My husband, Marcus, and I are lucky enough to live in a little slice of paradise called Seabreeze Point. Imagine this: soft, golden sand stretching a few minutes’ walk from our front porch, winding trails through pine-scented hills, and tiny cliffside cafés where you can sip a latte while watching dolphins leap in the surf below. It’s the kind of place people plan for months, maybe even a whole year, just to visit for a single week.
Naturally, our guest room gets a lot of use. Friends, relatives, even Marcus’s college buddies somehow find themselves knocking on our door, lured by the lure of sun, sand, and serenity. And we love it.
Really, we do. Sharing our home feels like sharing a secret, a privilege reserved for those we care about. So when Marcus’s younger brother, Trevor, called three months ago, practically vibrating with excitement, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
“Lena! You’re going to love this,” Trevor’s voice was so full of joy I could practically hear him grinning over the phone. “Paige and I are finally getting married next month!
We were wondering… any chance we could stay at your place for our honeymoon? Money’s tight, wedding costs and all…”
I looked across the table at Marcus. His warm, familiar smile said it all.
“Of course!” I said. “We’d be honored. How long are you planning to stay?”
“Just a week.
We promise we’ll be the easiest houseguests you’ve ever had.”
Famous last words. Two weeks before their arrival, Marcus’s phone buzzed during dinner. He glanced at it, then frowned.
“It’s Trevor,” he said, swiping to read the message. His expression shifted from neutral to disbelief. “What does he want now?” I asked.
He read aloud: “Hey man, any chance Paige and I could use your bedroom while we’re there? That air mattress in the guest room doesn’t exactly scream honeymoon, you know?”
We froze. Our home has two bedrooms: ours, and a small home office that doubles as the guest room.
The air mattress there was top-of-the-line—memory foam, cozy blankets, plush pillows—the kind of bed you actually want to sleep on. But our bedroom was our sanctuary, the space where we collapsed after long days, whispered to each other in the dark, and kept our private lives private. “What do you think?” Marcus asked, though his tone told me he already knew my answer.
“I can’t do it,” I said firmly. “That’s our private space. We can’t let anyone sleep there.
End of story.”
“Same,” Marcus said, nodding. “I’ll tell him.”
He texted back: Sorry, but we’re not comfortable with that. The guest room is all yours though—it’s very comfortable.
We’re excited to see you both! The reply came almost immediately: Seriously? It’s our honeymoon.
One week. Whatever. Marcus tossed his phone onto the counter.
“Well, that went great,” he muttered. The day they arrived was already chaotic. Our daughter, Tessa, was celebrating her eighth birthday, and I was in full prep mode: chopping vegetables, threading fruit skewers, icing cupcakes, and cooking spaghetti.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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