Chapter 2 #2
People like me, she means. Professionals.
Singles. People with orderly lives and predictable schedules.
Not people like Emily, who shows up with soup when you’re sick, even when you haven’t asked.
Not people like Jared, who pick up on your bad speech days and steer the conversation to topics that require fewer words.
People who fit. People who belong.
I’ve been wavering for so long, choosing based on what I thought I should want without stopping to ask if it’s what I actually desire.
“Do you have any questions?” the realtor asks.
I open my mouth to ask about parking or garbage collection or any of a dozen practical concerns, but what comes out is, “Are cats allowed?”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rise. “A cat?”
“A pet,” I clarify, heat crawling up my neck. “I was thinking about getting one.”
“That’s... something to consider.” Her nose wrinkles in a way that suggests pets are the kind of variable that devalues property. “The complex does allow pets under twenty-five pounds, with a deposit.”
Embarrassment prickles through me for even asking. It’s not as if Emily would bring Mixie here. I just want… The thought slips away before I can catch it, leaving only that hollow ache in its place.
“So,” the realtor says, clasping her hands in front of her. “What do you think? I know it’s only the first place we’ve seen, but sometimes you just know, right?”
She wears the self-assured look of someone who believes the deal is already done. She’s closed sales like this dozens of times, matching the perfect property to the perfect buyer at the perfect moment. She’s already imagining how she’ll spend her commission.
I clear my throat. “It’s a beautiful space. The view is incredible, and I appreciate all the details you’ve pointed out. Being fully furnished is a plus.” I shift to give my knee some relief. “But I’ll need some time to think it over, maybe look at a few more options before I decide.”
The words are polite and noncommittal, exactly what I’m supposed to say. But as they leave my mouth, certainty settles in my bones. This place isn’t for me.
The realtor’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes sharpen.
“Of course. Though I should mention another showing is scheduled for this evening, and the sellers have indicated they’re hoping for a quick decision. The market’s quite competitive right now.”
“I understand.”
I do. The market’s always competitive for places like this.
“If you’re concerned about the price,” she continues, riding the line between professional and sympathetic, “we can explore an offer below asking, though it may spark a bidding war.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But it’s not about the price.”
I can picture myself building a routine in this space, continuing to build my career as a journalist, and living a life that’s not what my family planned but not entirely what I want, either.
This would just be another holding place, the same as Kyle’s cabin. A temporary solution while I still struggle to figure out what I want to do with my life.
Kyle’s place was never meant to be more than somewhere to recover after my accident and figure out my next move when my old life fell apart.
But months have stretched into almost a year, and I still sleep on his couch, share his bathroom, and live out of a duffel bag and the single drawer he cleared out for me.
It’s comfortable. It’s safe. It’s easy.
And it’s not enough.
This place is built for one life, not a pack.
And once I realize that, I can’t ignore it.
The realtor is still talking, taking on the rushed quality of someone who senses a sale slipping away. “—and of course, if you’re worried about taking on such a big commitment alone, we can put together a contingency plan. Perhaps your family—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, the words coming out firmer than I intend. “It’s a beautiful property, and you’ve been very thorough. But it’s not what I’m looking for.”
She blinks, thrown by the directness of my refusal. “Oh. Well, that’s... your prerogative. But if I may ask, what doesn’t work for you? That way I can better tailor our search to—”
“I need more space,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. “More... possibility.”
“Of course! I have several larger properties in your price range that might be more suitable. A townhouse in the north end, perhaps, or a converted loft right on the harbor—”
“I think,” I say, “I need to take some time to figure out what I’m looking for. This has been helpful, though. Very clarifying.”
She hands me another business card, her professional smile firmly back in place. “My direct line is on the back. Call anytime, day or night. The right property is out there, I’m sure of it.”
I pocket the realtor’s card and give her my excuses, promising to reach out once I’ve had time to think.
The elevator ride down is silent.
By the time I step out onto the street, the cold harbor wind cuts straight through my coat, icy enough to sting my lungs. I tilt my head back, breathing it in. Across the bay, I spot the water taxi nearing the docks, ready for another pickup for Misty Pines.
Home.
Or at least, closer to one than I’ve had in a long time.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I almost ignore it. Then my mother’s name lights up the screen.
A second notification for a text message waits beneath it.
Caroline
I heard you’re doing better. Can’t wait to catch up with you.
My stomach knots. My father insists on calling it the Bennett arrangement, as if dressing it up in the modern language of partnerships and shared financial security somehow disguises the fact that it’s an arranged marriage.
I stare down at the message while harbor traffic moves around me.
This is the real problem, isn’t it?
Not the condo.
Not Kyle’s cabin.
Not even the question of where I want to live.
I can’t decide what I want for my future while ignoring what already waits for me on the East Coast.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have to get on a plane, sit across from my parents, and finally have the conversation I’ve been avoiding for almost a year.
But how can I go home and disappoint my family if I have nothing better to show them as an alternative?