I reach for a bubble-wrapped object from the box when more pressing needs demand my attention. The low rumble begins in my belly and ripples outward. Unpacking is a sure way to lose track of time, but I’ve been at it for at least an hour. The tips of my fingers are one package away from forming blisters. As if the paper cuts weren’t enough damage. I glance down at my nails, mentally adding a manicure to my growing to-do list.
My stomach releases another grumbling protest, refusing to be ignored. My fridge and cupboards are still empty—quite unfortunate when the demands are ratcheting louder inside me. My appetite has always been rather insistent, and this is no exception. It would’ve been easy enough for me to grab some snacks on my way, but I wasn’t thinking that logically. My options at this point are limited.
I wince, pinching my features as I scan the previously spotless room. It didn’t take long for me to turn the space into a complete disaster. Tissue paper, Styrofoam peanuts, and cardboard explode across the carpet. I’m still working on the skill of being neat and tidy in my adulthood. I can use the distraction of a trip into town to delay further organizing my mess. Plus, I look forward to getting acquainted with Bampton Valley and the community as a whole. I have my fingers crossed that the residents are friendly to newcomers. But to be fair, it will serve me right if everyone gives my attempts at being social the cold shoulder. A huff rolls out of me. No, I refuse to let any shred of negativity interfere with my restored upbeat outlook.
Using that internal push as additional incentive, I whip out my phone and get tapping. It only takes a quick search to discover that the local supermarket is within walking distance. A few miles will be a breeze after hoofing it across campus the past four years. I grab my purse and keys, pausing in front of the mirror for a once-over. Twisting this way and that reveals the layer of funk I gained from sorting through my piles of stuff. The hours behind the wheel certainly play a role. Showering would be wise to wash off the crud, but the beast in my belly won’t wait. My cutoff shorts and basic tank-top aren’t glamorous, but I’m not trying to win a pageant. I’m presentable enough. How many first impressions will I make on a fast trip to the store?
A hollow pang followed by a fierce growl sets me in motion, as if the reminder is necessary. I switch off the lights on my way to the door. The floorboards creak with my retreating steps. Hints of cinnamon and a whisper of belonging follow me out. If I strain hard enough, I can see a vision of what’s to come painted on the walls. That inkling seems to click as my feet cross the threshold. It’s not the swift slide of the deadbolt locking. This reminds me of a gut instinct. My childhood was jam-packed with rich family traditions. Desperation to create my own rituals coils inside me. Establishing this as a Saturday afternoon routine would take minimal effort. Minus the cleaning, of course. Mondays are bad enough on their own and deserve all the chores.
Strolling down the driveway puts a smile on my face. The leafy canopies above protect the sidewalk from baking to a crisp. Not that the sunny climate is unbearable for early summer. With highs reaching the upper seventies, mid-June offers pleasant enough temperatures. Compared to central Minnesota, the humidity isn’t as oppressive. This heat is drier and more manageable. No one will hear me complain about sweating less.
I contemplate popping in earbuds, but blocking out the rainbow of elements would be a crime. Gabby birds tweet from their nests. A delicate breeze tickles my arms, and splashes of vibrant colors preen at me from all sides. My senses get an all-inclusive experience unlike anything the smog of big cities serve. Most of the suburbs I’m familiar with are bland in comparison. Maybe I should take notes for Vannah and the other girls. This almost feels like a case study about the grass always being greener. But treating this opportunity as a research project would probably be in poor taste. Even so, I can’t stop myself from mentally devouring every detail. When my friends come to visit, I’ll be properly prepared to give a tour.
“Well, hello there. You’re a new face.”
I shield my eyes and turn toward the chipper voice. A woman around my age waves from across the street.
I send her a grin in return. “Hey, I certainly am. Just moving in today, actually.”
She jogs toward me, not bothering to look for cars. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Sondra.”
“Audria.” I accept her hand for a brief shake.
“Oh, I like that. It’s unique.”
“Thanks. That’s my parents’ attempt at making sure their kids have a special flair since there are five of us.”
She barely bats an eyelash at my larger-than-average family. “Are you far from home? The baby flying the coop?”
“Am I that transparent?” A cringe tugs at my features.
Her shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug. “Nope. I recognize the story. Mine is a bit similar.”
“You didn’t grow up here?”
Sondra tips her head back with a laugh. “Lord, no. I’m from Chicago originally. Never did I ever picture myself planting roots in a tiny alcove such as Bampton Valley. Yet here I am, six years later, with a mortgage and career.”
My shock stuns me silent for a beat. “Wow, and I thought relocating from Minneapolis required a major shift in perspective.”
Her wink hums with secret knowledge. “It’s all relative. You’ll get wrapped in the sweet fold and never want to leave.”
I allow my lips to lift at her suggestion. Vannah had slapped down a similar verdict. “Oh, I’m only staying until next spring. No doubt this town will try to suck me in, though. At the end of my lease, I have every intention of wiggling my way back out. No offense.”
“None taken.” She quirks a brow, but not in a haughty way. “It looks like you’re on a mission, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hi. Holler if you ever need anything. That’s my place there.” Sondra points to a yellow house three down from mine on the opposite side.
“I appreciate that. It’s great to meet you.”
“Likewise. We’ll be seeing plenty of each other, I’m sure.”
“Until then.” With a wiggle of my fingers, I resume my hunt for food.
Pedestrians cross my path, becoming more frequent with each passing block. Their greetings are genuine, and I find it second nature to return their gestures with the same kindness. My earlier reservations prove to be unwarranted.
Perhaps the most startling part of this outing is the nonexistent motorized traffic. I see a handful of cars on the road, but the only evidence of congestion is people milling about on foot. I hang a right at the next corner and smile at the street sign. Is it cliché that Main Street is the focal point of town? The common name offers a solid reference point, regardless of how overused it might seem. I would be hard-pressed to find someone who couldn’t identify a place that has a Main Street. That gives us a way to connect, even from opposite spectrums.
It’s impossible to miss the patterns in the crowd. I’m not talking about behavior quirks or transportation preferences, although those might be part of the package. I spy so much plaid and denim that feeling left out is almost mandatory. There are enough cowboy hats and belt buckles to host a rodeo. As a self-proclaimed taste tester, sampling this rustic style is just beyond the initial trial phase.