Page 58 of Every Step She Takes
Sadie
I must admit: I’ve truly outdone myself.
The seats from an old Windstar van have been converted into a mudroom bench.
There’s an antique chess set that makes a gorgeous statement end table.
Six dressers with murals painted across the drawers, three refinished dining room tables, nine reupholstered accent chairs, a dilapidated chest saved by wallpaper and epoxy.
Two cracked bathtubs that now work perfectly as raised garden beds.
An armoire-turned–coffee bar, and a coffee bar–turned–wine hutch and a broken piano that’s now a desk.
Four bookshelves built out of vintage doors and one massive kitchen island rebuilt from two old rolltop desks.
I scroll through my new Etsy page. Three months of hard work, each piece beautifully photographed by Vera during her visit a few weeks ago.
Sadie Designs Wells has already sold seven items. Granted, three of them were purchased by my mother, who lives with me, but at least that saved money on shipping.
The other sales were from Ari and Vera, and Rebecca, who bought a matching pair of Adirondack chairs I painted like pride flags, like the benches we saw on the way into Santiago.
Given that the Etsy page only went live an hour ago, I’m happy with those sales.
I close my laptop so I won’t be tempted to stare at the screen until the first stranger makes a purchase from my page, and I survey the empty showroom on the other side of the counter.
The badly scuffed floors, the dust outlines from pieces that sat unsellable for years.
The walls are checkerboarded shades of green, darker in the places where mirrors or artwork hung, and lighter in places where the sun slowly faded the paint my Nan picked out almost thirty years ago.
This morning, the last van came to take the remainder of the furniture from Live Wells Antiques.
It took three months to officially close the store.
I sold off our expensive pieces to other stores and auction houses at a discount.
I held weekend sales that Vi advertised on her Instagram.
I kept the damaged items—the scuffed and stained, the wobbly and the well-worn, the things no one wanted—and I gave them new life using the skills my Nan taught me.
I scoured garage sales and Goodwills and the dump. I picked up the garbage people leave on the curb with FREE signs taped to them, and now I have a stockpile of broken furniture to repurpose.
I have no idea if I’ll be able to support myself selling upcycled furniture online; I don’t even know if I’ll enjoy it long-term.
But for the first time in my life, I’m working toward finding my own dream, and I’m learning to live in the uncertainty.
I have a sizable amount of money in savings, since before the Camino, I never had time to spend my earnings, and that should float me for a little while.
It will at least give me time to figure out if this is the right path for me.
It’s sad to see the empty, echoey space that once held my Nan’s dream, but it’s also liberating .
This store has held me hostage my entire life, and I am finally free.
No twelve-hour days, no working six days a week, no busyness to use as an excuse not to live.
I’m no longer beholden to the store hours painted on the front door.
I’m no longer trapped in this dark, dusty room with my ghosts.
Nan was the one who loved preserving history; I’ve always loved reimagining it.
I have plans to convert the store into an apartment that we can rent out for extra income, but the back room—the place where my Nan taught me to paint with the grain, and how to use a random orbital sander, and how to reupholster a chair without compromising the historical value—will serve as my workshop as I try to launch my own business selling upcycled, DIY furniture.
I choose to believe Nan would have loved that for me.
I can hear two sets of footsteps on the backroom stairs, and I know what’s coming for me even before Vi bursts in with my mom toddling after her. “How did it go?” Vi demands.
“It went well. The moving van left about an hour ago, and—”
“Stop.” Vi holds up a hand. “I don’t care about that. How was the date ?”
“Tell us everything about her!” my mother squeals in excitement.
“Boundaries,” I remind them.
My mom lowers the enthusiasm level. “I mean, if you feel like sharing with us, we would love to hear about your date last night.”
I’ve been working on being more open with my mom and Vi, and they’ve been working on respecting my boundaries around my love life. It’s a steep learning curve for all of us.
“The date was fine. She was… fine.”
Vi smacks the counter. “You got to give us more than that! Now that you’re finally dating women, we need all the details !”
There aren’t really details, but I tell them what I can about Skye, the performance artist Ari set me up with.
It was a beautiful, late-August evening, so we met at Green Lake Park, and eventually walked to Bluebird for ice cream.
Skye told me about her upcoming one-woman show, When the Pussy Calls , and I showed her photos of my furniture.
At the end of the night, I promised to buy tickets to her show, and she said she was going to buy one of my bathtub garden beds as soon as my Etsy page was up.
Neither of us brought up the possibility of a second date.
Skye was my fourth first date since I got home from the Camino.
None of them have been amazing, but it’s shocking how different they’ve felt compared to dating men.
I don’t need a bet with my sister to cajole me into putting myself out there.
I never check the time, never use excuses to end the date early if I’m not feeling it.
I don’t force myself to make it work, and I don’t force myself to feel attraction.
On my first date with a woman, when I realized I wasn’t attracted to her, I didn’t feel suffocating shame about it. Just a flicker of disappointment.
Because I know when it’s meant to work, it will work.
“Skye was cool and interesting,” I try to explain, “but she wasn’t—”
“Mal?” Vi interrupts with accusation in her eyebrows.
I roll my eyes. This is always where these conversations end up. “No, that’s not—”
“Sadie. Darling.” My mom gives me her most pitying mom-face. “I’m worried that you’re wallowing, and that you won’t be able to move on from this heartbreak.”
“I think you might be projecting a little bit there…”
“You always have some weird excuse about why it can’t work with these women,” Vi points out in a well-executed mother-daughter double attack. “Just like you used to do with men.”
“Always? It’s been four women, and one of them was a former nun, so…”
“See? Excuses. You’re not over Mal.”
“I swear, I am.”
“Oh yeah? Then explain this .” Vi comes around the counter and yanks open a drawer hidden below where the register used to sit. She pulls something out, then slams it in front of me like it’s damning evidence. Peanut the Elephant stares up at me.
“That,” I say calmly, “is a Beanie Baby. You’re probably too young to remember, but there was a time when people collected these because they believed they’d be worth money someday.”
“I know what a Beanie Baby is,” Vi huffs. “What I want to know is why you’ve been carrying around this Beanie Baby for the last three months?”
“Oh, well, you see, this one actually is worth money.”
Mal’s Hokas, her toe socks, her container of Vaseline—those are things I stole from her accidentally. But Peanut… Peanut, I stole with intention that night in Caldas de Reis. While she was in the bath, I snuck Peanut out of her pack and I hid him under my pillow.
I wanted one physical reminder of the real Mal—the version of herself she showed me at the vineyard. And now my sister is using Peanut as proof that I’m not over whatever it was between us.
“Peanut is a souvenir.”
“Oh, Sadie.” My mom also comes around the counter to wrap me in her soft, yet patronizing arms. “After your father left, I would sleep on top of a pile of the clothes he left behind. I understand.”
I attempt to wriggle out of her suffocating embrace. “This is nothing like that.”
I truly am over Mal. Sure, there were a few days in the beginning when I couldn’t say her name without crying, a few nights when I slept with Peanut pressed against my cheek.
There were times when all I could do was replay every conversation we had, wondering what I could’ve said differently to change the ending.
There were times I would touch myself while thinking about her, the ache in me almost too much to bear.
When Vera uploaded over five thousand photos to the tour group’s shared album, I spent hours clicking through every single one, searching for the candid shots of us: dancing in ?ncora and Redondela, walking together along the Atlantic coast and through Galician countryside.
Mal cutting my hair in Esposende and holding my hand while I got tattooed in A Guarda.
The two of us sitting across from each other at every meal, sitting next to each other at every sharing circle.
And I wept to see the expression on my face in those photos, so obviously and hopelessly in love with her.
Until one day, I could talk about what happened without crying at all.
I could open the dating apps without feeling sick to my stomach, and I could watch Property Brothers without missing her, and I could hear the ding of a WhatsApp notification without deluding myself into thinking that message would be the one where she admits she misses me too.
Last night, I ate pistachio ice cream on my date with Skye, and I didn’t feel heartbroken at all. One day I’ll be able to listen to Madonna without feeling heartbroken too. I’ll be able to look at the tattoo on my wrist or catch a glimpse of my short hair in a mirror and not feel Mal all over me.
“I am over Mal,” I try to convince my mom and Vi. I try to convince myself .
Because I will be over her. Everyone gets over their first love eventually.
“In fact, we’ve been talking for the past several weeks, totally and completely as friends.”
“Oh, of fucking course you have!” Vi throws her arms in the air. “Fucking lesbians !”
Sadie
As promised, here’s the link to my Etsy page
Please don’t feel obligated to buy something 12:14 p.m.
Mal
I won’t buy something 12:16 p.m.
Mal
I’ll buy everything ! 12:16 p.m.
Sadie
Please don’t. This is my entire inventory and it took me three months to get here. 12:17 p.m.
Mal
Okay, okay, I will try to show some restraint. 12:17 p.m.
Mal
I’m watching Buying and Selling right now, and here’s what I want to know: where is this magical Property Brothers world where it’s somehow always both a buyers’ and sellers’ market? 12:21 p.m.
Sadie
Calgary 12:22 p.m.
Mal
Ah. So is that where I should buy a house? 12:22 p.m.
Sadie
You’re buying a house?? 12:23 p.m.
Mal
Well, technically, I already own like 12 houses. But I’m thinking about actually living in one. 12:24 p.m.
Sadie
Where??? 12:24 p.m.
Mal
Not Calgary, apparently
It’s shockingly expensive
Isn’t this place north of Montana???? 12:25 p.m.
Sadie
You’re a millionaire though… 12:26 p.m.
Mal
Which means I know a shoddy investment when I see one
But since I can do most of the work for the foundation remotely, I can basically choose to settle anywhere I want 12:28 p.m.
Sadie
OH MY GOD!!!!!
A stranger just bought something from my Etsy!!!!!!!! 12:29 p.m.
Mal
If they bought the rolltop desk kitchen island, I’m going to riot 12:30 p.m.
Sadie
No it was a bathtub garden bed 12:31 p.m.
Sadie
Never mind it doesn’t count
I know the woman who bought it 12:35 p.m.
Sadie
We sort of went on a date yesterday 12:37 p.m.
Mal
Oh 12:37 p.m.
Sadie
I can’t believe she actually bought it! That’s so kind! 12:38 p.m.
Mal
Definitely sounds like a keeper 12:39 p.m.
Sadie
Wait, so where are you going to buy a house??? 1:15 p.m.
Mal
I have no idea 1:16 p.m.