The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Twenty-Two LIV

Chapter Twenty-Two

L IV

I’m back at the Craftsman home of my dreams, but this time I’m showing it to the cutest couple. Annika, the wife, is pregnant and positively glowing. Her husband, Arturo, is solicitous of her every move, holding her arm through each doorway, and rushing ahead to make sure all the rugs are flat so she doesn’t trip. I love their interactions so much it makes my heart smile.

I want what they have, and I’m starting to believe that I deserve it. Maybe Jay wasn’t it. But I’m grateful to have met him because he showed me point-blank that my desire to please other people is in direct opposition to pleasing myself. I can’t keep putting everyone ahead of me. I could not have learned a more valuable lesson.

Everything feels different today, brighter and sunnier, partially because yesterday’s hangover is finally gone, but mostly because I finally asserted myself at work. The twins were actually in for once. I strolled into their office without an invitation and said to them, “If you want to keep me, everything here needs to change.”

Chase literally dropped his cruller into his lap. (It was amazing.)

I explained exactly what has to happen in terms of commission splits if they want to keep their top agent. It’s nothing I haven’t hinted at before, nothing that they didn’t know I wanted. The difference was this time, I didn’t ask, I demanded.

What shocked me was that they really listened instead of shining me on like when they stuck me with the Vandergrifts. They were far more amenable than anticipated, and they’re coming up with a new contract for me right now. Things are going to be different going forward, and if they aren’t, I always have the option to strike out on my own. They finally understand I mean business.

Bless Fearless Inc., Michael, and his whistle for helping me realize what was always inside of me.

“I can see why you’ve been raving about this place. This is the perfect first home, but I’m worried we’d outgrow it too quickly,” Annika tells me, running a hand over her swollen belly. “We haven’t told anyone yet, but it’s twins.”

“Oh my gosh, congratulations!” I say. “My sister has twins too. You must be so excited.”

“Also terrified. Mostly terrified,” Arturo adds.

Annika taps him lightly on the arm. “No, sir. You only get to be terrified when you push two watermelons through a keyhole. Scared? Anxious? Nervous? Fine. Not terrified.”

He tells me, “We spent the first weeks thinking about what it was going to be like having a new baby, and now, we’re getting two for the price of one. There has to be a word for something that’s so magical and also so scary.”

“Yes, it’s called parenthood,” Annika says.

I want to make sure they’re set up for success before the babies come. I mentally scan all the listings about to hit the market and hit on one that might be right for them. My colleague Jackie is about to list it. “I know of a home that’s going live later in the week. It’s in an established neighborhood right off the Metra line, so it’s walkable to downtown Wilmette and also provides easy access to Chicago. There are lots of young kids, lots of parents your age. It’s three bedrooms, but it also has an in-law suite in the basement with a separate entrance, full kitchen, and full bath. That space could be used when your folks come to visit, and it’s also zoned for rental if you want extra income.”

“Sold!” Arturo says.

“Maybe we should see it first.” Annika laughs.

“That’s probably a better idea,” I say. Every relationship needs the dreamer and the realist, and I’m charmed at how these two complement each other.

We make plans to view the property later in the week, and then I watch as Arturo gingerly guides Annika down the stairs. “I am not a carton of eggs, Arturo. I won’t break,” she tells him, but he keeps guard over her anyway. I love it.

I’ve already seen this place a dozen times, but I take myself on a little tour again. My life would be so lovely if I lived here. I’d have a glass of wine on the porch and wave to the neighbors. I’d grow my own tomatoes in the backyard. I’d cook hearty pots of soup on that beautiful stove. If this were mine, I’d opt for simple window treatments, lightweight and airy so the sheers would flap in the breeze on a spring day. In the winter, I’d keep fragrant cherrywood in the covered nook by the kitchen door and make a roaring fire every time it snowed. Structurally, I wouldn’t change a thing, not a single switch plate or tile. The current owners’ refresh is impeccable, with sage walls accented with original wainscotting and crown molding restored to its original luster. This place would be ideal for me now, and I could finish off the basement or attic if I ever needed more space to accommodate a growing family.

Before I can delve too deeply into my daydream, there’s a knock at the door. The Vandergrifts are meeting me here so we can see houses fifty-four through infinity. I sort of wish Michael and his magical whistle were with me, but I am in a better headspace to handle them today.

“Hello!” I say, swinging the door open. “I just need to grab my bag and we can go.”

Joyce pushes her way inside. “Wait, what’s this place?”

“This is a 1920s Craftsman-style home, which is an outgrowth of the earlier Arts and Crafts architectural movement. When I tried to show it to you weeks ago, you said you didn’t want to see any old homes. I believe you called old homes the ‘R-word’”—I refuse to utter the actual term—“so I took it off our list.” I do not mention that when I said “It’s a Craftsman,” Joyce replied that she hated this style and John confirmed and they wouldn’t even let me drive past.

“Then that’s on you, because I like this,” Joyce says. Today’s outfit entails contrasting zebra stripes, feather cuffs, and lots of rhinestones. I’m glad I’m not hungover, because the print would give me the spins.

“Likes it,” John confirms.

I take them through the house, but I don’t point out each lovingly restored or professionally upgraded piece. The two of them deconstruct every perfect detail, telling each other what they’d want to fix, from the charming hexagon tile and clawfoot tub in the primary suite to the handsome fireplace mantel. Essentially, they’d want to change everything that gives the home its character and personality.

Normally, this wouldn’t bother me. It would be their right as new owners to make changes. But in this case, I also represent the sellers, and I know how attached they are to this place. All offers being equal, they’d go with whoever appreciated all their work as is. I imagine they’d be as appalled as I am, hearing how the Vandergrifts want to tear out the original stained glass to install those terrible blacked-out windows you see mucking up “modern farmhouses” in subdivisions. It’s disheartening.

Joyce is extra imperious today. Given yesterday’s events, I had to cancel on them, and she’s not inclined to forgive my all-night family emergency. “Your behavior was unprofessional,” she says as she opens the homeowners’ fridge, helping herself to a LimonCello LaCroix. “I don’t care if your mother was in the emergency room, we brought you on to do a job and we expect you to do it.”

She opens the can and takes a big sip, then pulls a face and spits it back into the can. “Ugh, is this lemon? No.”

“Hates lemon,” John tells me, as though I hadn’t heard her say that 0.2 seconds ago. She discards the cold, dripping can on the magnificent mantelpiece, like water rings aren’t a thing, then opens the fridge again, looking for something better. She settles on a Diet Coke, promptly cracking it open, then rifling through a glass-front cabinet for a glass.

“This isn’t an open house and I didn’t provide any of the beverages. Those belong to the homeowner. We can swing through Starbucks or McDonald’s if you’d like me to buy you something different to drink,” I volunteer.

“No, this is fine. Now get out. We need to talk,” Joyce tells me while essentially shoving me out the front door.

Standing on the porch, I remind myself that things are different now, that I am different now. I can’t keep doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Today, I choose a different path.

I’m stuck outside with my thoughts for a solid half hour while they debate, my mind racing with possibilities. Finally, Joyce lets me back in and announces they’ve come to a decision.

“Tell them we’re going to offer this much,” Joyce says. She slides a folded piece of paper across the counter. I do a double take once I see the number. Joyce and John seem to have mistaken my selling them a “home with a garage” with a “garage sale.” Negotiations don’t work this way. Pricing doesn’t work this way.

“Did you forget to add a zero?” I ask. There’s no way this could be their offer. This is what you’d pay for a new car, not a lovely house in the better suburbs.

“Nope, that’s the offer. And they’re going to need to tear out the awful buffet and the shelving if they want a deal,” Joyce explains.

“Okay ...,” I say, trying to maintain my cool. What a colossal waste of my time this has been. I’m used to buyers and sellers jerking me around—it’s the nature of the business. But this is next level. “I am legally obligated to bring this offer to my seller. I suspect a counteroffer will not be forthcoming, because this number is more in line with a van down by the river than an impeccable Craftsman in a desirable neighborhood.”

“Oh, we don’t want that,” John says. He points to Joyce. “Hates rivers.”

“Tell me again what happened next,” Emily says. She rests her chin in her palms, all dreamy, like a teenage girl watching a K-pop video. She’s in remarkably good spirits for the blow she’s taken about Jeremy.

I’m so angry for her. I can’t believe what he did. I should probably focus my ire on how he sabotaged BlueLove’s operations and the consequences for the planet, but I can’t stop thinking about my best friend. He stole most of her twenties and her early thirties, and for what? A paycheck? How do you do that to another person? How do you use them like that?

His “death” put out her fire for the longest time, and I’m just furious with him. I met him only a handful of times, but I’m glad I can finally stop holding my peace and admit that I disliked him. I thought he was shady. He never did anything wrong (well, at least not that I knew), was never disrespectful, from what I witnessed. I could never put my finger on what was wrong, but I knew something was off. No one is that perfect for someone else. He may as well have come directly out of central casting.

Ironically, I don’t get that feeling about Zeus, and he is kind of, well, perfect. Maybe because Emily argues with him a lot. A lot.

If true crime podcasts have taught me anything, it’s to trust your gut. My gut always said Emily should run . Jeremy (a.k.a. Norman) never fought with her, not once. That’s unnatural. When they came to Chicago for a visit together, it was as though he was studying her, watching for what she would do and then reacting in kind. It was almost like he was following a script, or performing an incredibly complicated piece of improv. That’s what confidence men do, per the podcasts. They shadow you. They give you what you want and need until you let them in, trusting them completely. (Usually, it’s guys who want to groom the victim’s children, but the concept feels the same.)

While I’m not the best at spotting when someone’s playing me romantically, my radar for others is top notch. Spend enough time by yourself in an unlocked open house and you develop a sixth sense. That man made the hair on the back of my neck stand up for no good reason, or so I thought. He checked all the boxes on paper, but there was an ephemeral nature about him, like you couldn’t latch on to anything real.

As a lifelong Bears fan, Emily claims she’s used to bouncing back from disappointment, but I hope she isn’t pushing away her grief. To me, the situation seems pretty different from garden-variety football loss.

We discussed as much as Emily would share, as sometimes it takes her longer to process and I wasn’t going to push. I said to her, “Looking back, I wonder if it wasn’t that you were so in love with him.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“What if what you were really in love with is how you took bigger leaps because of him, how you tried to swing harder and jump higher?” After meeting Jeremy, she was bolder, more in your face, braver. Maybe she didn’t love him so much as the Emily she saw reflected back by him? With Jeremy, she was Action Emily to the nth degree.

When Deandra and I were in our early teens, we saw some random Rose Byrne movie. I don’t recall the title, but I never forgot the line “Love makes you do crazy things.” It’s kind of true. Who actually knows how to map the human heart? Who knows what makes us love others? Who knows what makes us love ourselves, really?

At some point, Emily and I will talk in-depth about this. We’re not nearly done with the topic, we’ve only brushed the surface. Most of our conversation was me asking her questions that I’m not sure she’s ready to answer. At some point, we’ll go deep. We’ll pore over each detail and parse his every word over bottle after bottle of wine. We’ll cry. We’ll create a playlist that reminds her of those days, full of Coldplay and OneRepublic and Sara Bareilles. We’ll have dance breaks. We’ll construct a timeline, maybe connect it with red string like Claire Danes’s character did in Homeland . We’ll dissect it all like a lab specimen.

But it won’t be now. That’s not how Emily operates. She needs time and distance before she fully digests anything; I think it’s the scientist in her. I recall when her grandmother passed away in the fall of our first year at school. Even though they were close, talked every day, she was fine for a long time, just stoic, proceeding with life, making plans. I couldn’t believe how strong she was. But every February 2, her grandma’s birthday, after that, Emily would completely break down, and I would spend the day listening to her recount what a great woman she’d been. Emily compartmentalizes, always has. So, if she chooses to be happy now, I’ll support it until she’s ready to be unhappy, and then I’ll be there too.

That’s what besties do.

“Yes, I would like to hear your triumph again as well,” Vishnu adds, bringing me back. I’d all but forgotten I was telling a story about work.

“Obviously, I brought the offer to my sellers; I had to. They weren’t even mad. They were just incredulous. My sellers didn’t counter—exactly as I predicted—and they went so far as to forbid those two from even setting foot on the property again. A wise choice, in my opinion.”

“Is your next showing with these people going to feel awkward?” B-Money asks.

“Not going to be an issue,” I say. “Because I fired them as clients !” They were furious, accused me of wasting their time. I laugh to myself, considering all the paces they’re going to put Trevor through. I’m not often one to say I’m going to get a bowl of popcorn and sit back and watch, but I totally am.

“Tell them the best part,” Michael says. He is trying (and failing) not to act like a proud father. If he wants the credit, it’s all his. He gave me the push (the whoostle?) I needed.

“The best part is, I fired my sellers too,” I say.

“I don’t get it,” Miles says. “Why would you do that?”

“To prevent a conflict of interest,” I say. “I can’t represent them because I’m buying the house.”

“For yourself?” Vishnu says, seeking clarification.

“Yep.”

The group erupts in cheers and hugs and shouting. Vishnu jumps up and down so much, all the change spills out of his pocket. I can’t imagine anyone being happier for me than these people, and it fills me with love. Three months ago, we were strangers in a coffee shop, brought together by our collective fear. Today, we’re a family. Speaking of, I haven’t told my family yet. They’re going to flip out, and probably not in this happy, celebratory way. They’re also going to have to get over it; it’s time for me to leave the nest—permanently.

Our celebration goes on for so long that none of us even register the young guy anxiously waiting in the corner. He’s holding a large flat box and wearing an apron and paper hat. “Um, hi? Is there a Mr. Zeus here?”

“Not yet. He likes to make a dramatic entrance,” Emily says. “Why, do you need something from him?”

“Just for him to sign for this cake,” he replies.

“Oh, one of us can do that,” I say.

Michael signs the slip of paper and then reluctantly hands over a generous tip after Emily says, “Toss the salad, fancy pants,” and gives him the stink eye.

The lid is clear, revealing a white sheet cake adorned with sugar roses and other little decorations. There’s a poorly sketched mortar board and three lines hastily scrawled in red icing. It reads:

Congrads grads!

Congrads on your new home, Liv!

Congrads on your tenure, Emily!

“Hey!” Michael exclaims, scrambling after the kid. “You spelled ‘congrats’ wrong! I want a partial refund on my tip!”

“Wait a damn minute. Did you get tenure , Emily? I thought you crashed and burned?” I say. She told me all about her last lecture on our run, and it sounded an awful lot like her last lecture. But we were far too wrapped up in the Jeremy–not Jeremy saga to get into a ton of detail.

Miles fields this. “The chancellor was so impressed with Emily’s zeal that the committee overwhelmingly voted in her favor. They want her passion permanently. Possibly with less profanity. That more than a dozen students want to change their major to environmental science now didn’t hurt either.”

Emily is elated. “I wanted to surprise you. Who knew that losing my shit was the key to unlocking my future? I feel like I’ve turned a major corner,” she says.

She pulls Miles in for a hug. This is far more affection than she showed him when they were dating. It’s odd but doesn’t feel wrong. I can actually see them becoming great friends. She gives him a noogie. (She gives him a noogie ? What is happening today??) “And this guy? He saved my derriere by giving me that heads-up.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “Just say ‘ass,’ Emily.”

“Emily, you are a rock star!” I say. It takes us a few minutes to quiet down and return to our seats. We’re eager for our final class to begin, yet no one wants our time here to end.

“I’m impressed that Zeus was able to get those lines on the cake, when it only became official a few hours ago. Did you speak with him this afternoon, Emily?” Miles asks.

“No. I haven’t talked to him since our last class, before Michael took over,” she says.

That’s strange. Then it occurs to me. “Wait, I didn’t tell him about my offer either,” I say. “How did he know?”

B-Money is flummoxed. “I still don’t know how he knew about my boat.”

“You guys ...,” Emily says, looking around the warehouse. “Where is Zeus?”