Callie
There’s a little slice of the day, every day, that reminds me that this cabin might not be my worst decision to date. After hours hunched over my laptop, I move to the back porch with a glass of sweet tea to enjoy my daily sunset. By the time my sips are mostly water, I realize it’s too cool out here to stay. Sunset on the mountain means the temperature plummets. It definitely beats the heat of Austin, though.
This little cabin has always been a refuge for me growing up - and there’s nothing more I need right now than refuge. My dad might have bought it over 20 years ago, but it has a timeless feel to it. Lots of wood, an open kitchen connected to a cozy living room area, windows galore - it’s an ideal cabin.
A real estate agent might call it “quaint” and they’d be right. It might not be huge, but it’s comfortable. It’s just this house and a few acres, but the views alone make up for the size. The back porch is at the perfect angle towards the mountains, making this my go-to relaxation spot. At least, that’s the idea of being up here in the first place.
I made the trip up here with everything I could fit in my car after my “incident.” And that came at the most opportune time after I lost my mom to breast cancer. It wasn’t an easy decision to leave everything I knew in Austin and stake my claim on this mountain, but it’s my best chance at getting away while still feeling close to her. Before I let my mind wander too far, I decide to move inside.
My thighs stick to the seat as I stand. I groan out loud, telling myself for the thousandth time that I’ll start working out tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
While the sunset might offer a little retreat, my biggest mental focus has been my puppy. I got her right before I moved here and she’s been the best decision I could have made. I desperately need the distraction. And the puppy kisses.
Tonight’s dinner: leftover pasta from a client lunch a few days back. It’s not much, but I don’t have the energy or appetite to cook something for myself. Losing my mom - and her tried and true cooking advice - left little of my cooking desires.
I pop my leftovers in the microwave and shift as I watch the seconds count down. Staring mindlessly, not even bothering to calculate how long 3-day old pasta actually needs to be reheated, a tiny paw nudges my ankle.
“Cookie! Are you hungry? Oh good lord, you’re out of food! Hold on,” I coo at my puppy, a chubby French Bulldog who knows just how to get me with those puppy eyes. She waddles behind me, clearly excited to see me opening the food crate. I swear as I realize it’s empty.
Well, shit. If I were still in Austin, I could literally step outside my apartment building and see the pet store. Here, it’s a 20-minute drive through blacktop roads and trees to the nearest town - and even that is hardly considered a town. 2,000 people, a few stores and restaurants, and one actual stop light does not make a town.
I’d usually get Cookie’s food in Denver, but seeing as that’s over an hour away, the local feed store will have to do.
I’m immediately searching for the open hours of this teeny community’s ag supply. God, I miss having everything at my fingertips twenty-four-seven. This little mountain town has been good to me, but not having Whataburger and Target within a five-minute drive is annoying, to say the least.
Thankfully, the mom-and-pop store is open for another hour. Good old Mcferrin’s Feed Supply. I silently thank whoever is looking out for me and run to throw on actual clothes. Shorts and a giant hoodie wouldn’t go over well in this weather. And I need the general public to see my spreading thighs like I need a hole in the head. I gather up Cookie and hope the sun lasts long enough to see the roads.
