“We just need to talk about the price a bit more,” the husband said, his eyes growing dead and zombie-like. Kenzie had known this was coming. “I know you said we could maybe bring it down a few thousand—”
“I can ask the sellers,” Kenzie said. “Absolutely. There is always a negotiation process.” This was a lie, at least with these particular sellers. She’d tried negotiating with the divorced couple many times. They refused.
“Okay,” the husband said, looking despondent. He made eye contact with his wife, who took another cookie. “Just give us a few days to mull it over. Okay?”
“Great,” Kenzie said, rising from her chair, suddenly accepting defeat. She showed them to the door. Despite their excuse that the price was the problem, she sensed they were unhappy in other ways—perhaps involving their marriage, their jobs—which disallowed them from feeling any kind of happiness for a new house. She’d hunt for several more for them, sure, but they would be tough to crack.
Kenzie ate the last cookie slowly, nibbling at the chocolate at the edges but feeling less than hungry. She hadn’t eaten in days, sensing an impending stomach bug. She’d hovered over the toilet in that very house that morning, waiting to vomit and cursing herself, knowing that would mean more cleaning to do.
Since she’d returned from Vermont, she’d had to scramble, taking on several more clients and showing nearly twice as many houses as normal just to scrape together a living. It was better this way, at least for now, given that she didn’t require much time at the office. Instead of bringing clients to her desk, she met them out in the field, sipping coffee at cafés or having small dinners in their homes after their long workdays.
That way, she could avoid Austin.
When she’d arrived back at her desk on that first Monday, she’d found almost nothing amiss in the office, as if she’d never left. Austin and Tori had both been out, showing houses, maybe, or just sleeping with each other—Kenzie didn’t care which. Her boss gave her a small salute, recognizing her commitment to the job. Then Kenzie burrowed herself into her desk area, sending emails, setting up appointments, and discovering new leads. She sent her mother a simple email, just checking in, explaining that she and Austin had decided to call it quits. She couldn’t imagine telling her mother that in person, or even over the phone. The disappointment in her voice would make Kenzie’s stomach curdle.
Kenzie and Tori had never been friendly, despite working together for years, and thus their brief encounters at the coffee maker or the revolving winding door didn’t alter. Sometimes Kenzie gave her a firm, toothless smile. Occasionally Tori said, “Morning.” But more often than not, they passed each other like two ships in the night, without acknowledging the other.
Kenzie took a brief nap in the three-bedroom, suburban home after the married couple left, draping herself on the single couch the living room held—for show—and making sure to fluff the pillows after rising. Along with her apparent stomach bug, she’d felt exhausted recently. At the grocery store, her eyes drooped. Once, when driving, she’d had to pull over and snap out of her fatigue just to make it the rest of the way home. She imagined it was because she was showing twice as many houses, was trying to work out often to keep her metabolism in check, and also wasn’t eating enough due to her lack of appetite.#p#分页标题#e#
But despite not eating, Kenzie hadn’t been pleased with her body recently. After her nap, she entered the master bedroom and lifted her dress, taking stock of her stomach and thighs. Her stomach had been flat once, not even that long ago, and her thighs had not previously had so much cellulite. Was it because she was aging? Panicked, she allowed her dress to fall back down, covering her. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror, a feeling of dread passing over her. If she was aging and gaining weight, would she ever be “picked” again for love? Or would she die alone, an aging, overweight woman with frazzled hair and no children?
Immediately, her stomach clenched: a reminder of her stomach bug. She rushed to the bathroom and flung herself onto her knees, vomiting into the toilet. Her body shuddered. Had the chocolate chip cookie been her undoing?
After cleaning herself up, she dialed her remaining clients for the day and informed them she needed to reschedule. “I’m coming down with something,” she told them, sounding defeated. “I hope we can reschedule later this week. Send me your availability.”