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hotcryptidsinyourarea · 5 months ago

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Falling for the Frogman of Loveland, Ohio

story synopsis: Molly is a 30-something cookbook editor who has decided to move from New York to Loveland, Ohio after a bad breakup and a desire for a fresh start. She is instantly attracted to her neighbor Jeremiah's midwestern charms, but this local guy is much more than meets the eye...

human (she/her) + interdimensional humanoid frogman (he/him)

cw: aint-shit brooklyn hipster ex-boyfriend. millennial real estate angst. Ohio.

Chapter 1

I never thought in a million years I would end up in Ohio of all places. I’ve always fancied myself a real City Girl type. I grew up in the Houston metro area where I was more likely to be perusing the Galleria or eating sushi than I was engaging in any of the more agrarian behaviors outsiders assume Texans are wont to do but largely don’t. And then as soon as I graduated, I made my way to New York to officially start my life in the city I would never leave, as far as I was concerned.

But after 14 years of scraping by, 14 years of overpriced rent and skipping meals in order to afford the bills, I’ve had enough. I sold my furniture, wrapped up my loose ends, and made a break to escape the rat race.

Okay, maybe I’m not some maverick refusing to buy into the capitalist hustle. My grand escape from New York is a little less Snake Plimson and more desperate-slash-dumped. I was supposed to move in with my boyfriend Mark, the gorgeous and brilliant photographer I had been seeing for three whole years. My lease with my last roommate was coming to an end, so Mark and I decided to do what grown ups supposedly do and finally get a place together to embark on the whole domestic bliss thing. I was absolutely looking forward to having someone to split expenses with, but even more so it felt like I was finally becoming a real adult. Moving in with your boyfriend in New York is, as far as lifestyle accomplishments go, the equivalent of getting married and having kids for people in the burbs. And I was ready to start this next chapter of my life knowing I was on track with the milestones expected of me.

Unfortunately, Mark was not ready. At the big age of 36, he came to the conclusion that he didn’t know himself well enough to get tied down to a life of commitment– or even the eighteen months our lease would occupy. “There’s so much I still want to do,” he said. “It would be unfair to you if I was here physically, when my heart and soul are somewhere else,” he said. I wanted to deck him.

Honestly, I can get over the rejection from a man who was self-admittedly only half present, but his dumping me put me in a position far more precarious than heartbreak: sitting there with just six weeks to find an affordable place to live in New York City. Not impossible, mind you, but a significant burden where I will absolutely be forced to make concessions regarding what I want. I was looking down the barrel of a too much for too little housing situation that I’d be stuck in for the foreseeable future. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that I would end up in a street level roach motel with a toilet in the kitchen for no less than $4000/month.

But after a few hours online searching for options, the algorithm gods smiled down upon me. I was scrolling through my feed having just double tapped on a high school friend’s baby announcement when I saw it: a targeted ad that read: GET PAID $30,000 TO LIVE AND WORK IN OHIO.

$30k is not going to make me a wealthy woman, by any means, but it’s a hell of a lot more than I stood to lose trying to find acceptable lodging in the city. And while I had a decent social circle I didn’t want to abandon, my desire to go out and spend my free time (as well as my not-so-free-money) had dwindled as of late. I found myself avoiding the parties and bars where I more often than not spent the evening straining my voice just to have a simple conversation with someone I can barely even hear in favor of staying in to read with a glass of wine while brainstorming fan theories with other members of one of the several fandom Discord channels I belong to. And my job has essentially become 100% remote as of late. Any essential meetings I may need to attend could be covered as a business trip, but considering most of my job involves research and grunt work versus client-facing duties, it likely wouldn’t come up at all. I was free to leave New York.

That is to say, my curiosity was piqued. So I clicked. And I applied. Then in what felt like a whirlwind courting, I was put into contact with a state worker who walked me through the grant application with the kind of midwestern charm I found refreshing after over a decade of city cynicism. I was then presented with a selection of eligible properties, mortgage options, and even connections to discounted moving services. Seemingly quicker than one could say “buckeye state,” I had a home lined up for me.

A month later, here I am: driving west to Loveland, Ohio. I would never admit it out loud to my friends in New York, but when I saw the option for the little single story bungalow in a town called Loveland, I was instantly drawn to the romanticism of the name. I’ve never considered myself a romantic. After all, my last relationship was built more upon a desire to live a D.I.N.K. lifestyle than some sort of deep, burning passion between two souls made of the same. But finding this opportunity to start anew in an actual hand-to-god house that I could feasibly own felt more like a whirlwind case of woo than dating men ever did. After all, having a place of one’s own to which she can safely escape has been an unattainable dream for women throughout the recorded centuries.

I am not so jaded as to deny the appeal of true romantic love; the security of a trusted partner and the comfort of consistent, pleasurable sex is not something I would turn away if it presented itself. But I also accept the fact that those ideals are born from a rather modern mindset born from the emergence of the bored middle class who desired a genteel way to express their own horniness disguised under the veil of “art.”

Well, I mostly know that. Maybe it’s all I’m allowing myself to believe in order to keep myself from being disappointed when I inevitably never experience the kind of love that makes one write poems and paint portraits. I mean, there’s ample evidence in this world that some people truly do fall in love I recently read that the English poet and surrealist patron Edward James was so in love with his dancer wife Tilly Losch, he had the impressions of her footsteps woven into the stair’s carpet in their home together, creating a tribute to their shared intimacy and the love he held not just for her physicality, but her contribution towards turning their house into his home.

Of course, Edward and Tilly ended up divorced. To his credit, James didn’t destroy the carpet upon the dissolution of his marriage and her subsequent campaign to pin it on his bisexuality rather than her infidelity. Instead he ended up donating it to an arts’ college and replaced the one in his home with a new commission– this time, featuring the pawprints of his beloved dog. C’est l’amour! One day you’re in love with your gorgeous dancer wife and her elegant footsteps, the next, she’s outing you in divorce court and you’re making lobster telephones with Salvador Dalí.

So with all that in mind, I find myself here in the Cincinnati suburbs, heading directly to my new life in a land of love smack dab in the middle of The Heart of It All. But despite how it sounds, I’m not holding out for a hero. I will happily settle for falling in love with my new life and my new house.

I may not be in love, but I am definitely crushing on my new place. As I pull into the driveway, I feel my heartbeat quicken in excitement. It’s so BIG! I mean, I’m from Houston– I know how big houses can be and this isn’t a mansion by any means. In fact, the listing called it a “modern cottage” style, insinuating that it’s on the smaller side of homes. But I’ve been apartment dwelling in New York for so long, I feel unsure about what to do with so much space to myself. I don’t have even close to enough furnishings to fill this place. There shall be much shopping in my foreseeable future. And there isn’t just a yard– there’s two! I might take up gardening. Maybe I’ll get a dog. My head is swimming with the possibilities.

I grab my bags from the car and saunter up to the front door. It’s not my first time across the threshold– I flew out here before closing to oversee the inspection and get to know the area. But none of that diminishes my excitement. After all, this is my first home! I get to have a little bit of romanticization within the experience. As a treat.

The first thing to notice when walking into the house is the spacious open-plan kitchen and living area. The kitchen is what really excited me about this house. As an editor for cookbooks, I spend a lot of time there developing and testing. And now with all this room, I can fill it with every specialized tool and rare ingredients my little heart desires. The kitchen island fills the space and features a dozen or so drawers and cabinets of all different shapes and sizes to accommodate all my storage needs. And the appliances are perfect. The refrigerator is a pistachio green color with a design that looks like it came straight out of the 1950s, but it’s actually brand new and energy efficient. The stove features a gas range as well as a griddle top– the kind my Nana used to make us pancakes whenever we’d stay with her over Christmas. There’s also plenty of room for me to set up a desk for when the actual writing needs to occur. I’m going to get so much done!

The rest of the house is perfect for me. The master bedroom faces the east, so the sun pours in as soon as it rises. The connecting bathroom has a huge clawfoot tub AND a corner shower with rain-style fixtures. The second-largest room features floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases that basically called to me when I first saw them in the listing. I was planning on converting it into a dual-use library-slash-guest room, but now that I’m here, I wonder if I’ll be willing to share it with any guests. Is it considered gauche for a grown woman to commit an entire room to house her hardcover romantasy collection? Well, they might just have to call me fucking gauche because I am seriously considering it.

Besides, the smallest third bedroom could serve as a perfectly adequate guest room. It can barely fit more than a bed and a dresser, but it would work. Between the future library and future guest room is the second bathroom. It’s not as nice as the master bath, but all the fixtures are new and the tiling is a really cute black and white subway style that will go well with the modernist decor I have in mind.

But decorating, working, filling up bookshelves– those are all to-do items for the near future. At the moment, I should really focus on the tasks at hand. First, I need to unload the rest of my things still in the car. The storage pod I have the majority of my possessions in is scheduled to be in my driveway in a couple days, but I brought the bare necessities along with me. After that, I will need to get some food in me. I make a mental grocery list while I unload the car.

I got the entire $30k from the grant, but I only needed $20k for the down payment, leaving me with a nice chunk of change to invest in a new-to-me hybrid sedan. I haven’t owned a car since I sold the one I drove in high school after graduation. But considering I grew up in a city that is mostly a collection of zig-zagging freeways and pavement, I am pretty comfortable behind the wheel even after all these years of living by the graces of public transportation. The autonomy granted with a personal vehicle is not lost on me. No more showing up late due to MTA delays or having to avert my eyes from strange male passengers whose hands are conspicuously not in plain sight, though still in visible motion. Instead, I now get to enjoy the comfort of a working air conditioner and the freedom to belt out Beyoncé songs at the top of my lungs. Which is exactly what I do on my drive to the supermarket.

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