Good for You: A Novel (22)

“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging. “What did the Realtors say?”

Three agents had come and gone the previous afternoon, each practically begging to rep the sale. The first was an older man who seemed dubious that the house could possibly be hers; he kept inquiring about her parents. The next was a pleasant woman in her forties, but the minute she’d asked when Aly’s “husband” would be joining them—never mind that Aly’s left ring finger was bare—Aly had rushed her out of the house and told her she’d call her if she wanted to work together. The last agent, Luis, was about her age and didn’t ask a single leading or inappropriate question. In fact, he told her as much about the house as he asked about it—pointing out that it was built on a particularly solid location at a safe distance from the ever-eroding waterfront, and that it had only had three owners in its eighty years of existence. Luis, Aly decided, was her agent.

Or at least he would be if Wyatt stopped being so incredibly stubborn.

“How did you know about the Realtors?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “I thought you were out.”

“I was,” he said. “But every time I drove by, I saw a different luxury car in the driveway. It’s not rocket surgery.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat impressed that he’d pieced it together so easily. Maybe that’s why she decided to tell him the truth. “They said the house will sell in a hot second—but that if we want an all-cash offer, we need to put it up for sale this month. Apparently, June is when the best deals get made. The further into the summer, the less hot the market,” she said, parroting what Luis had said.

“We?” questioned Wyatt.

Aly stared at him, momentarily confused. Oh. She had said that. “I guess I was being optimistic,” she admitted.

“Fair.” He shrugged. “Listen, I’ve gotta run.”

He always had to run. And even though she didn’t want him there, it was getting kind of annoying.

Then he surprised her. “But you’re right—we need to talk. I’m planning on going over to the Mermaid tonight,” he said, referring to a local bar and grill. “Six-ish. Why don’t you swing by, and we’ll chat?” He looked her up and down in a way that said he found her wanting. “I’m buying, so you’re eating more than a banana. And that’s not a question.”

“Hmph,” she said, but then she had to look away, so he wouldn’t see the tiny smile that had surfaced.

“Hmph yourself,” he said and strolled off.

Aly looked down at the coffee he’d handed her and saw that it already had cream in it—exactly the right amount, too. Darn it, she thought as she took a sip. Of course it was perfect; maybe even better than the last time, and she found herself blinking back tears. It wasn’t just the random act of kindness or his sudden acquiescence to have a conversation about the house. It was the fact that she had softened so fast that she barely recognized herself.

If this was war, then she was forced to admit that Wyatt was winning.





THIRTEEN


It wasn’t a big deal, meeting Wyatt for dinner. That’s what Aly kept telling herself, but the positive self-talk All Good espoused didn’t make a dent in her jitters. Seth had been in the habit of “pregaming” with a drink or three before he went out to meet colleagues or friends. While Aly sometimes wondered if his secret social anxiety fueled an unhealthy, if sporadic, relationship with alcohol, she found herself wishing for a similar coping mechanism. At least she had Harry, who she called as she pulled out of the driveway. Please pick up, she prayed. His Sunday schedule was ever in flux; she had no idea if he was at the office, playing tennis, or out for a walk with Beckett.

To her relief, he answered after the third ring. “Horatio Medellin, Esquire. How may I assist you?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “There’s no time for humor, Harry. I’m on my way to meet Wyatt for drinks.” She gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles went white. “Well, dinner. Or something.”

“That escalated quickly.”

“Ha. It’s not like that. He wants to talk about the house.”

“Progress! Has he agreed to sell?”

“No, and he doesn’t want to buy me out,” she said, recalling the conversation they had after their bathroom run-in. “But he hasn’t explained why, yet. I feel like I’m walking into a trap.”

“There’s no reason to be nervous, lovey.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“I know you’re not,” cooed Harry. “Which is definitely why you sound like you just finished running a 5K.”

Aly exhaled. So maybe she had been a little short on oxygen. “Alright, I’m nervous. I just . . . don’t know how to win.”

“How about not trying to?”

“Do you want me to stay broke? I need to settle this so I can get the heck out of this barren wasteland, find an apartment that’s not a two-hour commute from the office, and go back to being an editor in chief.” Even now, six months into the gig, she could barely believe she’d earned the right to say that. (Or had she, given the episode with Ashleigh and Meagan? Maybe not, she conceded.) “Remember that?”

“Oh, I do. Any word from your coworkers?” asked Harry. She’d texted him the afternoon before to tell him about the radio silence.