So, you’ve heard the story of how I got this house, right? I told you that Danny bought it for me. He just showed up, day after I turned eighteen, with the keys in his hand, asking me if I wanted out. And I did—so I came to see this place. It was old enough to have a good vibe to it, but not so old that things were starting to fall apart. It’s secluded out here on this peninsula where I can see others, but it hard for them to see me. The halls, the crannies, the closets—just, it’s perfect. Everything about this house is perfect.
Sometimes—I wonder if he didn’t build it for me. Get to know me, go back, design it just the way I’d like it. That’s why it didn’t have any long-term residents before me. They liked the house—but it was perfectly designed for someone else. They couldn’t truly fall in love with it. And then Danny got his hands on it again and it became mine. And I’m never going to let it go.
I’ve never asked—because even if I did he’d never tell me. He’d be too modest or too proud or too—Danny. I mean, you know how he gets. But I like thinking that he did. It’s like thinking of him as my own Guardian Angel. He goes back in time and sets my life right for me. So—he couldn’t cure my crippling social anxieties—but he’ll try to make me as sane as he can in the meantime. And damn if he hasn’t helped in his own ways.