Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(66)

“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.

My heart stops beating for a long second, before thumping wildly back to life. She hasn’t spotted me yet, so I drink her in. Bess isn’t a big person, but there’s something so vivid about the way she carries herself. Neck straight. Shoulders back. Ready to take on anything.

She’s so beautiful, it hurts to look at her.

“Tank?” Eric calls from the hall. “Did you—” Bess’s chin whips toward us just as Eric appears in the doorway. “Oh,” Eric says quietly. “Hell. Hi, Bess.”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment, nobody speaks.

“Um. I’ll just…” Eric backs out of the bedroom and leaves the two of us.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers.

“The same thing you are, I guess.” It’s so quiet, I can hear the pink clock ticking on the nightstand. “I’m sure Eric had no idea you were looking at this place.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

There’s another awkward silence, and I want to ask her how she is. I want to tell her how much I miss her. I want to close the distance between us in three quick strides and kiss that perfect mouth.

“I’ll go,” I say instead. “This place is perfect for you. And I only need one bedroom.”

“So you mentioned,” she says with a sigh.

And that’s my opening. My cue to blurt out the whole fucking story—right here in front of the crib and the fluffy stuffed bear on the rocking chair. I could tell her how much effort and trouble I’d gone through to try to have a family.

But then I’d have to tell her how bad it hurts to fail. Most people don’t have any idea what that’s like. Does Bess want to know how every one of Jordanna’s monthly periods became times of mourning? Or how I didn’t even care if I ever had sex again, so long as I could stop letting Jordanna down?

Whoever owns this apartment probably has no clue how lucky they are. Another baby on the way. Do they know that you can try for five years and come away with nothing?

“I probably can’t afford this place,” Bess says quietly. “It’s a stretch. This building is so bid up.”

“You can too afford it,” I argue. She probably makes more than a half million a year.

Slowly, she shakes her head. “I’m a coward. My five-year plan looks great on paper. But those leaps of faith look different when the sticker price is almost two million bucks. And that’s before the cost of IVF, and a procedure called egg retrieval, and private preschool.” She shivers.

The drugs aren’t that bad, but egg retrieval is just as tricky as it sounds. I don’t say this aloud. If I start spilling my guts, I’ll never stop.