“The new FAR-BAR contract has several changes that will affect buyer’s rights.” Tyler straightened the lines of his Men’s Warehouse suit and wove through the chairs, heading for the 1980’s projector at the south end of the room. Our brokerage had closed eight hundred million dollars in real estate last year, yet couldn’t invest in a smart TV. He inserted a page under the lamp and cleared his throat. Beside me, I watched Charity open Instagram and scroll through her feed.
Stifling a yawn, I listened to Tyler and sent a grateful prayer up to heaven that I’d never become an attorney. Bored, I ran through the What-Ifs in my life.
What If… Easton hadn’t gotten signed by the Marlins? We wouldn’t have moved to Miami. He wouldn’t have gotten that million-dollar bonus. We wouldn’t have bought a four-thousand square foot house that needed six figures worth of work. Would he have proposed so quickly? Would we have stayed in Tallahassee?
What If… I hadn’t dropped law school? Would I have learned to love the dry documentation, legal loopholes, and intricate details? Would I still have ended up in real estate, just through a different path?
And the always inevitable What If…
What if I hadn’t lost that first baby? What if we’d known that I was pregnant? What if I hadn’t gotten so drunk at graduation? What if I had taken vitamins and cut out sodas and—most importantly—not gone to Wakulla Springs and belly-flopped off the high jump? Would the baby have made it safely to birth? Would we have had more? Would I be pushing a stroller right now, instead of listening to this bullshit?
And just as scary… was that still what I wanted? I was beginning to doubt myself, beginning to question whether my fight to be a mother was out of a misplaced need for security and self-worth and not for a life that I actually wanted. We’d started trying for a baby when Easton was in Marlin blue, our bank account fat, my purpose in life fuzzy and unclear. We didn’t need my income. I was no longer particularly interested in law. I was a new wife, in love with my husband, and craving something that I couldn’t put a finger on. A role. A purpose. Cement that would make our new life and marriage stick.
So we tried for a baby. And when three years of fucking like rabbits didn’t work, we brought in the doctors. And when the doctors didn’t work, I adopted an adorable baby puppy that grew into a drooling, destructive, and unbehaved mess.
“Let’s look at a case study.” Tyler replaced the current page with a new one and the energy in the room sank deeper into despair. Beside me, I watched Charity type OMG followed by six emojis on a cat post that wasn’t worth a simple like. My own phone hummed against my leg and I carefully pulled it free, giving a casual glance around to make sure no one was watching.
It was an email from the other agent on my pending deal. I reviewed the attachments and sent back a quick response. I was exiting from my email app when I saw an email from Easton that had come through my personal inbox.
Subject Line: Your fantasies…
I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but the things you described.
I scrolled down for more, but there wasn’t anything. Just that one indiscernible line.
I knew Easton better than anyone in this world, but couldn’t read where he was going with this. If I had to guess, he didn’t know himself. I understood that. I had tolerated my fantasies for the last two years because I knew they didn’t have potential. They were a photo on a board I could sling darts at, with no actual repercussions, short of some very enjoyable self-induced orgasms. But now they’d—or at least one of those fantasies—had been exposed.
And now he wanted to know if I really wanted it. Why had I shared it with him if I hadn’t wanted it to happen? Just to air out my secrets? Or to prompt an action?
Maybe I did want it to happen, I just wanted it to be some magical event that would not affect our lives or relationship in any way at all.
Ha.
My fingers hovered over the screen and I warred over how to respond.
They were just fantasies. We can forget they exist.
I pressed send and let out a contained breath, lifting my head just in time to see Maria Bott’s head bob downward, then jerk back upright, her eyes rapidly blinking in an attempt to wake up. Maria’s narcoleptic tendencies were why Charity, Tim and I sat at this section of the wall. The timing of her nap would determine which one of us would buy lunch. Prior to the new listings summary: me. Between the start of the listings summary and the end of the meeting: Tim. If she let out an audible snore: Charity.