33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
Imani Boudareaux
A Day in the Life Of An Independent Woman Who Unfortunately Decided to Be a Realtor
The same old row of brick buildings slide past my driver’s side window as I drive. They are one of the same, blocky and plain, like the city had run out of imagination years ago. My coworker’s voice crackles through my ear piece, sharp enough to make me roll my eyes.
“I already told you,” I say to my annoying coworker Richard, steering with one hand while I flip a pen between my fingers with the other. “Houses come and go. Clients come and go. None of this is new to me. But that showing? That one matters. I want it. Locked down.”
He starts to argue, but I cut him off, voice sweet as sugar and sharp as glass. “I will be the only one showing that house on Saturday. No questions asked. Get it done.” I tap the side of my ear piece once and the line goes dead.
“Thank you very much,” I mutter to myself. Two quick taps. The little digital voice chimes at me. “Call Elowen.” The line rings twice before she answers. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Morning,” she says, sounding distracted.
We trade the usual updates. She’s fussing about her morning, about running late and spilling matcha on her blouse. I throw in my complaints about traffic and the monotony of brick, stacked on brick, stacked on brick, all of it dull enough to make me wish for a crash worthy of color.
Finally, I cut her off with a laugh. “Okay, enough of that. Tell me why in the world you’re acting like lunch is a death sentence. It’s just lunch, for crying out loud.”
“I know,” she mutters, a little too fast.
“You’re not convincing me,” I tease, leaning into the wheel.
“What’s got you so nervous, El? You’re going to order a salad, sip your drink, and be all cute and docile.
That’s it. Not rocket science.” She’s quiet, and I can almost hear her chewing on her lip through the silence.
“Mmhm,” I smirk as I stop at the red light.
“Spill it. I’m not hanging up until you tell me what has you shaking over a damn meal. ”
Elowen sighs into the line, long and dramatic. “It’s just…Beau.”
I grin knowing I’ve been waiting for her to just say it. “Ah, there it is. Finally, I thought you were going to dance around his name until next year.”
“You don’t understand. He makes me nervous, Imani. Every mention of his name makes me feel like I might throw up on the floor.”
“Good. That means he’s worth your time,” I chuckle, shifting gears as I coast past another lifeless row of bricks.
“Now, listen, young lady. First rule, wear the push up bra. You know the one. If you are going to lunch with a man who broods that hard, you better make him motherfucking choke on his water when you walk in.”
Elowen yells, “Imani!”
“I’m serious,” I say, biting back a laugh. “And second, when you order, no garlic. None. Imagine you get to dessert and he decides he wants a smooch. You do not want garlic bread haunting that moment.”
She sputters, half laughing, half mortified. “He’s not going to just—”
“Uh huh. You say that now, but I have seen the way he looks at you,” I tease. “Like a man deciding if he should eat or worship. Maybe both? Wink, wink. So let us not sabotage ourselves with garlic, please.” Elowen is laughing now, and I can hear her nerves shaking off a little with it.
“That’s better,” I say, smug. “You’re such a good girl.”
“Oh my God. Please don’t start this again.”
“I just like hearing you squirm.” I giggle.
“I feel ridiculous already,” Elowen murmurs, but there’s a smile in it.
“Good,” I shoot back. “Ridiculous is better than hiding behind beige cardigans. You’re not analyzing his childhood trauma at lunch. You are there to let him stare at you like you’re his dessert.”
“Imani,” she laughs, half scandalized.
“What?” I tease, steering around a pothole. “It’s true. Forget the garlic, forget the nerves. Put on that bra, sit pretty, and if he plays his cards right, maybe you’ll let him find out what it’s like when dessert bites back.”
Elowen gasps. “You’re outrageous.”
“And you love me for it,” I hum, smirking.
Elowen’s still laughing as she says, “You are the worst.”
“What do I always say? Best of the worst? And you are welcome,” I reply, smug. “Now go breathe, pick your outfit, and remember the no garlic rule. I expect a full report after, unless you suddenly get sick and can’t make it back to the office…”
“You’re doing too much.”
“Yeah, but I’m also a genius. Love you, mean it.”
“Love you too,” she says, and the line goes quiet.
I tap the ear piece once and let the silence of the car settle in.
The buildings give way to quieter streets, rows of houses lined up like open palms waiting for someone to claim them.
I slow in front of the one I’m scheduled to preview, staring at its clean siding and neat lawn.
To anyone else it probably looks like success, another box checked, another rung climbed.
But as I sit here, hand resting on the wheel, it all feels so mundane.
Success has become routine, stripped of any thrill.
I can score the listings, I can close the sales, but what comes after?
I want more than this churn of clients and contracts.
I want to settle down, to feel something steady that’s not measured in commissions or square footage.
The thought should be comforting, but instead it sours me.
Every man I meet makes my skin crawl. Minus one, apparently.
Smug smiles, empty promises, hands that feel like obligations instead of warmth.
Every guy I see disgusts me, and the idea of choosing one feels like trading my freedom for something worse than loneliness.
I exhale, long and slow, and look back at the house.
This is supposed to be my future. Instead, it just looks like another wall I’ve built around myself.
I’m abstinent and have been for a long time. I don’t give in to one off dinner dates or a nice gift being dropped at my doorstep. I refuse to succumb to what a man wants. Enough brooding. Beau does enough to keep us all in balance.
I grab my folder from the passenger seat, push the car door open, and let my heels click against the pavement.
I’ve swapped my usual matching sweatsuit for a man-eater vibe today.
Black suit jacket over a red and black striped dress with a pair of Louboutins to match.
By the time I reach the front walk, my professional smile is already in place.
The door is closed, and the couple waiting outside turns toward me, nervous but excited, fingers laced together.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say, my voice bright and confident. “Are we ready to see your forever?”
A forever. I wish I could swap places with them. I don’t want the house. Just to understand what it feels like to fall in love. Just once.