When procuring a place of residence, most people take to Craigslist. I find Craigslist creepy. Who is Craig? Why did he make a list? I prefer the newspaper, or community boards. I find the nearest grocery store and check out their board. Two enthusiastic teenage girls have made babysitting fliers. Trustworthy! Fun! Reliable! Each word is written on a pompom, each letter in a different colored marker. I respect their handmade signs. Babysitters who rely on the computer for everything should not be trusted. All the children I’ve had can tell you that. I lift the corner of their paper to study what’s underneath. There’s a guy looking for a girl roommate. Clean guy looking for girl roommate who likes to do dishes. No pets. To me this says: Needy, incompetent male with control issues. Looking for a wife. “Ew, dude,” I say. I pass it up and find another pinned to the top left corner. It’s buried underneath a community garage sale flier, printed on lilac paper. I pull out the pin holding it to the board so I can read it.

Likes to take long walks on the beach-but not with you!

Looking for an independent FEMALE roommate to share my space.

I don’t want a sister. I don’t want a friend. Just a roommate.

I laugh when I read it. The only thing she’s given is an e-mail address. I should put it back, but instead, I fold the paper into a small square and slip it into my back pocket, glancing around to make sure no one has seen me. Fuck them, I need a place to live. I give the whole grocery store a dirty look, then turn to march out … and walk into a wall. It’s a beautiful thing to be humbled.

Her e-mail address is [email protected] She says that we can meet at a teashop on Main Street. How will I know it’s you? I send back. This is creepy; she could be a he. Maybe I should have trusted Craig and his list.

You’ll know, she sends back. I don’t trust bitches that easily, but what choice do I have? I arrive at the coffee shop an hour early to scope out the place. I realize that I veer toward dramatic, but this place is maybe a little too perfect. I order a scone and they hand me a dollop of cream and jam. Too perfect. I take it, frowning, and find a seat to wait for my tea. The tea comes in a delicate glass mug—too perfect. I sip suspiciously from my corner, licking the cream from my lips. I am turning on Port Townsend. Distrusting and sour. And then she walks in. Her. The purple fairy, with her lush silver hair tied back in a ponytail. Hell no!

Greer matches her flier. I take it out of my pocket and smooth it on the table as she glances around the tearoom, smiling at those she knows, looking for … me. I hold up the flier like an idiot. Her eyes light up when she sees me, and she waves with both hands. I want her to trip over a chair leg or something, but she’s graceful, and she slips through small spaces like a lithe, little minx.

“Helena?” she asks. I stand up, and she hugs me—throws her arms around my neck like we’re old friends. I try to stiffen and pull away, but I’m weak, and I really need a hug. Also, she smells like spices: nutmeg and cinnamon and clove.

“How brave,” she says, still holding on to me. “To move all this way alone.”

I don’t feel brave. I almost miss my chair when I sit back down, but Greer doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ve only ever lived here,” she says. “I’m too chicken to leave.”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I like her. I smile weakly and pick up my tea, which has gone cold. She’s painted flowers all over her skin, and dyed her hair gray, and she’s still talking about being a chicken, and how brave I am.

Hello, I’m beige bitch, I want to say.

“Tell me about yourself,” she says finally, leaning forward. She has gray eyes. They match her hair and add to the overall ethereal look. It’s very intimidating to sit across from a real life fairy and know you have nothing interesting to tell her about your life. Well … maybe something a little bit interesting, like, my best friend dates your ex fiancé.

“I … I just want to … find myself.” It’s a horribly cheesy thing to say, but Greer is nodding, like finding yourself is something to be taken seriously, rather than the words spoken by a lost girl.

“You’ve come to the right place,” she tells me. “Not just Port Townsend, but Washington. It’s God’s country. Something about this place heals people.” I take hope in her words. There’s nothing about me that is broken or disparaged. I am not the unfortunate heroine in a romance novel. My parents are not divorced, and my heart has never truly been broken. I am an overly simple girl who got an itch. I do not tell Greer that my itch came from a dream about her ruggedly handsome ex-fiancé, nor do I tell her that in my mind the line between Harry Potter and real life is blurry, if not non-existent. I rub the hem of my beige top between my fingers and listen to Greer’s lyrical voice talk about all of Port Townsend’s hidden gems: the cinema, built in 1907, which had an old fashioned popcorn maker, and only showed three movies at a time. She told me about old, Mr. Rugamiester, who went to a movie every single Saturday and sat in the same seat, in the same theater, wearing the same navy blue corduroy sports coat. “He doesn’t care what is playing in theater number three, or how many times he’s seen it. He’s there for the three o’clock show with his bag of popcorn.”

“But there has to be a reason.” I lean forward despite myself, pulled in by old, Mr. Rugamiester and his bag of popcorn. Greer’s eyes never leave my face; she’s laughing at my reaction, her knees pulled up underneath her, a cup of tea in her hand. It feels like old friends having lunch. “There isn’t always,” she says. She reaches out and her slim white hand covers mine, just for a moment. “There isn’t always,” she assures me. And then her hand is gone. I ponder her words, wondering if she’s right. I believe in math, and I believe in answers, and I believe if you keep looking, you’ll find one. Maybe it was just a dream. It was just a dream. But this is real, and I am here now. There is a single white female feel to this moment. I most certainly am a creep, because I know who this woman is, yet she does not know who I am.