Her face goes a little sideways. “Yeah.”
“What’s the problem? Too many people bidding?”
Curie shakes her head. “It’s the owner. This little old Pasadena lady, and she’s being weird about it. I feel like she put it on the market just to have people come over, you know?”
“Really? Why would she do that? Isn’t it a lot of work to prep a house for showing?” The cleaning alone would put me off unless I wanted to sell for sure.
“Apparently it’s a thing among people who are super lonely. My realtor warned me last night when he realized how much I want it.” She sighs with frustration.
“But how does he know? Do realtors come with a special radar?”
“The house has been on the market for over six weeks. And you can see what it looks like. I mean, unless the place is crawling with termites or covered in mold, why would it be on the market that long, right?”
I nod.
“So I need to convince her that selling is going to be a good move on her part. A service to humanity, or at least to me.”
I laugh at her cheeky grin. But I wonder if the owner will actually sell if she’s lonely enough to put her house on the market just to have strangers visit. Then I wonder if that’s going to be me years and years from now—no career to keep me busy (from the way my job hunting is going, I might stay unemployed forever) and far from home (because I moved away, hoping to get a job) and lonely and sad and desperate for companionship and…
Ugh. Pascal, get a grip. This isn’t about you or your future.
I’m still young. It’s only been three weeks—slightly less. I can totally find a job, be surrounded by friends and family and be fine. I know I can.
After we’re finished, I decide to go to the mall and see if there’s anything pretty that catches my eye so I can buy it to celebrate when I get a new job. It feels weird to not have anything to do and stay home or at Court’s all day long. I’m not used to feeling this restless, without any focus or direction. I’ve been spending a lot of time at Court’s, and I’m afraid that at the rate things are going, I’m going to end up like that Tiffany woman—clingy and oblivious. Damn it. Am I going to be exactly what Dad wants me to be?
My phone rings right as I’m about to start the engine, and my heart flutters like tiny, hopeful butterflies are flapping their wings. Maybe it’s one of the places I applied to, calling about setting up an interview. I clear my throat and answer.
“Hey, I went by your office today and heard that you quit.”
Tom. “Are you calling from a friend’s phone?” I ask, annoyed that he got past my block.
“I always have a few extra phones around. You know how it is.”
I roll my eyes at his superior “I’m really important” tone. More like people keep blocking his damned number.
“Why didn’t you tell me you quit your job?” he says.
“Because you and I are nothing? Because you can’t help me find a new one? I have no desire to be a journalist.”
He doesn’t seem to notice my tone. “Well… I heard you quit because of your dad.” He tsks. “Steve the asshole. Saw that one coming.”
Even though my dad’s words hurt, I don’t appreciate Tom saying crap about him. He may be behind the times in some things, but he’s been a great dad in his own way all my life. He took me and Curie to museums and parks, taught us how to fish and swim. I just don’t understand how he could go from that to…how he was in the office—manipulative and condescending. Maybe I didn’t see the signs because I love him. Or maybe he didn’t need to be that way until now because I was young and malleable befo—
“Want to get back at him?” Tom asks.
I’m about to say hell no, then stop. I want to know what Tom means by getting back at my dad. “You know somebody looking for a financial analyst?”
He laughs. “You think like a girl. I don’t mean like get a job. Think big. Hit him where it really hurts.”
“If I thought like you, I’d be an amoeba. And I don’t have time for games. Say what you want to say.”
“I heard that your dad is laundering money.”
I pause, my brain trying to process the words. They’re perfectly good words, but strung together like that, they don’t make any sense. I let out a laugh, convinced Tom must be high on something. “Call me when you come back down to earth. Actually, don’t.”
“I’m serious. It’s a legit lead.”
A legit lead. “Coming from who?”