Page 84 of Sure Shot
I’m crossing the East River toward Brooklyn when my phone rings again. The caller ID says BERINGER & ASSOCIATES, and my stupid heart gives a kick just seeing Bess’s name. But the caller is Eric. Of course it is.
“Hey, Tank,” he says. “Are you nearby, perchance?”
“On the ferry back to Brooklyn. Why?”
“We’ve got to get you out of that hotel. Last week I slipped a C-note to the concierge at 220 Water, and asked him to tip me off if any apartments came up for lease or sale.”
I give a low whistle. “Smart man.”
“I’m feeling pretty smart already, because Miguel just called me to say there’s a Corcoran realtor showing a two-bedroom right now. So I speed-dialed another realtor at Corcoran, and got him to find the listing in their system. It isn’t even on the website yet. But if you jog over here…”
“Yeah! Dude. Thank you. Give me fifteen minutes.”
The second the ferry docks, I don’t stop running until I arrive in front of the Million Dollar Dorm, as the guys refer to it. Hell, it doesn’t even matter if the apartment is a wreck. I’ll buy it anyway, before the other buyer gets a chance.
Eric waves me into the lobby, introducing me to a young broker named Wilson. Then he high-fives the concierge and ushers me toward the elevator banks.
“Sorry to hustle you,” Eric says as the elevator doors open. “But things in this building tend to move fast.”
“Don’t apologize. If the price isn’t egregious, I could move fast, too.”
Wilson grins like a guy who’s just won the lottery. He’s about to earn a fat commission for fifteen minutes’ work. “It’s a second-floor unit,” the kid says. “But this building has great windows, and I’m sure the light will still be adequate.”
“We’ll have to see,” I say, because I don’t want to sound like a sucker. But I’m all in. I want to walk a block and a half to practice and live in the same building as my teammates.
Not that I’d repeat this aloud, but I’m honestly starting to trust some of them.
The doors slide open again, and I follow Wilson out of the elevator. At the end of a long hall, we arrive at Apartment 212. Wilson tries the door. It’s locked, so he knocks.
When it swings open, another realtor is standing there, clipboard in hand, irritated look on her face. “This unit isn’t even on the website yet.”
“But it’s already in the database,” Wilson says, widening the door and stepping inside. “And I’m watching this building for my client.”
Eric and I exchange amused glances. Our boy Wilson has some hustle. I like him already.
And the apartment is great, too. It’s got the same wide-plank wood floors and brick walls as Delilah’s place. I’m standing in a generous living room, and I can see into the kitchen. It isn’t as flashy as Delilah’s, but it’s fine.
“Nice bathroom,” Eric says from down the hall. “And this must be the master.” He pokes his head into another room. I follow him, and when the door swings open, I catch a glimpse of a gorgeous bedroom.
“There’s an en suite bathroom,” the listing agent says. “You might as well take a look, but don’t crowd my client. She’s checking out the second bedroom.”
“We’re not crowding anyone, Lily,” Wilson argues. “Go ahead, sir.”
I’ve forgotten how odd it is to inspect a stranger’s home. There are family photos on the wall, and I feel a twinge of guilt when I open the closet in the master bedroom to check its size.
“Why are they moving?” Eric asks, perhaps just to make conversation.
“There’s a second baby coming,” the listing agent sniffs. “They need more space.”
Ah. I think back to the day when Jordanna and I found our house in the Dallas suburbs. She’d been so excited. “Four upstairs bedrooms!” she’d gushed. “And that yard!”
She’d been mentally filling the place with children. I had, too. We’d had no idea what we were in for. Years of disappointment, followed by a bitter divorce.
I’m lost in thought as I step into the other bedroom. The walls are pink, and a fluffy rug dampens the sound of my footsteps.They have a little girl, my brain says.
It takes me a moment to register the other apartment-hunter in the room.
It’s Bess. She’s standing very still, looking at a framed painting of a mother polar bear cuddling her fuzzy little infant.
