The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Two OLIVIA “LIV” BENNETT

Chapter Two

O LIVIA “L IV ” B ENNETT

In and out. I can do this.

I force myself from the calm quiet of my immaculate Audi SUV, where I’ve been giving myself a pep talk for the past ten minutes.

It’s 11:00 a.m., right after the wildly popular 10:00 a.m. spin class next door let out. Going in to the grocery store now is like entering the Thunderdome. Of entitlement. My heart palpitates as I open the car door. It dings with German efficiency, reminding me to close it after I step out.

I wend my way through rows of much larger SUVs, many with third-row seating that can accommodate half the peewee hockey team. As a proud history buff, I understand the importance of learning from the past and not repeating it. Yet this is the only time I have today. I’m in back-to-back meetings and appointments until dinner, and I promised Tommy and Tiki, so ... here I am, history notwithstanding. I don’t want to be a bad auntie. I square my shoulders as I step on the sensor that operates the sliding glass doors.

I’m in. I’ve crossed the Rubicon. No turning back now.

A whoosh of cold air and a mellow ’70s yacht-rock soundtrack greet me, opening onto Total Foodstuffs’ rows upon rows of symmetrical, organically raised produce, stacked in tidy pyramids. I need only a few items, so I grab a small basket and pull my list up on my phone.

But something’s off. The Lululemon Moms are normally out in full force, fresh from JoEllen Johnstone’s infamous techno spin class. Each of them with their identical buttery blonde highlights and resistance-bike-sculpted bodies, wielding their supersized carts down the aisles like essedarius gladiators riding in their war chariots. They normally whip past me and my empty basket as though I were a speed bump, but I don’t see any of them today. I wonder if class was canceled. All I hear is Steely Dan, and I think, Thank you, I will slide on down ... to the produce section.

Cautiously optimistic yet still guarded, I check the list on my phone. I’m cooking my specialty, chicken capellini pomodoro, practically the only thing my niece and nephew will eat other than chicken nuggets—not fingers, never fingers—and McDonald’s. People assume I learned to make this when I spent a semester abroad in Florence, but the truth is, it was my favorite dish when I worked part time at the Olive Garden, fresh out of college and trying to make a go of real estate.

Let’s do this.

With quick, desperate motions, I grab the first clamshell of plump, juicy cherry tomatoes that I see. After that, I swoop up some emerald-green basil, my head on a swivel, my guard up the entire time.

No trouble appears, so I begin to unclench.

This hasn’t been the Battle of Antietam; it’s just been a regular old Thursday.

My last midday visit was a catastrophe. This time I don’t have to stand for ten minutes waiting for a pair of LuluMoms to move away from the green juice as they debate if they like pinot noir, or they like pinot noir. (And they weren’t even in the wine aisle!) No one uses a massive Chanel flap bag to hip check me into the grapefruits, causing the whole pyramid to collapse in what seems like agonizingly slow motion. Nobody monopolizes the bulk food aisle as they conduct an Instagram Live on which spelt to buy.

Maybe today’s my lucky day?

Feeling slightly more confident, I make my way to the olive oil aisle, where ... ah, there they are . Class must have let out early and they have already spread through the store. Like cancer. Three LuluMoms are blocking the entire cooking oil section with their nose-to-nose-to-nose carts. No, today is not my lucky day. “And then she stepped on the ball!” crows a rare redhead. The other two gaze adoringly at her, hanging on her every word. I wonder if she’s their leader? She must be; she’s deviating from the prescribed hair color choice.

The olive oils are the width of a cart away from me. If I could reach across their cart train, maybe? I engage my core, stretching and extending, standing on my tippy toes and ... nope. Too far. I wait for one of the LuluMoms to notice my gymnastic attempts. They do not, so I clear my throat. “Hi, um, I’m so sorry, if I could please just—” I can hear Deandra, my older sister, shouting, “Stop apologizing for everything, Liv!” but I try to tune her out. A bit louder, I say, “If you ladies don’t mind, can I quickly scooch in here and grab some—”

A second LuluMom brays with laughter. “As if we’d approve her membership! She sits in the back row at spin! Can you imagine?”

I clear my throat again. Nothing. Why am I invisible to them? My looks and figure are fine. Per my doctor, I’m healthy and fit. Also, Emily and I go to the track all the time; I can run a 7:24 mile. I even spin! I just do it from the privacy of my Peloton. I have no complaints about my appearance, especially now that influencers are painting on freckles that look like my real ones.

Given how often I’m propositioned on social media, there’s an argument that I’m considered above average in looks. I mean, the men saying these things aren’t all the cream of the crop. One guy asked me for a pair of used socks, but I was nice to him anyway because hope springs eternal. (I did not send the socks.) However, another creeper hired me for his Evanston two-flat listing, so it can work out sometimes.

When I was just starting out in real estate, I made the mistake of advertising on a bus bench. It was supposed to generate recognition in the community. But the number of calls I received about sitting on someone else’s face convinced me my marketing dollars are better spent elsewhere.

Anyway, I competed in a few scholarship (read: beauty) pageants when I was younger and I always won Miss Congeniality, so I’m pretty much your garden-variety Hallmark movie heroine—cute, but not so cute that I’m threatening.

I’m in a bright-pink short-sleeved suit, bisected with a thin gold belt and paired with a fun silk polka dot blouse and a scarf tied around my neck, my shoes are Italian, and my bag cost an ungodly amount, and I’m guessing that’s the problem: I’m dressed for my day job as a real estate agent and these women do not recognize my kind .

I try again. “Please, this will just take a second,” I say, reaching toward the bottles and cans to no avail. I don’t have time for this. I have some canola oil at home and that’s close enough, so I move on to my next list item.

A LuluMom buzzes by me, coming from out of nowhere, clipping my ankle with her cart. I guess I didn’t see her in her camo workout gear. Very effective. I yelp in pain. Then another “I’m sorry” escapes my lips even though she hit me . When Deandra yelled at me about apologizing, I told her I was sorry. My sister may have a point, as the woman didn’t even break her stride to ask if I was okay.

I collect myself, limping to the pasta aisle, which is blissfully empty, and peruse the offerings. So many fine choices! Do I go with the fresh kind? (Oh, did the food in Florence spoil me. I still dream about the bistecca alla fiorentina—the trick is to leave the tenderloin sitting out at room temperature for about eight hours and then roast it over oak coals.) Or do I get the dried stuff with protein? I worry about the kids developing properly with their limited palates, so I pick the one with added vitamins. I’m reading the cooking time on the back of the colorful box when a tiny hand grabs it away from me.

“Mine!”

Startled, I glance down to see a precious little cherub parked in the seat area of a shopping cart, grasping what had been mine . This darling child has a deep side part and her hair is swept across her forehead, secured with a large ribbon. She’s styled like a kid modeling for the front of a washing powder box in the 1920s. Her smocked gingham dress is immaculate, and her tiny, ruffled socks and Mary Janes make my ovaries hum. The Italians take their children everywhere, so I have a real appreciation for kids running errands with their mothers and not just stuck at home with nannies. Postpandemic, I’m seeing more little ones out with their parents during the day, and I am here for it.

The LuluMom escorting the child seems so horrified by what just happened that she slaps the box out of her daughter’s hands in shock. The package falls and breaks open, and the thin strands spray out across the aisle. I’m impressed by exactly how much pasta that slim box held. “Winifred,” the mom cries. The baby girl is a Winifred! I die! She has a twee old-lady name! I love those so much! I wonder if they call her Winnie? Or how cute would Freddie be? “Not acceptable, Winifred! What do we say?”

My gosh, the mother’s going to have this feisty tot apologize to me. She’s probably still got a little lisp, and it’s going to come out like, Ah sowwe. I brace myself for the avalanche of adorable to follow. I absolutely love kids, even the worst-behaved ones like Tommy and Tiki, so I’m wholly charmed by this tiny person, especially because she’s already more assertive at three than I am three decades later. I can practically feel the weight of a little girl just like that as I hold her and it makes my heart ache a little. Then Winifred crosses her chubby, dimpled arms and sticks out her bottom lip, totally noncompliant. Is it wrong that I don’t want her to apologize? Maybe it’s good not to say sorry as a default mode, a bad habit that could haunt her into her adult life? Plus, she’s so sweet, she could steal my ATM code and I’d just stand there saying, “Get big bills, cutie pie!”

“Win,” the mom prompts, hand on slim hip, impatient, enunciating every word. “What. Do. We. Say?”

“Actually, it’s fine,” I say, scooping up the dry pasta and putting it aside so no one slips. “She doesn’t need to—”

Winifred interrupts me. “We say, ‘Pisketti is da debil.’”

“Exactly.” The LuluMom looks at the box I’m holding and says, “Eww, that wasn’t yours, was it?”

Somehow, I feel embarrassed for even considering buying a carb, and I apologize (That’s three, damn it!) and scurry away. Then I feel sort of sad that little Win will likely never know the fun of sitting in her high chair, feeding herself a warm bowl of SpaghettiOs, or a buttered piece of fresh bread. Oh well. Best to keep going. Surely there’s some pasta in my pantry. I’ve got to have better luck with the chicken, right? I assure myself.

My best friend, Emily, tells me not to listen to my sister and that there’s not a thing wrong with my being polite. Buyers and sellers want to work with folks they like, which is why I’ve been the brokerage’s top producer for five years running. But she does worry that I let people take advantage of me, particularly my colleagues. She never mentions my family in her assessment, and I appreciate that she’s too tactful to point out the obvious. No one wants to hear advice on what they can’t change. Sometimes it’s easier for all of us to stay stuck.

At the meat counter, I’m behind another mother-daughter combo, in matching athleisure, from their iridescent bike shorts to their flowy dolman-sleeve yoga wrap tops. My guilty pleasure is following a Utah influencer and trad wife who’s all about coordinating her mommy-daughter nap dresses. I can’t get enough of her content. Having a mini-me to match with is a serious #lifegoal.

I smile at the little girl, but she pays me no attention. She looks to be about six, and her expression is so very serious as she inspects the meat in the cooler. An earnest hipster butcher with a crisp white apron and labeled cuts of cow tattooed on his forearm waits on the pair. Pointing at a thick slab of marbled applewood-smoked bacon, the girl asks the butcher, “How much fresh air and sunshine did this little piggy have every day?” I am momentarily taken aback. Is ... is this how kids are supposed to sound? I feel like Tommy and Tiki are not in the same school district as this wee Mensa member.

The LuluMom beams at her progeny. “Hortense cares deeply about animal welfare.”

“I want to be a vegetarian, but bacon is too yummy,” Hortense says, rubbing her little potbelly. They all laugh, and I do too. But is she not six? I’m usually pretty good at deducing ages. Why does she sound sixteen? Is it the old-lady name? Also, is that a thing now? Is Agatha the new Ava? And should I help Deandra get a tutor for her kids? Last week, I had to stop Tommy from microwaving a fork. He’s almost thirteen.

The butcher tells her, “I’ll be honest, kiddo. I don’t know all the specifics of how this pig lived, but I’m curious too. We normally post our welfare ratings, so I’m not sure what the deal is here. Let me call our vendor at Sunnydale Farm and find out for you, okay?” To me, he says, “Sorry, it’s going to be a few minutes.”

I glance at my phone. I’m running out of time, so I have to press on. I’ve got to have chicken in the freezer, right? Maybe not air chilled or antibiotic-free, and maybe it had low self-esteem in comparison to the birds here, but still. At least I can get Parmesan. Even if the ingredients at home aren’t the freshest, shaved Parm makes everything delish. I rush to the cheese aisle. As I try to decide which wedge to choose, I encounter yet another adorable little girl. This one is clutching a stuffed lemur. She wanders a few steps away from her LuluMom to approach me.

“Hi there,” I say, giving her a big smile. “Who are you?”

“I Eunice.” Eunice! My goodness, I am out of my mind with joy over these senior citizen names. If I run into a toddler Agnes or Chester today, I’m going to buy a lottery ticket. Eunice holds out her lemur. “Dis mah baby. His name Mr. Lemur.”

I bend down to shake the stuffed animal’s paw. “What a pretty baby, Eunice. And it’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Lemur.”

“Where your baby?” she asks.

“Oh, honey, I don’t have a baby yet,” I say. My hand flies to my midsection as though to confirm. Nope. Disappointingly flat.

“Why?”

I feel a small twinge in my chest. “Because I don’t have a husband, sweetie.” Not to say anyone needs to have a spouse to have a baby—no judgment here. And not because I don’t want to get married. I desperately want a husband, children, a picket fence, a couple of sloppy, naughty Labradors, and an endless to-do list from the PTA. Honestly, all things being equal, I’d die to be one of the LuluMoms. I’ve tried so hard, but I don’t know how to get there, and this feels like a huge personal failing. In my head, I understand I don’t need a man to complete me, but in my heart, I can’t comprehend why I perpetually put it all out there and get nothing back in return.

Eunice looks up at me with her saucer eyes, fringed in lashes to die for. “No husband? What wrong wif you, lady?”

She’s got a point. I’m on all the apps, save for Grindr, which Emily explained was not meant for me. I must make it easy to be dumped, for them to trade up or move on. When guys inevitably disappear, I never confront them. That would be so off-brand. One time, I watched a guy break up with his date at Olive Garden, and the jilted girl threw a plate of fried ravioli at him, sauce and all. The tin cup holding the marinara pegged him in the eye. That would never be me.

On paper, I should be considered a catch. I graduated with honors from a fine university. I have professional success; the metrics don’t lie. I’m told I’m attractive. I’m largely happy, upbeat, and positive. I’m definitely polite. But I seem to be missing the it-factor that makes anyone want to get serious with me.

I feel that familiar pang deep within my heart. “Eunice, sweetie, I’m so sorry. If I knew what was wrong with me, I’d tell you.”

I stow my meager bag of groceries in the shared kitchenette fridge at the Wilmette office of Asterisk Realty. I’ve run in moments before I have to conduct the agency’s team meeting. I work for Chase and Jase, the managing brokers. They’re brothers, and they’re sort of infamous in the Chicagoland Area. They’re like our version of the Winklevosses. Former Ivy League athletes, tall, with Nordic good looks and a ton of family money behind them. For a while, they tried to sell a reality show about being broker brothers. But apparently, being a ridiculously attractive Realtor isn’t enough of a hook for a reality show. Now they are largely absentee, save for collecting the hefty percentage all the other agents pay them. Nine times out of ten, if I need to find them and they’re in the country, they’re out playing pickleball.

If I were to set up my own shop, I could have a team of agents working under me and I’d get a portion of their commissions, instead of Chase and Jase getting a (huge) piece of mine. I’ve passed the broker’s license exam, so that’s in the realm of possibility. However, the idea of going out on my own doesn’t seem tenable. I’m needed here. Plus, I’m gaining leadership experience managing this group of my peers. It’s not like I’m compensated for my additional responsibilities, though when Emily asked me about it, I fibbed and said I was.

Our open-concept office is stylishly appointed. There’s lots of exposed brick and vintage metal, dotted with provocative art. I’m no prude, but I quietly wonder if artistic nudes are the best choice for a suburban brokerage. Our desks are made from recycled airplane wings (Emily appreciates that part), and the brothers spent a mint on them. Maybe they’d have been better off with something less eye-catching instead of siphoning off so much of our commissions to pay for it all? We’ve had retention trouble with senior agents because of the cut the brothers take, and the new hires are increasingly younger, square-jawed men who call everyone “bruh,” “bro,” or “broski.” Even the clients. I think it’s bad business, but neither Chase nor Jase is interested in soliciting opinions.

I’m standing at the head of the wide oval table in the glassed-in conference room, about to conduct our weekly Call to Excellence. The name may be overstating our case a bit. Given who’s seated at the table, it looks more like I’m running a chapter meeting at the Sigma Nu house. These boys (and I mean boys ) are always whipping Frisbees around or taking over the conference room for their fantasy football drafts. We’re in a staff meeting, but Brody and Patrick, two of the agency bros, are quietly wrapping rubber bands around an orange to see how many they can add before it explodes. Yes, this is the behavior people want to see from those who’ll help them buy and sell the single greatest asset they’ll possess in their lives. I often feel more like their mother than their manager.

My agency represents all walks of buyers and sellers, from those looking for their first studio apartment to those buying an estate on the lakefront. I have a reputation as the starter-home queen. I love helping people get into their first place, handing newbies their first set of keys. I tear up each time, I swear, so excited for them to take this next step in their lives.

I’ve been working to break into the luxury home market, but it’s not going as planned. Every time I get my hands on a bigger listing, either Chase or Jase insists they should take it over. I’ve sold a ton of real estate (ten closings last month, a record!), but my name is always on smaller transactions. I yearn for those luxury listings, and not only because the commission is exponentially higher. They require more legwork, but having the time to learn how the buyers live is crucial; that info ensures I’ll find the right house for them. Many of my peers think when they show a place to a younger couple, the first thing they should talk about is the schools, but that could be a huge turnoff. Maybe the couple has been doing years of IVF and the mention is a painful reminder. Maybe they don’t want a three-bedroom for future offspring, but they do want to have two home offices. When you find out who the buyers are and what they need (that’s where listening comes into play), it’s easy to present the perfect listing at any price point. But again, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t prefer to invest that time and energy in a listing with a bigger commission. I want to fund my own big dreams, even if I don’t know what they entail yet.

I’m at the whiteboard, reviewing opportunities and purposefully ignoring the catcalls when I bend over to pick up the dry-erase marker. Agents are supposed to generate their own leads through networking and door knocking, but when listings come in that are too small-time for the brothers, I’m in charge of assigning them to the team. “Okay, who can work Chase’s open house on Tenth Street this Sunday?” I ask.

Trevor, whose desk is next to mine, raises his hand. Today he’s wearing his sunglasses on the back of his head with Nantucket Reds pants, a wrinkled oxford, bloodshot eyes, and a cheese-eating grin. He looks like he just stumbled off the set of Bravo’s Southern Charm , three Bloody Marys deep.

“Trevor!” I’m pleasantly surprised. “Are you volunteering?”

“Fuck no,” he replies, leaning back in his chair so far it looks like he’s lying down. “I just wanted to say that open houses suck donkey dick. They’re like that scene from the Star Wars bar, all freaks and randoms.” I wish he were wrong. A couple of the guys pantomime playing the odd horns in the bar gracing the desert world of Tatooine—a gesture I recognize only because a guy I once dated was into Star Wars . He eventually dumped me when I balked at wearing a metal bikini to a costume party. (It can snow in Chicago in late October, and that metal was freezing cold against my skin. I tried! I honestly did!)

Open houses can be kind of a nightmare. There’s no barrier to entry for the lower-priced properties. When we’re selling an upscale listing, potential buyers aren’t allowed to set foot in a place if they don’t first provide proof of funds or a preapproval letter from their bank or brokerage. There’s too much liability if we let just anyone into a jewelry- and art-filled mansion. Plus, it’s a total waste of our time to bring clients to a place worth $4 million when they’re only approved for $400,000. They leave sad they can’t buy it, and we end up sad we can’t sell it. I totally understand the draw of seeing how the other half lives, but I’m a Realtor, not a docent. (Granted, it’s a career I briefly considered, but still.)

Open houses are a free-for-all where I can’t get to know anyone. I rarely sell to anyone who comes through these cattle calls, especially now that interest rates are so high and the market has softened. There are too many lookie-loos who show up for the free cheese or an opportunity to case the joint.

“Right, Trevor,” I say, “but we still need people there.”

“They steal all the snacks,” Trevor says.

“I know. But, please, we need a person there. Chase is counting on us.” I survey the room. Suddenly everyone is looking at the ground, the ceiling, the walls, the ever-constricting orange, anywhere but at me.

“I mean, I would do it, but I’ve worked the last four,” I say. No one says a thing. “Jackie, what does your Sunday look like?” Jackie is the only other seasoned agent in the room, the one who keeps this office from being a total boys’ club. The rest are in their midtwenties, and either their parents (largely Chase and Jase’s friends) still pay their rent, or they have so many roommates, their expenses are minimal. None of them are hungry, none of them are aggressive. A lot of them had the good fortune of becoming agents during the pandemic gold rush, so they aren’t yet aware of how limited their skill sets actually are. But Jackie is a true professional, always willing to step in when she can.

Jackie checks her phone, then shows me the time already blocked off on her calendar for a family commitment. “So sorry, Liv. Maddy has a tap recital. But if you need me to, I can just have Davey record it,” she replies.

“Obviously, I’m not going to ask you to miss your daughter’s performance.”

“She’s not a very good dancer,” Jackie offers. “I promise you, I won’t enjoy being there.”

“I appreciate it, but no. Darren? How about you?”

Darren is one of Trevor’s little buddies. Darren looks at his phone, which he doesn’t even pretend to turn on. “Isn’t that a damn thing. I got a tap recital too.”

“Yeah, a keg tap recital,” Trevor adds. Darren and Trevor fist-bump.

I take a breath and compose myself. “Anyone, please. I can’t end the meeting until I have a commitment,” I say. No one will meet my gaze. I know what will inevitably happen next, so it won’t feel as bad if I tell myself it’s my choice. I open my Google calendar and delete: Bumble brunch with Brian!

It kills me. Brunch dates are the best. I’m allowed to get mimosas, which help with the butterflies in my stomach. And nothing’s better than brunch food; it’s a personality assessment. For example, if my date opts for some sort of sweet waffle or whipped-cream-topped pancake as their main, he’s not a serious person. No one can eat that much sugar first thing and accomplish anything during the day. If he does dry toast or eggs cooked without butter or oil, he’s going to be literal and humorless. Not for me, thanks. From our chats, I learned that Brian is a skillet man, occasionally veering into breakfast burrito territory. He’s someone who’ll get protein, carbs, and veggies, the perfect blend, pairing them with a mimosa and a cup of coffee. That is husband material right there. The best part of a brunch date is, if it goes well, it can extend into a whole day together, into dinner and beyond. But no one volunteers to work the open house, which leaves me as the only available choice.

I tell the group, “Scratch that. Now I’ll have worked the last five.” I’m met with a sea of smirks and shrugs, like this is exactly what they’d hoped.

When they exit the conference room, I hear Party Marty (I did not give him this nickname) ask Darren what he’s really doing this weekend. “Business,” Darren says.

Party Marty replies, “Monkey business?”

“You know it, bruh,” and then they slap their hands in an elaborate handshake before going outside to vape. As I erase the board, I hear a pop, followed by the sounds of pulp splattering the walls, the table, and the back of my skirt. I don’t need to turn around to know what happened.

Brody comes rushing in with more elastic bands. He shouts, “Fuckin’ A, Pat, we missed it. We gotta start over!” He heads toward the fruit bowl in the kitchenette, leaving the mess. I swab the juice, pith, and pits up with a paper towel and ask myself why I’m so anxious to have children. I don’t like any of the ones I currently have.

After work, I head back to my family’s three-flat in Rogers Park. Ideally, I’d live in one of the charming bungalows I sell a couple of miles up the road in Wilmette and Evanston. Those neighborhoods have better schools, and it would be nice to put a tiny bit of distance between myself and my family. I want to get a dog, but my mother claims that she’s allergic. This is a problem because my mom lives on the first floor of my three-family home. My sister and her kids live on the second. As for my father? He went out for a newspaper in 1997 and didn’t come back ... at least that’s how my mom describes it to anyone who asks.

Actually, I remember a lot of heart-to-heart chats before he left, and how tortured he was about the potential divorce, and how worried he was about Dee and me. He even brought in our church’s priest to help us with the transition. Dad was so clear that our parents’ problems had nothing to do with us kids, or how much he loved us. (Also, I should mention he’s alive and well in Grand Rapids, which meant I was able to swing in-state tuition at U of M.)

After he left, he became a different man, just so happy all the time, so the summers and holidays we spent there were pure bliss. I will never say it out loud, but there are days that I don’t blame him for leaving. I’d love to find a guy as good as my dad is, but he sets a high bar.

I take off my shoes inside the front door because I don’t want to disturb everyone as I walk up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. By “disturb,” I mean “alert to my presence.” I love these people with my whole heart—I would honestly die for them—but sometimes I need a minute to regroup before they burst in.

My apartment is cool and serene, with a mix of styles. There are beautiful antique Persian rugs, overstuffed sofas, and expensive knickknacks. I’ve done all I can to camouflage the dated appliances and wood floors in desperate need of refinishing. I’ve volunteered a million times to upgrade these on my own dime, but since my sister can’t afford to do the same downstairs, my mom doesn’t think it’s fair. I never argue, but I’m secretly delighted every time something breaks and a replacement becomes necessary. That’s why the old cream-colored Frigidaire is now a stainless Sub-Zero with a clear glass door. I’m crossing my fingers that the ceramic burner Whirlpool stove goes next so I can get a decent gas range.

I set my grocery bag directly inside the Sub-Zero, grab an open bottle of Whispering Angel, and pour myself a glass. There are few ills a cup of something pink can’t cure. I cue up The Bachelor and close my eyes, thankful for the three seconds of silence before Deandra barrels through the door like a SWAT team with a warrant.

Deandra is a good person. I feel this to my core. She’s only two years older, but she practically raised me because my mom was too busy for us, between her job and her simmering resentment. When we were younger, Dee taught me things like how tampons work.

No one could make me laugh like Deandra. One time our tenant on the second floor, was um, entertaining a gentleman caller. We could hear the “Oh God, oh Gods” from the bedroom above as her headboard banged against the wall. Dee turned to me and said with a dead-straight face, “Sounds like Michelle has found religion,” and we both died laughing.

Dee and I chose different paths. When I went off to college, she married her high school boyfriend. At twenty, she was too young to legally enjoy the cash bar at her own wedding, not that it stopped her. She had Tommy and Tiki at twenty-two and dropped out a year into her nursing program. By thirty, Dusty, her husband, started to sow the wild oats he’d never had in high school, and Dee kicked him out. He’s now remarried with a new baby and a toddler, so his child support payments have become sporadic at best. Now my clever, formerly quick-witted sister with her dry sense of humor and zest for life has become brittle and bitter. Exactly like our ma.

“Aren’t you gonna start dinner?” Dee demands, by way of greeting. She’s still wearing her smock from Home Depot.

“I’m Door Dashing. I couldn’t get everything I needed at the market,” I reply.

“LuluMoms get you again?” she asks. See? She knows me. I give a noncommittal shrug, confirming her suspicions. “Whatever. Make sure you get chicken nuggets, not chicken fingers.”

“Always,” I say as I check the status of the app order. Dasher Ornaldo will be here in five minutes.

“Did you make your case for that listing on Sheridan?” she asks. I got the brokerage a contract to list a glorious Arts and Crafts–style house in a fabulous neighborhood, but Chase and Jase decided they wanted to handle it themselves, so I had to turn it over. Then the homeowners complained they weren’t getting enough attention—probably because the brothers are perpetually on vacation in France—so they turned the listing over ... to Trevor. I told Dee that I was going to fight for it. By “fight,” I mean “ask politely.” No dice.

“I sure did!” I fib. I know she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t badger me about it and I’m grateful.

“Any reason you’re dressed like a flight attendant?” she asks, taking in my suit and scarf.

“This is Scanlan Theodore,” I reply, referring to the designer. I thought it was cute?

She laughs. “Oh, yeah, Scanlan Theodore Air, out of the O’Hare hub, of course. Anyway, I need you to babysit tonight.”

Brian from Bumble and I had rescheduled our brunch for a quick drink later tonight. He really does seem promising. Jackie went to school with him and she says there are zero red flags. He’s smart, he’s nice, just an all-around golden retriever of a man. “I wish I could help you, but I have plans. What about Ma? She can’t do it? She’s always home.”

“Dragon pox.” Dee raises a single eyebrow. Just another cool thing she can do and I cannot.

“I’m sorry?”

“She claims she has dragon pox.”

“Is that a thing?” I ask. I can’t keep up with all the new diseases. I thought it was monkey pox.

“Only if she enrolled at Hogwarts without telling us.” Seeing my confusion, she clarifies, “It’s from Harry Potter . Ma watched it with Tiki last week.”

Since Dad left, Mom has struggled with one fictional malady after another, despite being in peak health. Her hypochondria is another member of the family at this point, ever present. The only thing that seems to work is humoring her, some may call it enabling. On the plus side, this makes Christmas shopping easy. She was thrilled at the glucose monitor I gave her last year, despite her not being diabetic.

Dee says, “Listen, I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate. I picked up an extra shift because the dentist says Tommy’s gonna need braces. I mean, look at his front teeth. He could eat an ear of corn through a picket fence.” She’s not wrong.

Resigned, I comply. “Okay. Lemme just cancel my thing.” I text Brian, changing our plans yet again. This is the fourth time in a week. I won’t be surprised when I don’t hear back from him.

“You’re a peach,” Dee says. She shouts toward the front door. “Hey, animals, get up here. I’m going back to work!”

Tiki and Tommy explode into my apartment, each of them carrying a plastic to-go bag from the Door Dasher. Tiki parkours over the back of my couch, piledriving into me, and Tommy swoops down and grabs the remote, flipping through the channels at breakneck speed. I grab my wine glass to keep it from spilling onto my phone. No response from Brian. Three dots appear, but then they disappear. I know that in situations like this, no answer is the answer.

“I mean it. You’re a peach, sis,” Dee tells me, stealing a sip of my wine.

Tiki starts tearing through the bags like a raccoon in a dumpster. She pulls out her meal and pops open the Styrofoam lid, fixing me with an accusatory glare. “Tell me these are not chicken fingers .”

Shoot. “Oh, no, Tiki, I’m so sorry, I swear the menu said nuggets,” I say. “Do you want me to make my pomodoro, only with spaghetti noodles? I’ll have to defrost some chicken, but I bought a nice block of Parm I can grate.”

Tiki eyes me. “You don’t have the powdery kind in a can?”

“I don’t.”

Tiki curls her lip. Fortunately, she does not share her fraternal twin’s overbite. “Pass.”

Any good real estate agent always has a pivot. “I can get you nuggets from a different place.”

She snorts. “Yeah, you will.” Well, that’s settled. I quickly type in a McDonald’s DoorDash.

Tommy’s still whipping through the channels. “You still got the parental controls on this thing?” he asks.

“Yep, a real peach,” Dee repeats as she beats a hasty retreat, and I feel jealous that she gets to leave, even though being surrounded by kids is the dream. Just ... not these kids.

I gaze at my half-empty glass of Whispering Angel. From behind me, I hear an enormous crash, and all I can think is, Please let them have broken the stove.