way, what is with your mismatching appliances? I’m not picky, but a stainless-steel dishwasher with a white fridge . . .”
“You,” Bree retorted, “not picky? Every single room in this house is the same color.”
He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, my gray walls don’t have quite the charm as your wallpapered ones. But at least I don’t have creepy children on the wallpaper of my dining room.”
She smiled as she crossed one leg over the other and laughed in an indignant way. “What they are is adorable. Adorable little kids running down a hill carrying baskets.”
He pulled out the knife and began chopping a tomato. “Creepy little kids chasing a poor old man down a hill while carrying baskets.”
“He’s not an old man.”
“He’s bald.”
“It’s a boy with a baseball cap.”
“He’s a bald old man being harassed by the village children.” He pointed his knife toward the window. “You see it from my angle.”
While the pot of chili simmered, and after much argument, the experiment began. She went back to her house, flicked on the light switch to the dining room, and then came back so they could stand side by side at his window, observing as if they were in an art gallery.
“I still don’t see it,” she said, her fingers pressed to her chin as she squinted from his kitchen window to hers.
“Turn your head,” he said, tilting his head a few inches.
She watched him, then did so herself.
Waited a few moments.
“Nope.”
“Squint a little,” he said.
She squinted, then tilted her head the other direction and squinted again. “Nope. Just an adorable little boy followed by his clan.”
“You’ll see it better from this window,” he said and moved toward the window above the counters. She followed.
They ended up trying every window facing her house. And then, when she had finally conceded to a slightly disturbing image, she dragged him over to her house to see the wallpaper for himself—where he then conceded to it not being as creepy as it seemed from a distance.
Thirty minutes later, Bree sat with bent knees up to her chin as she dragged the last of the crumbly cornbread across the bowl of chili. They’d talked more of his family, her family, how she felt about life since leaving Gatlinburg, how he felt about the Barter bid. It was easy, talking to her. Almost as easy as it had been that first night. And for the first time since moving in, the house started to feel like a home.
She popped the last bit of cornbread into her mouth as she looked at the freshly painted wall.
“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
He raised a brow. He spoke around his mouthful of cornbread. “I’m sorry. Is this a trick question?”
Her eyes turned from the wall to him. She made a face. “Really, Chip. Do you think there maybe is something wrong with me, that I can’t find anything that makes me happy? Really happy?”
“You seem to be happy with lots of things. Heck, you look like you’re having the time of your life with that chili.”
Bree, who indeed looked both happy and relaxed, rubbed the last of the crumbs off her T-shirt. “No, I mean beyond the chili—which, for the record, is a solid A-minus. I mean with jobs. And experiences. And life in general. I just feel like sometimes I can’t enjoy the moment as fully as I’m supposed to. I just wonder if maybe something’s wrong with me. Like I just can’t get filled up to the top like everybody else.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t believe anything in this life can fully satisfy. Not in the way we were designed to feel.”
“But why can everybody else be content and not me? Look at you. You seem perfectly content having this house that you’re always working on.”
He nodded. “That’s true. To the extent that I can be, I am.”
“And your job. You are passionate about your job. It’s obvious. Just like Birdie’s passionate about theatre. And my best friend was passionate about her job and now about parenting all of her kids. Everyone around me seems to have found something that makes them want to get up in the morning. But me?” Bree tossed her crumpled paper towel on the table. “I’ve tried so many jobs at this point, Chip. I feel like at some point I have to admit that maybe it’s not the job’s fault. It’s me. There’s gotta be something wrong. With me.”
She pressed her lips together as she looked at him,