The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Sixteen LIV

Chapter Sixteen

L IV

The waiter tops off my champagne glass and clears my dessert plate. Jay and I clink our glasses and I take a sip, enjoying how the tiny bubbles tickle my nose. I feel ensconced in a warm, golden glow, and all is right with the world. Everything about this date has been perfect so far, and I can’t get over what a good guy Jay is. He’s a radiologist, a job he absolutely loves. He’s tight with his family, he’s a World War II buff, and we listen to all the same true crime podcasts, so our conversation hasn’t lagged for even a second. Emily asked me to text her a play-by-play, but I’ve been so in the moment that I totally forgot.

Jay’s not doing that distant thing where I feel obligated to chase him. If he says he’ll text, he’ll text. He calls to ask about my day, and we talk about our goals and dreams for hours. He puts thought into everything. For example, this may be the most creative date I’ve ever been on. On our first night out together, I mentioned how much I love dogs. As tonight is our third date—and we all know what that means—he’s put together something so thoughtful, he’s completely knocked my socks off. (Ostensibly, the rest will come off later, and I am giddy at the prospect!)

Instead of going out to dinner, Jay arranged for us to have a sunset meal here, at the Montrose Dog Beach. Is this a picnic? Oh, no. This is an elegant meal, complete with a waiter. When we walked up, I couldn’t believe this elaborate setup was for us—I thought we were just taking a nice beachfront stroll before going to a restaurant.

It’s a perfect early summer night, not too hot or humid. We’re at a table on the sand, with white linens and crystal glassware and tons of pink peonies (one of my faves!), but the twist is, we’re doing it in the midst of all these darling dogs romping and frolicking in the water. He even brought dog treats, so whenever the pups come up to us, we have something to give them. So far, I’ve pet four square-headed pit bulls; three woolly Goldendoodles; five Labs in a variety of colors, every one of them soaking wet and desperate to get at the food on our plates; a wire-coat retriever; and three wiener dogs. A large Newfoundland drooled on my bare feet, and a funny little Frenchie tried to climb on my lap. I’m in heaven!

I was already predisposed to like Jay, as I have such positive feelings about Vishnu. There’s got to be some transference there. Plus, they’re brothers, so they share family traits—they’re both smart and funny and sweet, with warm brown eyes and swoopy black hair. But somehow these same features hit different on Jay. He’s brimming with confidence. I guess the difference between average and smoking hot is self-assurance, and Jay has it in spades.

“What do you say we wrap this up and head down to my place?” he asks, cupping my cheek and making me absolutely weak kneed. If the way he kisses me is any indication, tonight will be something special. “You don’t have another early morning, do you?”

“I do not.” The past two times we’ve been out, I’ve had to end the date before the good stuff because the Vandergrifts have been so demanding of my time. Lately, they’ve wanted to hit the ground running by 6:30 a.m. Let me tell you this: no homeowner wants their house shown that early, so I’ve had to find properties that aren’t currently occupied. Why so early? Who knows. Maybe they’re secretly farmers.

I think Jay was disappointed when I begged off by 9:00 p.m. last time we were out, but that won’t happen tonight. I have my whole morning free because I fibbed and said I was having a colonoscopy. Apparently, Joyce and John are big supporters of preventive medicine, so this was an acceptable excuse. Perhaps a more acceptable excuse would have been for me to tell them, It is completely absurd and unreasonable to see homes at 6:30 in the morning, so we’re going to wait until 9:00 a.m. like everyone else, except I’m not quite up to saying it like that yet, but I have been practicing in the mirror. I managed to push back a little, and we’re only doing it twice a week, so it feels like progress.

“Oh, wait,” I say, and I can see the disappointment flash across his fine features. He must think I’m trying to avoid alone time with him, and that is so not the case.

“Not the nightmare buyers again,” he says. He’s been so patient, listening to me vent about their demands and brusque demeanor. They put the “mean” in “demeaning,” but I imagine they suffered something in their life that made them this way, so I try to shake it off. It’s hard when they say, “What are you, stupid?” when I suggest something they don’t like, but I guess putting up with their attitudes and ableist language is the cost of doing business. Lately, when they try to insult me, I’ll take the insult and twist it, like, “Am I stupid? Yes! I’m stupid in love with real estate!” It’s not entirely sensical, but it has at least tempered their aggression.

I tell him, “No, not this time. All I was going to say is, you’re all the way down in the South Loop. My place is half the distance away in Rogers Park.” I rise and brush the sand off my skirt. “Shall we?”

He takes my hand. “We shall.”

I’m still recovering from date night two days later. I told Emily I’d save the full story for when I saw her in person because I’ve had my hands so full of the Vandergrifts that I’ve barely had a second to process anything else.

Like today, I’ve been fielding texts from them since before sunrise. Technically, I didn’t respond until 7:00 a.m., because for the first time in my professional life, I put my alerts on mute. These two text me all day, every day, in the limited moments I’m not driving them around the greater Chicago area. When we’re in the car, they insist on sitting in the back seat, as though I’m their chauffeur and not a professional Realtor. Given the way Joyce backseat drives, I’m surprised they want to ride with me at all. When I did ask if they’d prefer to meet me at a property, Joyce said, “Why should I waste my gas when we have yours?” I keep telling myself there is a finite number of properties in their desired area, so this can’t last forever.

I hope.

The more places we see, the more they want to see. It’s a never-ending cycle. Chase and Jase did not “gift” them out of any sort of kindness or gratitude, I’m sure of this now. The Vandergrifts’ only saving grace is that they’re prequalified for a huge mortgage; I’m sure, because I collected their paperwork myself. If I’m miraculously able to show them something they like, at least I’m confident they can buy it. They are without a doubt the most difficult clients I’ve ever met, and I once worked with a D-list reality star who wouldn’t allow me to look her in the eyes when I spoke. I had to fix my gaze at her obviously fake diamond earrings whenever I had anything to say.

After the Vandergrifts and I toured our thirty-seventh house yesterday (I wish this were an exaggeration), they insisted on seeing a generic bungalow that met absolutely none of their parameters. But they liked it as we passed by, so I immediately called the listing agent for the lockbox code, and we viewed the property right then.

There was nothing special about the house. It was literally just a small bungalow, and not particularly well priced, which is why it was languishing on the market. (You must price well to get offers! You must!) Each room was an aggressively neutral box with no flow and little natural light. The square footage they wanted wasn’t there, it wasn’t in a neighborhood they desired, and the home needed significant work, like a new roof and replacement windows, even though Joyce and John insisted on turnkey. But oddly, they liked it. They even kicked me out of the house while they discussed it. “Get out. We’re talking,” Joyce said. If they were trying to hurt my feelings, mission accomplished.

The good news: they liked that boring bungalow so much, we went back there again yesterday afternoon, and a third time first thing this morning. Naturally, they wouldn’t share their reasons for liking it with me, so whatever attracted them is still a big question mark and gives me no actionable information.

If a prospective buyer takes a third look, it’s almost always the sign of an impending offer, so I was super relieved because it felt like the end was near. Getting a written offer doesn’t mean the deal will close—a million things can go wrong between the offer and escrow stages. Trust me. I’ve seen it all, like when the oh-so-important starlet couldn’t secure financing (lesson learned and the irony was delicious). But it’s a positive sign.

When Joyce and John joined me on the stoop this morning after they kicked me out again (“Piss off, girlie” was her choice phrasing today), I was right—they had decided to make an offer. Hallelujah! I’d still have to deal with negotiations and inspections, but the idea of not being with them from dawn (literally) till dusk made me want to break out the Veuve. I was already plotting my stop at Binny’s to buy something bubbly, but then the Vandergrifts decided to Vandergrift .

I should have known.

We were discussing offer specifics and they were actually listening to my strategy, which considered all the factors—time on the market, per-square-foot comps, being aggressive enough for it to be a good deal but not so aggressive that it insulted the sellers, etc.—when a neighbor came outside. Their bungalow across the way was fixed up so beautifully. The lawn was uniformly cut in parallel lines (how do they do that?), and symmetrically placed tiger lilies bordered the walkway. Pretty flowers spilled from containers down each step up to the covered porch. Clearly, that owner was house proud, and that’s exactly what you want in neighbors when you buy on a street without an HOA. I don’t love HOAs because they can be draconian, but like Mussolini, they keep the metaphorical trains running on time in the neighborhood. Because there’s no regulation on this street, an owner could easily park a rusty Chevrolet on blocks and allow weeds to grow rampant, and no one could do anything about the eyesore. But this lady? This lady was best-case scenario. She was helping me sell and she didn’t even know it.

The lady spotted us and waved, and I waved back, giving her a bright smile. She was dressed in cargo shorts and had come out to swap her flags. She first saluted the American flag before pulling it down and folding it properly into a triangle. Then she unfurled a bright rainbow flag to take its place. “Happy Pride Month,” she called to us, waving.

“And to you as well!” I said. This lovely neighbor would be a blessing. “Looks like your neighbor is really friendly!” I said.

I have never witnessed two people turn on a property more quickly. The way those two hustled me into the car reminded me of Zeus’s training exercise. You’d have thought we were fleeing a crime scene. Long story short, now the Vandergrifts are furious at me for their liking a home in Andersonville, one of Chicago’s largest gay and lesbian–friendly communities, as though diversity isn’t something to celebrate.

So, I’m deep in thought when I hear, “Mind if I take the seat next to you?”

Wait, do I know that voice? I glance up and see a delighted Miles accompanying a visibly irked Emily.

“Just sit down, Miles.”

“Hi, Miles, have you decided to join our group?” I ask. I haven’t had a chance to run in the morning with Emily for the past few days and download, but she’s clearly pissed. Her nostrils are flared and her jaw clenched. This group is her thing. All Miles has done is cast doubts about the training.

“I’ve decided I’m ready to kick some booty too!” he says. Emily squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose in a “God, give me strength” way.

Zeus materializes out of the darkness and we all gasp. I wonder how he does that. Zeus fixes his attention on Miles. “I see we have a new recruit tonight. Welcome to Fearless Inc. Are you ready to master every aspect of your life?”

Miles seems delighted to have attracted Zeus’s attention. “Not to blow my own horn, but I’m already the master of a few things.”

Under her breath, Emily says, “No. Stop talking.”

Miles begins to tick off his accomplishments. “I’m a master recumbent cyclist, a master vegetarian chef, and I’m a whiz at gluten-free muffins, so you could say I’m a master baker—”

B-Money snickers and Emily looks pained. He shrugs. “Sorry, that shit was funny.”

Miles turns to chat with Michael while Zeus works out our pairing for the next exercise.

I whisper to Emily, “I thought you wanted to spend less time with Miles, not more.”

“He invited himself. He says he needs a boost of confidence for ‘something important.’”

“Oh, no, is he going to put a ring on it?”

Emily dispassionately examines her left hand. “He can’t if I cut it off first. Anyway, enough of him. You’re killing me with all the secrecy! I’m dying to hear! How’d date number three go? Did you make it official?”

I feel a pang in my chest. “Sunday night was fantastic ... until we got to my place and my mom needed me to take her to the ER.”

Emily blinks slowly at me. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

I shake my head.

She looks as disappointed as I feel. “What was it this time?”

Only my mother could run across a mouse in the basement and immediately think she’s caught the bubonic plague. I shrug. “Does it matter?”

Emily gives me a hug and I let my head rest on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. You want to tell me what happened, kiddo?”

“The three of us sat in the ER for hours because she’s a ‘super-utilizer’ and the staff knows not to prioritize her anymore. I’m glad my morning was clear because we didn’t get out of there until 4:00 a.m.”

“Shit. Where was your useless sister?”

“We knew it was going to be a late night and she had an early shift,” I explain. “That’s what she said, at least. Her car was still there at 11:00 a.m. when I left for the office, so it’s possible she wasn’t being honest. It wouldn’t be the first time. But her life is just so rough. She still has a dead-end job, an ex who doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain, and two difficult tweens. She deserves someone to offer her a bit of grace.”

Emily studies my face. “Liv, be honest with me. Do you really believe she deserves as much grace as you’ve given her? Do you owe her so much that she can just fuck up everything you’re building because she made bad choices?” Emily has never warmed to my sister, not ever, and I’m finally starting to see why.

I consider her question, really and truly ponder it. “I’m starting to think I don’t.”

Before we can say anything else, before I can describe how disconnected Jay has been for the past two days, and how badly I feel about it all, Zeus addresses the group again. “This week, you’ll work in teams to address your fears of rejection. Tomorrow, you’ll head to the university quad to collect signatures for this petition.” Then he unrolls a banner that reads, Support Cosmetic Testing on Animals , featuring a monkey in false lashes and an alpaca wearing lipstick. We let out a collective gasp.

“No one would support this cause!” Emily exclaims.

“This is awful!” Vishnu cries.

“Is this legal?” says Miles.

“Deadass. Cringe,” B-Money says.

“I don’t care for the outdoors,” Michael says.

Zeus looks smug. “Probably going to face some rejection, then, huh?”

Everyone is grousing about the assignment except for me. If it means a couple of hours away from the Vandergrifts, sign me up.