This is getting out of hand.
Also, I’ve never been jealous of my scissors before.
Moving on. I replace those tools into their tidy places and don’t even spare a glance in Braht’s direction. It’s fine if we’re fucking like bunnies at his house, but the office doesn’t need to know a thing about it.
The sound of office chair wheels rolling announces his presence a minute later. “Excuse me, platonic coworker. I have a question.”
My eyes roll harder than Homer Simpson’s bowling balls. “Yes, Guy Who Just Happens to Sit Near Me at the Office? How can I be of service?”
He grins, and my nipples harden. Damn it. Good thing I wore a sturdy bra. “When does the starting gun go off?”
“The starting gun?” I glance at his crotch and wonder how he can be so insatiable.
“For the house. When can I show Hill House? We need to coordinate. The place is small inside, so if we double book, it won’t work well.”
“This is true. Wait—Hill House?” Isn’t that the name of a horror story? I’m feeling a little too frisky to focus. Then I realize he’s talking about our listing. “Hill House? Come on, the place is not that scary.”
“Actually, it’s literally Hill House. It’s on Hodenpyl Hill. Anyway. How do you feel about a six p.m. official start time? We need to decide when we’re ready for customers.”
“Fine. Six. Your landscapers will be done, right? How much is this costing us?”
He gives a little shove off my desk and rolls back to his own. “Whatever the price, it’s worth it. Got a call to make!”
Yikes. Then I guess I do, too. I need to find prospects before six o’clock. I take out my color-coded planner—the one where I keep leads—and flip through the pages, wondering who might want to see the place this evening.
I hear the chair rolling in my direction again a couple of minutes later. “Guess who has a showing at six p.m. to an owner of the Suck It Vacuum Company? Hmmm? Any guesses?” Braht asks.
“I give up,” I say. “Who has a showing at six? Is it Dennie?” Dennie is another agent in our branch. There is a zero percent chance he has a showing, but I don’t want to play Braht’s reindeer games.
“Dennie?” Braht asks, like he’s never heard the name before.
Meanwhile, ten feet away, Dennie is rotating his big, slow head trying to figure out who keeps saying his name. It’s really no wonder I was the top saleswoman for two years before Braht showed up.
“It’s not Dennie,” Braht says. “I don’t even know a Dennie. Dennie doesn’t exist.”
“I’m right here,” Dennie says.
Braht continues. “It’s me.” Then he stands up and announces to the whole office in a Zeus-like voice: “I HAVE A SIX P.M. APPOINTMENT TO SHOW HILL HOUSE AND I’M GOING TO TAKE ALL THE MARBLES!” Then he points to the whiteboard as if he’s Babe Fucking Ruth calling his touchdown. Goal? Home run? Whatever. I don’t follow sportsball.
“Okay, Spoiled Braht,” I say. “Good luck with that.”
There’s a shocked silence in the office. Or maybe it’s just a silence. Dennie is watching us, but there may be nobody home inside that cottage.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Good luck?” Braht asks.
“It means good luck. How is that confusing?” I smirk when I say it.
“It’s not what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it.” He leans in close to me and I can smell him. Not just how clean he is, but underneath that, pulsing, is the scent of man. Braht Man. I shake my head to clear it a little.
“I just said good luck. It means good luck. Now, get out of my office space.” I say this forcefully and Braht gives me a look that says, You’re the boss now, but I’m the boss later.
And I sigh because it’s probably true.
“I don’t like that guy,” Dennie mutters from ten feet away.
I ignore him because that’s what you do with Dennie.
Because I’m me, I do find a prospective buyer. And because I need that bonus and that new security system even more these days, I go the sneaky route.
Sometimes a girl just does what a girl has to do.
At five p.m. I tell Braht that I’m going out for drinks with the girls. Which is mostly true.
But first I drive over to Hill House for a secret showing. The clients are a newly married couple who are so bright and fresh and youthfully expressive that they are probably YouTube stars. Or maybe Snapchat. The way they’re snapping pictures of everything, they must be Internet Famous, at least in their own minds. Every time I show them some unique aspect of the house (electric fireplace, granite countertops, old-school dumb waiter), one of them coos, “Just a sec!” and then they make a duck face and snap snap snap.
I may snap snap snap at any second.
This house is not large, but the showing takes forever. I try hard not to look impatient, but I want this house sold before Braht crosses the threshold. Unfortunately, these kids don’t seem like they can make a decision about what kind of takeout to get, let alone whether or not to purchase a house.
“I love everything about it!” the girl says.
“Me too!” her hubby agrees.
“Indian or pizza?” she asks, while I break out in hives.
Young love is really annoying, all that hopefulness. She reminds me of myself when I took off with Dwight. Biggest regret of my life. I hope she has a separate bank account he doesn’t know about.
“You know, it smells weird,” she says all of a sudden. “Here, Lane, take my pic while I smell the air.”
I try not to look, but he literally takes a picture of her with her nose slightly tilted like she’s sniffing something that’s not pleasant.
“Oh! I know what it is. It smells like my grandma!”
I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing.
“Oh,” hubby-Lane says.
“We could buy the house and demo it. Totally start from scratch,” she says.
Uh oh. “Guys, this house would be tricky to scrape and rebuild. It’s close to the waterfront, and the new rules about building near wetland areas would require an environmental review before you could build.”
They both look at me like I’ve sprouted a second head which is speaking German.
“So we can’t knock it down? Even though it’s so small?” she asks.
“You might be able to. But if you design beyond the current footprint—which is grandfathered—your plans might not get board approval.”
“Grandfathered?” Lane asks.
I sigh.
He smiles at his young wife. “You can take a picture of me with a big ol’ hammer. Like I’m driving a ball peen hammer right into this wall here.” Dumbass Lane smacks the walls and that’s when I’ve had enough.
“Ball peen!” she giggles.
I look at my phone. “Oh, darn it!” I say. “Our time is up.”
“But we’re not finished!” Lane insists.
“We’ll have to meet again,” I say, knowing that it will never happen. They were never going to buy this place. I’ve been given the runaround again. I herd them toward their car, but it’s slow going.
“Oh, I didn’t get a shot of that creepy cat!” the young bride says. Before I can argue, she goes darting into the house. Lane follows her.
And that’s when Braht drives up with his wealthy vacuum company-owning family. I’m so busted.
My nipples harden anyway.
Car doors slam, and I look down at my feet. A pair of Gucci loafers invades the patch of grass where my guilty gaze is focused. I cheated for nothing.
“Hello, Ash.” Braht’s voice is chilly.
“Hello, Braht.”
“Funny. I didn’t know you had a showing. You’re supposed to put it in the schedule.”
I say: “Um…”
From inside the house I hear, “Kitty kitty kitty!” And then the sound of a cat meowing unhappily. Actually, I’m pretty sure the cat is meowing cuss words.
Braht’s clients
are squinting up at the house. “May we go inside?”
“I was hoping the other client would come out first,” Braht says through clenched teeth.
“We haven’t got all night,” the vacuum cleaner guy says. “I thought we were getting the very first showing?”
They all troop inside.
I wait.
Eventually my clients emerge, laughing about something or other. I say all the things I’m supposed to say, about how we’ll be in touch.
We won’t.
Unfortunately, Braht’s clients emerge only two minutes later. “If you have anything larger,” the wife says.
“Homes on the lake rarely come up,” Braht says. “But you will be the first to know.”
He and I stand side by side in silence while they drive away.
“We talked about this,” he says when we can no longer see their car. “It’s a small home, and we need to keep the showings from overlapping.”
“I know,” I whisper.
I need to apologize, but now another set of tires is coming down the gravel drive. Another car parks, and then he gets out, with another young couple in tow. “We were just in the neighborhood,” Dennie says. “I know I didn’t register for showing, but…”
“Go ahead,” Braht and I say at exactly the same time.
“Jinx,” we both say at the same time. Which is a double jinx.
Dammit. As if I need to be jinxed right now.
Dennie and his clients troop into the house behind us. I hope the cat has found a nice safe hiding place because this is turning into Grand Central Station.
“Look, I’m really sorry. I apologize for violating our plans. It wasn’t the right thing to do, and I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, honey bear.” He sighs. “I forgive you. We’re in competition. There’s no denying it. Besides, it makes me hot when you get feisty.”
“I’m still sorry,” I say, meaning it. “And I’ll bet your next showing is a winner.”
He grins. “It probably will be, because I’m wearing my lucky belt.” There are alligators on it. Of course there are.
“I mean it,” I say. “I hope it goes well.” I remove a long blonde hair from his shoulder, smiling because it’s mine. “I’m off to get drinks with the girls. Sadie’s father hired a private investigator to prove that her husband is a cheat. She got the photos today, and she wants us there when she opens them.”
He flinches. “Ugh.”
“I know. But, listen. Do you think…” I clear my throat. “Do you think I could make it up to you later? After cocktails?”
“Hell yes,” he says, eyeing me. “I’m available for makeup sex. Any day of the week. And now you can run along with your friends. I’ll wait for Dennie to be done in there, and I’ll lock up.”
My eyes narrow. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t have another showing, right?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Nope. We’re going to do everything on the books now. Should we pinky swear?”
I offer him my pinky and we shake.
Then he grabs me for a big, hungry kiss. With lots of tongue.
My nipples are like bullets by the time I have to drive away.
18 Wine Bar and Sadness
Ash
“I need a selfie,” I tell my friends. It occurs to me that I’m acting like the couple I showed Hill House to, but I’m not doing the whole duck-face thing, so this is really okay.
We’re at the bar again. It’s a wine bar with sophisticated cheeses so we feel dignified. And Brynn pretty much just craves cheese right now. Sadie can only stay a half hour because her girls are at a coworker’s house to develop socialization skills AKA a playdate, and she doesn’t want to impose too long. “Okay,” Sadie agrees, moving into the shot.
We all smile and—per tradition—I take the photo because I have the longest arms. “Sloth arms,” Sadie once called them.
“Cool. Thanks.” They take their seats as I quickly text the photo to Braht, to prove that I made it safely here.
I still feel like a jerk for showing the house on the sly, but if I don’t keep my annual sales bonus, I can’t afford the security system. Which I need. Because sooner or later Braht will get tired of me staying with him. He is a man, after all. His dick will start pointing at some other woman and I will have to move on. I know this from experience.
A moment later my phone pings back. Braht has sent me a picture of his, erm, package. Looks like he’s at his house hanging out in a silk kimono and nothing else. I’m suddenly very hungry for bratwurst.
Then I tell myself to focus, because I need to be present, mentally present for my friends. This isn’t just a fun meet-up. We’re here to help Sadie—to be her soft place to land, if she starts to fall, and everything in my gut says she’s going to.
“Well?” I ask.
“Man, I wish I could drink,” Brynn says.
“I’ll maybe drink enough for you,” Sadie says. “Once my kiddos are asleep.” We watch in horror-movie anticipation while Sadie pulls an envelope out of her bag. The private investigator her dad hired has hit paydirt, and it’s time to review the evidence.
“Are you sure we should be seeing these?” Brynn asks, slurping her soda.
“Oh, I’m positive,” Sadie says through gritted teeth. “I mean, I’m not going to post them on the internet. I’m not going to ruin my husband’s career. But the PI said it’s pretty definitive. So let’s get this over with.”
The first glossy photo shows her husband Decker waving to someone.
In the next shot, a young woman approaches him on the street. “Hey,” Brynn says. “They’re outside Hop Cat! I puked in those bushes just last week!” She sounds kind of proud.
“Well, hold on to your cookies. I’m sure it gets worse.” Sadie shows us the next photo, of Decker and the girl greeting each other with a kiss in the next shot.
We all fall silent. I wouldn’t have guessed that this would be so hard to look at. He’s not my husband. But the sight of her hand resting so casually on his camel overcoat makes me want to scream.
Flip. Sadie shows us a photo where they’re seated at a table.
Flip. They’re getting into her car.
Flip. They check into the H&I hotel. It used to be the Holiday Inn but was purchased by a new company who apparently wanted to save on signage.
Flip. He’s got her on her hands and knees. It’s a perfect shot of Decker’s bare ass as he…
“I think I’m gonna…” Brynn runs for the ladies’ room.
Sadie puts the photos away and takes a sip of wine. “Now all that’s left is to confront him.” She sounds remarkably steady. Reserved or resigned, I’m not sure.
“You want me there with you when you tell him?” I offer. “I don’t mind. I know some karate and I want to see Dick-her’s face when he sees he’s been found out.”
“Dick-her!” Sadie smiles for the first time tonight.
Gallows humor. It’s been our friend for a long time, now.
Brynn returns, and Sadie parks her cheek in her hand. “I’m ready to divorce him. My father and I are going to confront him together tomorrow night when he gets home from his business trip. By then, my sister and I will have already packed up his things and put them in a U-Haul. I’m handing him the key. That’s it. Evicted.”
“You are fierce,” I say. “I’m in awe.”
Sadie shrugs. “Still. I really need to understand, if only for professional purposes. How do we end up with these assholes? All three of us. Brynn had Steve you had Dwight. And I had Dick-her.”
We laugh, because Dick-her is still funny.
“Tell me. I need to know.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Brynn says with a wave of one hand. “In my case, it was insecurity. I was the slightly overweight, slightly under-tall girl. Steve was the first guy who came along to say he was interested for the long haul. And even if his interest actually lasted about ten minutes, I clung on. There were warnin
g signs everywhere and I ignored them.”
“Like what?” I demand. Because I’ve already proven that my judgment is even worse than hers. I’m the only one sitting here whose ex did seven years in jail.
Now I start to wonder if I’m ignoring all the red flags Braht is waving. His flags are probably pastel. But still. What if he’s too good to be true? “Girls, what are the warning signs? We need to codify these. For science. Like, we need a formula we can plug in the variables, and arrive at an answer. Will the guy turn into an asshole? Or not.”
Sadie lifts her face. “Solve for D, where D equals the chances that a man is revealed to be a douchenozzle.”
We all fall silent for a moment, thinking about the inputs to this equation.
“For me, the warning sign I missed was the cable guy,” Brynn says suddenly.
“The what?”
“I just thought of this recently,” she says, folding her hands. “Right after Steve and I moved in together, we had the cable installed. The guy messed it up, and Steve blew a gasket.” She smiles, because unlike Sadie and me, this is in her past.
“Well,” she continues. “Fast-forward several years, and Tom and I order the premium package—ultra-lightning-fast cable Wi-Fi for the new cottage. They’ve sent out the guy three times now, and it still isn’t quite right. We’re still waiting for one more part to arrive. But Tom has been a prince about it at every visit. He says, ‘that poor slob has the same low-wage job that I almost ended up with if I hadn’t gotten my first network gig.’”
That does sound like something Tom would say. But Tom is the perfect man.
“Wow. His empathy runs deep,” Sadie says.
“Yeah,” Brynn sighs.
“Dick-her would have ripped the cable guy a new one. I think Brynn is onto something. We can’t trust what they say to us when they want to get in our pants. And there are other caveats. One thing that impressed me about Dick-her in the early days was that he’s nice to his feeble granny.”
“Is feeble granny loaded?” I ask. My bullshit meter is very finely tuned these days.
“Yup!” Sadie says cheerfully. “Honest to God, they should take away my therapist’s license. Who needs a therapist who can’t see all these red flags?”