Chapter Text
It feels good to be back in Pleasantview— really good, actually. The air is softer here, quieter. The city never was. It was all concrete canyons and sirens ricocheting off glass towers, people rushing past each other. I tried to keep up, but it wore me down, layer by layer.
Working retail was bad enough, but the designer boutique that place nearly hollowed me out. They liked my face—“fresh,” “approachable,” “marketable”—but apparently the rest of me was negotiable. Lose ten pounds, Kaylynn. Then, when I did, five more. Just five. You’ll look so much better in the spring line.
I started to feel like a mannequin with a pulse. A hanger with opinions. A body they could sculpt if they pushed hard enough.
And don’t even get me started on the dating scene. The men were all polished veneers and gym memberships, obsessed with their reflections and how fast they could get you into their sheets. I went on more first dates than I can count—slick smiles, expensive cocktails, the same recycled lines delivered with the confidence of men who’d never been told no.
I kept waiting for someone real. Someone who wanted more than a night or a notch or a pretty girl on his arm. But the city wasn’t built for that. It was built for ambition, for hookups, for people who didn’t mind being lonely as long as they looked good doing it.
There was no way I could have settled down there. No way I could have started a family in a place that didn’t even let me keep myself.
Pleasantview may be small, nosy, and slow, but it’s home. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong. There’s something comforting about the symmetry of it all: the manicured lawns and the identical mailboxes standing like little soldiers along the curb. It’s predictable in a way the city never was.
Predictable feels safe.
I’ve even reconnected with an old school friend, Brandi Newbie, well, she’s Brandi Broke now. She’s a few years older than me, softer around the edges in a way that makes her seem settled, grounded. She has a husband, Skip, a teenage son who towers over her already and a toddler. Apparently, she and Skip run their own business; she was a little cagey about the details, but she spoke of it with the easy pride of someone who’s built something real. She seems happy.
It’s strange seeing someone with a whole life already mapped out. A family. A future. It's like Brandi stepped into adulthood while I'm still circling the entrance.
Finding work turned out to be a whole different story. Pleasantview isn’t exactly bursting with opportunities for someone with only a high school diploma, and the only place willing to take me on was the local maid service. It’s not a glamorous job by any stretch, but it’s honest work. It’s work that doesn’t demand I starve myself or smile until my cheeks cramp. That alone feels like a small miracle. A stepping stone until I can find something better.
No mirrors shoved in my face. No managers pinching my waist. Just dust, soap, and a paycheck.
They finally assigned me a new client after the last maid quit. Which probably isn’t a great sign, but I’m trying to stay optimistic.
I park the van along the curb in front of the address they gave me, “150 Main Street.” The place is a simple white condo, clean lines, fresh paint, the kind of place that looks like it came preassembled from a catalogue. But the oversized truck in the driveway and the hot tub perched on the balcony are a dead giveaway that a man lives here.
Of course, it’s a man. Men with hot tubs always think they’re subtle.
I grab my cleaning caddy from the passenger seat and head up the walkway. The flowers in the front yard are beginning to wilt, their petals curling inward.
Great. A man with a hot tub and dying flowers. This should be fun.
I knock on the door. The service told me I should be getting a key—something to let myself in when the client isn’t home. That would’ve been ideal.
I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Just when I’m about to knock again, I hear the lock turn and the door swings open.
Watcher above, he’s shirtless.
The client leans against the doorframe as if he’s posing for a calendar. I don’t know where to look first—the tribal tattoos curling over his shoulder, the unshaven chest hair, or the abs that practically glow in the sunlight. He looks like he was carved out of a fitness magazine and then sprinkled with just enough scruff to seem “effortless.” I feel heat rush to my cheeks as I force myself to meet his eyes. He has kind green eyes, dark hair and a goatee that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t.
He smirks, showing a glimpse of perfectly straight teeth. “You must be the new maid.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’m Kaylynn.”
He gives me a slow once-over, not even pretending to hide it. “Don. Don Lothario.”
He steps aside to let me in, and I swear I can feel the warmth of his gaze on my back as I walk past him.
I’m imagining things. I have to be. There’s no way he’s like the guys in SimCity.
Then I look around at the trash, the clutter, the grime creeping across every surface.
Oh, he’s exactly like the guys in SimCity.
It took a few weeks, but today I finally have a new client. After spending so much time at Don’s place, scrubbing countertops while trying not to notice the way he watched me, I begged the service for more details this time. Apparently, this one’s a family.
Thank the Watcher. Maybe I can get through a shift without feeling like someone’s peeling my clothes off with their eyes.
I pull up to the curb outside 215 Sim Lane and stare. The house is enormous, practically a Tudor mansion with steep gables and wide, gleaming windows that catch the morning light. Two cars sit in the driveway: a sensible black sedan and an expensive red sports car that looks as if it were purchased in a moment of panic about ageing.
Family practicality meets midlife crisis. Charming.
I barely make it halfway up the walkway before the front door bursts open. A woman in a sharp red suit barrels out, clutching a briefcase like it’s a lifeline. She stops short before colliding with me, breathless and already halfway somewhere else. Her dark hair is twisted into a messy-but-somehow-still-chic bun, and her pale skin glows in the early sun.
“Oh! You’re the maid I hired, right?” she gasps.
“Err, yes?”
“I’m running late. Ask my husband for the spare key.”
Before I can even open my mouth, she’s gone; clicking down the path, sliding into the black sedan, and speeding off like the road is on fire behind her.
Well. That’s one way to start a job.
Inside, the house is an odd blend of modest, lived‑in furniture and shockingly expensive tech. The stereo by the front door alone probably costs more than my monthly salary. Plants are scattered around the room—some thriving, some clinging to life—giving the place a strange mix of warmth and neglect.
There’s no sign of the husband at first. Not until I glance through one of the archways into the dining area and freeze.
I recognise him instantly.
It’s Daniel Pleasant. The Daniel Pleasant. Former quarterback for the SimCity Llamas. Practically a household name.
Watcher, he looks so normal. Daniel’s just sitting there, reading the morning paper with an espresso steaming beside him like he’s any other suburban dad. His red hair catches the morning light, glowing like polished copper. He glances up at me with those unmistakable green eyes, sharp and bright, before casually returning to his paper.
Before I can process the surrealness of it all, a voice snaps from behind me:
“Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning or something?”
I turn to see a short redheaded girl in a green dress. She’s the teenage mirror image of her father—same fiery hair, same striking green eyes. She’s pretty, but her expression is unreadable, her posture radiating that effortless, razor‑sharp confidence that only mean girls in high school ever seem to master.
She scoffs and breezes past me into the dining area. Her father greets her warmly, and she chirps something back, suddenly sweet as sugar.
I start dusting the stereo by the front door when the school bus horn blares outside. The girl in the green dress walks past me again without a single glance.
But when I look up a moment later, I nearly jump.
The same girl stands there—but now she’s dressed head‑to‑toe in black, studded bracelets, dark makeup, the whole rebellious ensemble. She looks like she’s stepped out of a different household entirely. And she definitely doesn’t look thrilled to see me.
“Um, hi, I’m your new maid,” I say, trying to cut through the tension.
“I like your lipstick,” she replies flatly.
Why is a teenager making me nervous? Get it together, Kaylynn.
“Thanks, it’s, err… the shade ‘fig’.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “My mom left the spare key on the coffee table upstairs. I’m guessing you haven’t seen it yet.”
Then she turns and heads out the front door after her sister, leaving me standing there with my duster in hand and my heart doing a weird little tap dance.
This family is going to be, err, interesting.
Getting back to my apartment, I’m reminded—again—of how hastily I fled the city. The walls are decorated with thrift‑store prints and a few photos with my friends from the city that I haven’t bothered to frame properly, but the furniture is sparse and mismatched. The trouble with renting an unfurnished place is that furnishing it costs a small fortune. So here I am: patio furniture serving as a dining set, a stove that’s more decorative than functional, and a microwave so weak it wheezes; it takes three times as long to heat anything.
One day, I’ll have a real kitchen. One day, I’ll have a paycheck big enough to fix all this.
I sigh and kick off my shoes, letting them land wherever they want as I drop my bag beside the overpopulated shoe rack. I really should see if I can sell some of those boutique heels.
They’re gorgeous, but they hurt like sin and remind me of everything I left behind.
In the cupboard, there’s a single cup of ramen noodles waiting for me like a sad little prize. I fill a mug with water, shove it into the microwave, and set it to heat. The machine groans to life, rattling like it’s about to give up entirely.
While it struggles, I change into my sweats and toss my maid uniform onto the growing laundry pile. I’ll have to drag it down to the basement later.
And pray I don’t run into that guy—Goopy, or whatever his name is. The one who thinks “negging” is flirting. He gives me the creeps.
When my noodles are finally ready, I sit down on the plastic patio chair and let the steam curl up in front of me. I think about my day.
The morning started at the Pleasant house. I rarely see Mary‑Sue; she’s always rushing out the door, but she tips generously on Fridays, which makes a real difference when I’m counting grocery money. Daniel still hasn’t acknowledged my existence beyond a polite nod, and the twins—well. They’re giving me emotional whiplash. Angela, who looks sweet, is mean. And Lilith, who looks like she should be mean, is actually nice.
Pleasantview’s full of surprises.
Then there was the afternoon at Don’s. Thankfully, he wasn’t home today. But he’s made a point of reminding me—more than once—that he’s a doctor who works chaotic shifts. Apparently, Accident and Emergency waits for no man, and he gets called into Pleasantview General at all hours, which would explain the state of his house— if it wasn’t somehow cleaner when he hadn’t been home.
He’s chaos wrapped in charm. And I’m not falling for it. Absolutely not.
Before I can take my first mouthful of noodles, the landline rings.
I groan, drag myself up, and answer it.
“Happy birthday!” my brother’s voice booms through the receiver.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Parker’s voice is warm and familiar, and so is the thumping club music roaring in the background. It sounds like he’s calling from the middle of a dance floor.
“Thank you, Parker,” I say, sinking back into my chair.
“What are you doing home on a Friday night? It’s your birthday! You should be out celebrating!” He gasps dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’ve settled down with some loser from the suburbs already!”
I laugh. “No, I’m taking a break from dating for a while.”
“Taking a break from dating? Kaylynn, do you even hear yourself?!”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. Parker and I are total opposites. He’s got a trail of ex‑girlfriends and women he never called back. He’s basically the blueprint for the men I used to date in SimCity—shallow, self‑absorbed, and obsessed with his own body count. He’s a slob; I’m a perfectionist. He flirts with anything that breathes; I get nervous ordering coffee.
But he’s still my big brother. Loud, messy, ridiculous—and mine.
He rambles on for a while, his voice buzzing in my ear like a familiar old song. Eventually, he asks, “So how are things in the ol’ hometown?”
And I lie.
I don’t tell him about the empty apartment, its patio furniture, and its dying microwave. I don’t tell him I only have one friend, and she lives in a trailer park across town. I don’t tell him about the flirtatious doctor whose house I scrub twice a week, or how lonely I feel when I turn the key in my door at night.
Instead, I tell him I’m working for Daniel Pleasant’s family.
That part is true—and Parker nearly explodes with excitement. He works at the Llamas’ stadium, but he and Daniel have never crossed paths. The idea that I have makes him practically shriek into the phone.
If only he knew the rest of it. But maybe it’s okay that he doesn’t.
When we finally say goodbye, I return to my noodles—and they’ve gone cold. The sight of them, limp and pale in their cup, hits me harder than it should. Something tightens in my chest, sharp and sudden, and before I can stop myself, I’m crying. Not the delicate, pretty kind of crying either—ugly, heaving sobs that tear their way out of my throat as hot tears spill down my cheeks.
Watcher, what is wrong with me? Why does a cup of cold noodles feel like the last straw?
I’m so lonely here. Crushingly, achingly lonely. I was supposed to leave SimCity after finding the love of my life. I was supposed to come back to Pleasantview with a ring on my finger, a partner by my side, maybe even a baby on the way. I was supposed to be building a family, not this.
And yet here I am, mid‑twenties, alone in a half‑furnished apartment, without a single Simoleon to spare. I’m juggling bills, rent, and the constant fear that one unexpected expense will knock everything over like a house of cards.
This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t even close to the plan.
I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, but the tears keep coming, soft now, quieter, as they’ve settled into a rhythm.
It has to get better eventually. It has to. Right?