My Renter, My Friend

When I first read the reservation request, I was suspicious.

Her last name wasn’t visible, and her message consisted of just one sentence saying she was on the road and would be in touch. It lacked capitalization and punctuation, and she didn’t add the obligatory look-how-normal-and-trustworthy-I-am note.

She also wanted to stay for 10 days, starting the next day. No one else had rented our home near the Twin Cities for so long on such short notice. I sensed trouble, maybe for us but also maybe for her.

I pictured her typing the message with one hand on the wheel while glancing in the rearview mirror. It was an image I couldn’t erase from my mind. I tapped “accept reservation” on my computer screen despite my own, well, reservations.

I was working on trust issues. For one thing, my husband and I had seen short-term rental horror stories on the news. Our 1950s rambler isn’t one of many random income properties filled with generic furnishings. It is our much-loved home, filled with memories and personal pieces of furniture, rugs and art. The risk of damaged or stolen property was worth it, though, because renting it allowed us to spend the winters in Arizona, where I could avoid the seasonal depression I’ve experienced since high school.

But as I’ve mentioned, everything about this new guest felt different from the others.

The following day, I sent her a message with instructions for the house. Her prompt response was kind and complete and looked like it had been typed with both hands. She had only one question: “Is there off-street parking?” I assured her there was. I sensed a more pressing need behind her request — but I didn’t trust my gut, a chronic issue of mine stemming from a past relationship.

Soon enough, decades-old memories of my emotionally abusive ex started to resurface, and I wondered if the renter might be in some kind of danger.