up as you refreshed the webpage. A unit in a suburb you’ve never heard of called Willow Haven. The name sounds charming in a slightly suburban, Stepford kind of way. The price isn’t ridiculous, the photos look decent, and there’s an actual view of trees instead of another apartment’s laundry room window.
Your heart does a small, hopeful flutter. Then you scroll again, and another listing pops up right below it. A guesthouse in a private estate. You blink. A guesthouse? For rent?
The photos are pretty. Golden light filtering through tall windows, wooden floors, cozy furniture, and what looks like a small garden out back. It even has a pool. The price seems… suspiciously reasonable. You tilt your head. “Huh.”
Grace notices your shift in tone and scoots closer. “Ooo... What’s that one?”
“A guesthouse. In Willow Haven.” You turn the laptop toward her. “It’s really nice, actually. Look at that kitchen.” Grace leans in, squinting. “Whoa. That’s nice. Wait, what’s the rent?” You tell her. She lets out a low whistle. “Okay, that’s… cheap. Like, someone’s-forgot-to-add-a-zero cheap. But, I believe there's always a catch. Lemme guess... Haunted? Mold? Landlord’s a serial killer?” You laugh. “You’re so reassuring, thank you.”
“I’m just saying, it’s always the nice guesthouse in the woods where people disappear,” she says, sounding completely serious. “I'd root for you to be the survivor, though.”
“Grace!”
She puts up her hands in a mock surrender, smiling. “Hey, I’m supportive while also being realistic.”
You can’t help but stare at the photos again. It’s warm and inviting. There’s something about it. The quiet, the distance, the sense of maybe belonging somewhere new. It's a little further away from your office but you'll make it work. You imagine yourself there for a moment. Cooking breakfast, brewing coffee in that sunny kitchen, watering your own plant (singular, because you are not Grace), maybe even laughing again without the ache that sits behind it. “I'm gonna reach out to them,” you say.
Grace smiles. “Great! New beginnings! And maybe the landlord is just… a hot, muscular introvert who bakes bread in nothing but an apron and minds his own business.” You snort. “Yeah, and maybe Paul’s gonna stop eating your plants and become a vegetarian.” Paul meows from the hallway. You suspect that he was mocking you. Grace sighs dramatically. “One can dream.”
You smile, looking around her living room. You observe the plants on the floor, the bookshelves, the overflowing bundles of yarn, the beautiful mess that somehow feels like love. You’ve been safe here, cocooned in her kindness. But safety isn’t the same as moving on.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, scrolling down the listing. “Let’s find out who owns the mysterious guesthouse in Willow Haven.”
Grace leans back looking up at you, eyes glinting. “If they ask for your blood type on the application, run.” You roll your eyes. "I bet you'll save me from crazy landlords one yarn at a time."
Still, you can’t shake the spark of excitement bubbling up inside you. Maybe this is it. This is the first step out of the fog of wallowing in self pity. Or maybe, as Grace might say, the beginning of a true-crime documentary on Netflix. Either way, you take a deep breath, and click Apply.