I know I’ve got to look insane—a city slicker rolling two huge bags for a weekend visit. No self-awareness. High-maintenance.
But perhaps for the first time in my life, I really don’t give a shit.
The Airbnb I rented is only a ten-minute walk. Redwoods as tall as buildings form a thick wall on the edge of town. Ranch-style houses are tucked away in the thickets of trees, small driveways paved for their cars. Bright sunlight filters through, pouring out holes poked between leaves.
I pass by a tiny strip mall with an honest-to-God general store. It seems fairly busy for a Friday afternoon. Plenty of stares are thrown my way as I weave around the little town, my heels like gunshots cracking through the air. This is the antithesis of my place in San Francisco, where I almost always hear the constant rumble of traffic. Here, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional voice.
I won’t last three days. I can almost hear the mechanic’s grating tone: Are your diamond slippers chafing, San Francisco?
I have no idea why Sophie would get married here. Like me, she grew up in the city. Maybe she saw a forest-themed wedding on Pinterest and decided she had to have one, too.
Fuck, I’ll have to tell her Mark isn’t coming, and she’ll want to know why.
Not now.
My arms ache with the effort of dragging both suitcases onto a road I recognize from the reservation. Walk down Main Street for about five minutes, and then turn right onto Montana Avenue. It’s the third house on the left.
My ankle wobbles as I walk onto the gravel driveway toward the sprawling ranch house with a screened-in porch. There’s a huge garage. The door’s open to reveal a workshop with a half-finished motorcycle. There're bits of chrome lying everywhere. I pass it and glance into the windows, wondering what the owner is like. He said he’d stop by to introduce himself later.
I’m a little worried, to be honest. The reviews weren’t great, most of them complaining about the rudeness of the owner.
If I could, I’d give this place ZERO stars. The owner is unbelievably rude. The water in the shower got cold, and when I brought it to the owner’s attention, he told me to ‘suck it up.’
The only hotel in town was fully booked. Apparently this is a popular spot for people visiting Yosemite, and June happens to be a busy month.
Hopefully he’s not as much of an ass as the town’s mechanic.
The Airbnb is a small in-law unit attached to the house. I find the keys in the lock hanging on the door, which I unlock. It swings open into a studio apartment, the queen bed immediately on my right. There’s a kitchenette with black granite—just a single burner and a sink. The floor is reclaimed hardwood. It groans as I shift my weight. There’s a bathroom with a shower down the tiny hall, along with a closet. And that’s it. It’s a small, shitty little place. And I love it.
I love it for simply being the kind of lodgings my ex-fiancé would loathe. If it doesn’t have room service, he won’t stay there. Mark would take one look at this place, and he’d demand we’d stay at the Ahwahnee Lodge that costs eight hundred a night. I can just imagine him walking around, whining about the place: What sort of ‘hotel’ makes its guests sleep on polyester sheets? There’s no mini-bar. How are we going to feed ourselves? Oh my God. Look. There are peppermints on the pillows. Only amateurs do that. Let’s get out now.
He’d be embarrassed just to see me sprawled on the queen-sized bed.
I kick off my pumps the moment I’m inside, dragging my suitcases through the narrow threshold. The door shuts, and I sit on the mattress. Dread claws at my stomach as I slide my phone out of my purse.
My worried face reflects off the dark screen. I almost wish there weren’t electrical outlets here. But I plug the charger into the wall and connect it to my smartphone. It blooms to life, the green icon indicating I have ten text messages from Mark and at least five voicemails. My hand shakes as I select every single message and wipe them out without looking or listening. I’m hundreds of miles away from San Francisco. The sky won’t fall if I ignore him for a few days.
My suitcase rocks the floor as I tip it over, and then