Page 9 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

FOUR

The Realtor’s shiny import car looked out of place next to the rusted mailbox and the dented wheelbarrow that hadn’t moved since early spring.

Their mom had debated hauling it away, but Jules convinced her it added character to the property.

Now, it was overflowing with flowers in every color of the rainbow.

Jules stood at their bedroom window, fingers curled tight around the curtain’s edge, watching their mom put on a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She pointed toward the chicken coop like it was some whimsical feature in a lifestyle magazine, not the place where Jules had once cried over a dying hen and buried it under a rock painted with daisies.

Jules caught their mom’s eye through the glass. For a second, the smile faded. She looked tired, her mouth trembling at the edges. She opened her hand like she might wave, but let it fall to her side as she plastered the smile back on her face. Jules looked away, unable to watch their life unravel.

Her bright, performative smile wasn’t for them. It was for the stranger in pearls and a blazer, the one nodding politely like she understood what it meant to walk this land with calloused bare feet.

Inside, the house felt like a skeleton of what it once was.

The air smelled wrong. Like someone had tried to scrub away the memories with lemon cleaner and fake linen spray.

The garlic and rosemary scents that lingered in the kitchen were gone.

Even the faint, comforting trace of paint thinner that usually clung to Jules’s skin and clothes had been drowned out by neutral everything that would be more appealing to buyers.

Their room was the worst of it. Canvases lined up like they were waiting for pickup day at an art school.

Bins stood stacked and labeled, too neat, too final.

The desk sat bare except for a single coaster.

It didn’t echo with music or half-finished sketches anymore—just silence.

Cold and sterile. It reminded them of Keaton’s office when they’d gone over to talk about the murals.

The only thing that remained was a chipped mug with a sunflower painted on it, a lopsided, kid-art disaster they’d made in fifth grade.

They’d almost packed it three times already, but each time, they’d set it back on the windowsill.

They told themselves it was so their mom could take it to their new home, but the truth was they couldn’t bear to see it buried in a box.

As long as that mug was on display, they could hold on to their home.

They knew it didn’t make sense, but so little did anymore.

Jules sat on the floor, legs folded underneath them. Paintbrushes, once crowded into mugs and mason jars, now lay in straight lines, sorted by size. The order made their stomach twist. It wasn’t them. It was someone else’s version of tidy. Of acceptable.

They picked up a small can of ultramarine, the label still smeared with a streak of green-blue from last fall.

The senior center mural. That one had been a beast—rainy day delays, muddy boots, and a scaffolding mishap that turned into a running joke for a month.

But it had turned out beautiful. Bright enough that even Mr. Holtz, who usually grumbled about everything, had cracked a smile.

They placed the paint gently in a box with the others suitable for outdoor use. Once the box was full, they set it apart from the rest. They’d need those paints next month so they could begin working on this year’s mural during the annual Art Crawl.

It felt like things were changing at the speed of light.

Two weeks. That’s all it had taken to go from “We’re thinking of moving” to “The house hits the market Friday.” Now strangers walked through, making notes about countertops and square footage, pretending not to notice the uneven floorboards that had always creaked outside Jules’s door.

They should’ve seen it coming. Their mom’s health hadn’t been great. The last flare-up had worried everyone. Still, knowing something was possible didn’t soften the blow when it landed. Jules wondered what their grandparents would think about the farm no longer being in the family.

Jules leaned back, pressing the heel of their palm to their chest. That ache again.

Low and stubborn, like it had taken up permanent residence beneath their ribs.

It wasn’t about the stuff. It wasn’t even about the house, not really.

It was about the foundation—roots being pulled up, familiar things disappearing one by one. Who were they without this place?

Their phone buzzed against the unmade bed. A message lit up.

How’s it going, Picasso?

Sam. Of course. She’d been checking on them almost hourly ever since they’d broken the news that they were looking for a place to stay.

Jules stared at the screen. They thought about answering, about making a joke—something clever to deflect from the fact that they felt like they were coming apart at the seams in slow motion. But nothing came.

Outside, their mom laughed. Light, high-pitched. The kind of laugh she used when she was trying to convince people everything was fine. Jules hadn’t heard it in weeks. It was a cold comfort to realize this move wasn’t easy for her either.

It scraped against something raw.

They stood, stretching until their spine popped, then reached for the last few tubes of paint.

Every item they packed tugged a memory loose—sitting under the oak tree with a sketchpad balanced on their knees, mixing colors at the kitchen table while their mom stirred soup, the blue dye incident that had turned the bathroom sink into an abstract art piece for three months.

They pressed the box closed, the tape making a sound too loud for the space. It felt like a room that had already been emptied, even though they were still in it.

They needed to breathe.

Jules grabbed their keys and messenger bag and stepped outside before they could talk themselves out of it. The crunch of gravel under their chunky boots grounded them, a small reminder that they were still here—even if everything else was shifting without their permission.

They drove with no destination in mind, just the vague idea of snacks and fresh air. Maybe the park. A place where they could draw and not feel like the walls were closing in around them.

On the off chance they decided it was a day to drive until boredom called them back home, Jules pulled into the gas station to fill their tank. They almost hopped back into the driver’s seat and pulled away when they noticed Keaton’s utilitarian black pickup two pumps over.

The guy looked like a walking Pinterest board for practical masculinity. Jeans that somehow always looked clean, a casual button-up shirt that fit like it was tailor-made, and a ball cap that never had visible sweat stains. It wasn’t right for a man to look that effortlessly sexy.

Jules froze, sunglasses halfway to their face like that alone could render them invisible. Keaton caught their eye and lifted a hand. Polite. Friendly. Not a smile, exactly—just a nod that said, “ I see you .”

Jules nodded back, then ducked into the convenience store like they had something urgent to buy. Gum. Tea. A new personality. Gas could wait until they didn’t feel like they were being watched.

They made a beeline for the candy aisle, heart pounding like they’d just escaped a heist.

It was immature to avoid Keaton, but they didn’t have an answer for him yet.

It was still hard to believe he’d been sincere when he invited Jules to stay in his guestroom.

As long as they didn’t talk about it, Jules could keep it as a possibility in case all other options were exhausted.

And maybe it’d take long enough to sell the farm that Keaton would have the apartments ready to rent, and there’d be nothing to worry about.

They grabbed the first pack of gum they saw, a bottle of peach tea, then stared at a rack of beef jerky for a full minute. Just long enough to make sure Keaton would be gone by the time they came out.

“He probably irons his socks,” they muttered, barely a whisper.

And just like that, they were talking to themselves in a gas station. Peak stability.

Living with Keaton? That’d be emotional suicide. Jules would last five days, maybe less. They’d knock over one too many spice jars or forget to label leftovers and end up exiled to the small patch of grass behind the building.

Worse, they’d fall harder. And he still wouldn’t notice.

They paid for their things and stepped back outside. No sign of Keaton. His truck was already replaced by a minivan with a cracked bumper and sagging suspension.

Jules climbed into their car, dropped the bag onto the passenger seat, and just sat. Hands on the wheel. Breathing shallow.

It wasn’t just the house. It was the version of the future that had lived there with them—the one where everything stayed mostly the same, just with more art supplies and maybe, eventually, someone who didn’t mind the mess.

Someone like Keaton, without the extreme organization tendencies.

They exhaled slowly. No more spiraling. Not today.

They’d come up with a plan. Fake it if needed.

Because if they didn’t figure something out soon, they’d be couch-hopping with a sketchbook and calling it “an immersive experience in impermanence.”

They pulled out of the lot without putting any gas in the tank, steering toward the park. Pencil. Paper. Something tangible. They needed to create. To forget, just for a little while.

But Keaton’s face lingered.

Jules shook their head.

No.

They weren’t doing this, not over a man who probably alphabetized his spices and canned goods.

Still, their heart fluttered.

And the thought returned, quiet and stubborn.

What if Keaton was interested in them?

What if something held him back and the offer was his olive branch?

They pressed harder on the gas.

Spoiler alert: speeding down country roads doesn’t help either.