Chapter 7 — Dowisetrepla (Dreams, Drywall & the Devil in the Acronym)
Ted Mosby believed a home was a love letter you wrote in brick.
Marshall Eriksen believed a home was the nest where your real life finally hatched.
And Ivar Scherbatsky? He believed a home was a contract — and contracts are where liars die.
---
The Open House That Smelled Like Hope
Saturday light poured down West 86th the way New York sometimes pretends it's Paris. Marshall wore his "I'm-a-grownup" blazer; Lily wore determination and a scarf that shouted first-year art teacher with tenure. The realtor had cheekbones like capital gains and a smile calibrated to appraisals.
"Sun-drenched one-bedroom, convertible two," she sang, ushering them through a narrow hallway into a living room staging-bombed with white orchids and furniture no one with a pulse could afford to stain. "And the neighborhood? DoWiSeTrePla. Very up-and-coming."
Marshall blinked. "Like… the Knights who say Ni?"
The realtor laughed the brittle laugh of someone who invoices for breathing. "Downtown West S— well, you know. It's very hush-hush."
Lily squeezed Marshall's hand so hard he nearly confessed to crimes he hadn't committed. "Look, there's crown molding!"
"And exposed brick," Marshall murmured reverently, placing a palm against it as if the apartment had a heartbeat.
They drifted room to room in the trance particular to New York real estate: the narcotic of possibility. A sliver of river through a distant window. A closet that could technically fit a human if the human believed in origami. A kitchen so small the fridge and the stove were in a marriage counseling stalemate.
"Picture it," Lily whispered. "Our art on these walls. Your law books stacked like fortresses. A plant that we definitely forget to water."
"Two plants," Marshall whispered back, reckless.
The realtor flicked a switch. The bathroom glowed like a jewelry box. Lily gasped. "Is that… a window in the bathroom?"
Marshall grabbed his chest. "Oh my God, we're rich."
"Maintenance is very reasonable," the realtor said, handing over a sheet that could be used to fan an aristocrat. The number at the bottom made Lily's eyes widen and Marshall's stomach do a small court-mandated flip.
"Of course," the realtor added, all breezy menace, "offers are extremely competitive in DoWiSeTrePla."
"DoWiSeTrePla," Lily repeated, like a spell.
They looked at each other, the kind of look you make when your future is dangling on a string and you're both idiots enough to tug.
"We love it," they said together.
---
The Booth, The Bubble, The Lie
"Guess who might be homeowners!" Lily announced that night at MacLaren's, glowing like an engagement ring that had learned to talk.
"Oh, adorable," Robin said, clapping. "Your mortgage will eat you faster than New York pizza."
Barney leaned back, smirking. "Ah, yes, the American dream. Paying a bank permission to panic."
Ted, eyes already verging on sentimental, asked, "What neighborhood?"
Lily and Marshall looked at each other. A half-second pause. Then Lily breezed, "You know… near the river."
Barney squinted. "Which river, exactly?"
"The… wet one," Marshall said, sweating.
Megan swirled her wine. "Correction: when buyers lie, it's because even they don't trust their own purchase."
Yvonne, deadpan: "Or because the acronym is hiding a sewage plant."
Everyone laughed. Except Ivar, who didn't laugh; he very specifically smiled — a small, surgical crescent — and said nothing. His green eyes did a lazy loop that took in Lily's clenched knuckles, Marshall's too-eager nods, the realtor gloss still drying on their faces.
"Awesome," Ted beamed. "I can already see the housewarming. I'll design custom shelves. Floating. Minimalist. Scandinavian."
"Or," Barney cut in, "you could buy a couch that's not from the 'Sad Student' collection."
Robin elbowed him. "Be nice."
"I'm being aspirational," Barney said, then to Marshall: "If you need someone to negotiate, I'm a shark with cufflinks."
"We've… already put in an offer," Marshall admitted.
Lily's smile dimmed just enough for Ivar to trace the outline of a storm.
---
The First Scent of Truth
They got the place. Of course they did. New York only turns down your offer when you've already picked out where the sofa goes.
By midweek, Marshall and Lily were giddy in the empty living room, taking possession with tape measures and fights about rug sizes. The air tasted like fresh paint and good decisions.
Until the wind changed.
It was faint at first, like a rumor. Then it rounded the corner of the building and walked in like it owned the deed: a low, blunt wall of smell. Not garbage-day gaminess. Not fish. Sewage.
Lily grimaced. "Is someone… boiling socks?"
Marshall, heroic: "New York has aromas! It's character."
A bus rumbled by. The air hiccupped. The smell doubled down. Someone in the stairwell coughed out a swear.
They went to the window. Beyond the sliver of river: low, innocuous buildings with the architectural charisma of a filing cabinet. Lily checked the realtor sheet. DoWiSeTrePla: Downtown West Sewage Treatment Plant.
"Oh," she said.
"Oh," Marshall echoed.
The smell softened, like it had done its job for now. Hope seeped back in, shameless.
"It's only when the wind hits a certain way," Marshall said.
"New York is windy like, three times a year," Lily lied.
"Three thousand," the city whispered.
---
The Sibling Who Sees Contracts
They invited the gang over Saturday to pre-celebrate. Robin brought champagne. Ted brought measuring tape and visions of built-ins. Barney brought a cheese plate and six comments about "equity, baby." Megan and Yvonne brought snark. Ivar brought nothing, which somehow read as everything.
"We are so proud of you," Robin said, hugging Lily, then stiffening. "Are you… cooking… cabbage?"
"No!" Lily squeaked. "Just… new-apartment smell."
Barney sniffed. "Smells like Staten Island."
Ted, eager to distract, stretched his tape across a wall. "We can absolutely do a twelve-foot run of shelving. Books, plants, a small place to cry when escrow hits."
Ivar drifted to the window. He didn't look at the river. He looked past it, the way a hunter looks past cover to see the shape that's truly moving. The air shifted — the barely-there warning a city gives if you've paid your dues. His nostrils barely flared. He closed the window with two fingers.
"You bought near a sewage treatment plant," he said, conversational as weather.
The room froze.
"Excuse me?" Lily smiled like a hostage.
Ivar tilted his head at the paperwork on the counter. "DoWiSeTrePla. Cute acronym. Brutal truth." He tapped the line in the condo board packet that no one reads until the smell makes them fluent: Prevailing winds may intermittently—
"Intermittently!" Marshall yelped. "See? Intermittently."
Megan smirked. "Correction: intermittently means 'whenever the universe says watch this.'"
Yvonne peered over Ivar's shoulder, impressed despite herself. "Fine print is where dreams file Chapter 11."
Ted looked stricken. "But the crown molding."
"Crown molding doesn't filter air," Robin said, fanning herself with the floor plan.
Barney, to Lily: "It's not that bad."
The wind shifted again. The apartment argued.
Barney retreated. "I have made a grave error."
Lily's chin went up in the way that means we are doubling down. "It's our home. We love it."
Ivar's voice softened half a degree. "Love is not a solvent."
Lily swallowed. Marshall looked at the window like it had betrayed him.
Ivar stepped away, palms open. "My advice: learn your wind. Seal the gaps. Deodorize the ducts. And when it's bad? Don't pretend it isn't."
Robin blinked at him. "That's… about more than air, isn't it?"
"Always," Ivar said.
---
The Math That Doesn't Hug Back
Days turned into logistics. Lily crafted a budget that looked like a starving artist had mated with a CPA. Marshall ran numbers until they squeaked.
"Maintenance plus mortgage," he murmured, pencil scratching. "Property tax escrow. Utilities. Our loans. Groceries. The concept of fun is moved to Q4."
Lily chewed a lip. "We can cut takeout. And… museums. And… color."
"We will not cut color," Marshall said, righteous. "We will eat beige, we will not live beige."
They were doing the noble thing where you decide love can outrun arithmetic.
At MacLaren's, Ted tried to help by designing shelving so beautiful the spreadsheet blushed. Barney tried to help by pitching a "rental arbitrage hustle" that sounded like a RICO indictment. Robin tried to help by being pragmatic. Megan and Yvonne tried to help by sarcasm so precise it became therapy.
"Correction," Yvonne told Marshall, "if you're counting on luck, you've already defaulted."
Megan to Lily: "Don't martyr yourself to square footage. There's not enough candle in the world for a dead vibe."
Lily laughed, then didn't.
Ivar mostly watched. He had already texted a contractor he trusted — not to sweep in and erase the lesson, but to be a handhold when they finally admitted they needed one. There are rescues you don't perform until the person you love asks for air.
---
The Test of a Tuesday Night
They moved in on a Tuesday because that's when the truck was cheap. The sofa got bruised. The rug didn't fit. The plant died on sight. They ate pizza on boxes and declared it the best pizza of their lives.
At midnight, the wind turned mean.
It rolled under the door like a rumor, set up camp in the hallway, put its feet on the coffee table of their dreams. Lily sat up, hair wild, eyes wilder.
"Maybe it's a one-off," Marshall said.
"It's seasonal," Lily tried. "Season of… wind."
"It's rotational," Marshall said. "Like… democracy."
They opened every candle. They invented new religions. The air kept speaking fluent truth.
By 2 a.m., they had the conversation every couple thinks they invented: the one where you separate your pride from your mortgage long enough to ask, Are we allowed to admit this hurts?
"We'll make it work," Lily said finally, and Marshall believed her because that's his religion.
---
The Ask (Half of One)
Three days later, Lily stood in Ivar's office at Northern Star, pretending she'd been in the neighborhood of Midtown money by accident. The glass walls made her feel like a fish in a gallery.
"I'm not here to ask for help," she opened, which is how people ask for help.
Ivar's expression was neutral in that way that means I see you. "Then you can borrow advice."
She told him about the wind, the ducts, the budget, the way loving something too fast feels like sprinting downhill — exhilarating until your feet can't keep up.
"I don't want you to fix it," she finished, to prove she still had dignity. "I just… want to know where the leaks are."
Ivar slid a small card across the desk. A name. "This guy. He discretely seals old buildings for new money. He will overcharge you. You will let him."
Lily accepted the card like a relic. "Thank you."
"Also," Ivar added, "don't lie to your friends about the smell. Secrets rot faster than drywall."
She flushed. "We just didn't want to hear 'I told you so.'"
"I don't say that," Ivar said.
"You do," Lily said. "But you wait."
A beat. He inclined his head — a knight moving once, decisively.
As she reached the door, he said, not unkind: "You're allowed to hate the cost of a dream without hating the dream."
Lily nodded hard enough to count as a promise.
---
The Housewarming That Learned to Breathe
They scheduled it for Sunday afternoon, when the wind was usually at lunch. Ted hung his shelves like a prayer. Robin brought wine that could buy a shoe. Barney hired a string trio and then forgot he had. Megan arrived with an industrial-strength fan. Yvonne brought charcoal filters and the disdain of someone who has seen worse code.
"Welcome to DoWiSeTrePla," Marshall announced, brave as a lighthouse.
"Bless you," Barney said. "Gesundheit."
Lily gave a toast about first steps and dumb courage and windows in bathrooms. People cried in the elegant way of white wine drinkers.
Halfway through, the smell knocked. Not a sledgehammer this time — a firm rap. The trio faltered. Conversation thinned. Eyes flicked to the windows like dogs at thunder.
Lily looked at Marshall. Marshall looked at Lily. She set her glass down and cleared her throat.
"Okay," she said. "So. Our neighborhood sits near a sewage treatment plant. On some days — some — the wind is… chatty. We can pretend it isn't, or we can open the windows on the good days and light the fans on the bad ones and admit we bought something imperfect because we wanted a home more than we wanted a postcard."
Silence. Then Robin, bless her steel spine, raised her glass. "To homes that smell like the truth sometimes."
"To air that keeps you honest," Megan added.
"Correction," Yvonne said, tapping her filter. "To solutions."
Barney sniffed. "To holding your breath during the vows."
Ted laughed, relieved. "To shelves that don't sag under honesty."
Ivar met Lily's eyes. He didn't smile. He nodded. Which, from him, is warmth.
The party loosened. The smell lingered, but it didn't run the room. The trio shifted to something jaunty. Barney flirted with a filter. Marshall and Lily exhaled like people opening a parachute they trusted.
---
Epilogue: Wind Maps & Marriage Maps
Over the next weeks, they learned the rhythms. Mornings were usually safe. Evenings were a coin toss. Rain helped. Heat punished. The contractor Ivar recommended arrived with the confidence of a man who invoices in Latin; he sealed cracks Marshall didn't know existed, talked about negative pressure like poetry, and left them poorer and stronger.
Ted installed a door sweep and pretended it was architecture. Robin filmed a segment nearby and dropped by with coffee that tasted like competence. Barney claimed he could smell money through walls and was bad at math. Megan bullied a hardware store into taking back a fan after twelve days. Yvonne labeled vents with a Sharpie like she was naming stars.
One night, when the wind behaved and the shelves held and the plant (replacement) did not die, Marshall leaned against the window and watched the city wink.
"I think I'm still the right guy," he said.
Lily kissed his shoulder. "You were never not."
"Even when we lied?"
"Especially when we stopped."
Across town, in a penthouse that smelled like cedar and calculation, Ivar reviewed a spreadsheet, a contract, and a text from an international number that read, I found a kitchen with windows. Save me one shelf. He put the phone down. In the quiet that followed, the city exhaled. He let it.
Because homes, like stories, don't become real in the perfect air of the listing. They become real the first day you admit what the wind actually brings — and decide to stay anyway.
---
Word count: ~1,641 ✅