you?” I grumble, throwing the duvet off my legs but still not getting out of bed. I feel leaden, like in the night someone replaced my blood with molasses, and my head hurts. Ryan is out of bed and has already started the shower, and my mind drifts again to the bird. Maybe it was only stunned and has already flown away.
I place my feet gingerly on the floor, wiggling some warmth into my toes. Flicking on the balcony light I glance down. Damn. The bird’s neck is torqued at a distressing angle, its feathers ruffling with the breeze, but otherwise there’s no movement in its tiny body.
I contemplate the best way to get rid of it without upsetting Audrey. After the last one broke its neck, a vibrant yellow finch that Audrey buried under our hydrangeas, Ryan refused to let her soap all the windows in the house. So she made glass gel clings, thanks to the internet and twenty dollars of gelatin from the bulk store and a determination to save every last neighborhood bird. I think of the gel clings inside my nightstand drawer, likely sticking to whatever else I’d forgotten about in there, and whisper an apology to the bird.
Guilt getting the better of me, I’m about to grab the clings and put them up when the coffee timer beeps a floor below. With sudden clarity I realize what else I’ve forgotten to do. I race down the stairs and groan when I get to the kitchen. The coffeemaker is surrounded by a spreading pool of black liquid and coffee grounds, cascading over the counter’s lip and on to the floor. What the hell is it with this day?
* * *
I’m on my hands and knees mopping up the grungy coffee when Ryan comes into the kitchen, tucking his shirt into his pants and looking fresh and well-rested, especially in comparison to me—disheveled in my pajamas and unruly, finger-swept bun. “What happened?”
“I forgot to empty the carafe before I set the timer last night,” I say.
Ryan steps around the mess and me, and opens the fridge door. “That’s not like you.”
I pause midwipe, give him a look that suggests he’s said enough. He holds his hands up, giving me the smile that makes it hard to stay irritable.
“Oh, also, there’s a dead bird on our balcony.”
“I guess Audrey’s sticky things didn’t work?” he asks.
“They might work. If I actually put them up.” I scowl and he chuckles. I set a mental reminder to put the window clings up tonight after work. Then I let out three sneezes in quick succession, which is when I realize how sore my throat is.
Ryan glances at me, fridge door open and orange juice in hand. “You getting sick?”
“Allergies.” I stand to wring the brackish coffee-drenched cloth out in the sink.
He juggles the orange juice with the carton of eggs, and nudges the door closed with his hip. Placing the eggs on the counter beside the stove, he lays a hand against my forehead. “Meg, you’re sick,” he says. Then he kisses me on the lips.
“Ryan!” I shove him weakly with my free elbow. “Now you’re going to get sick.”
“I thought it was allergies?” He smirks, grabs a frying pan from the rack and turns on the stove, the gas flame coming to life with a whoosh. “Maybe you should take the day off. Drink hot water and lemon. Doctor’s orders.” He cracks an egg into the frying pan one-handed, then tosses the shell into the sink before repeating the steps with a second egg, leaving a thick trail of egg white along the countertop as he does. Ryan is a decent cook, but has never learned to clean up as he goes, and somehow I’ve ended up doing most of both. I sigh, run the dishcloth across the counter to wipe up the egg white and then turn on the water and nudge the broken shells into the disposal’s whirling blades until they’re pulverized.
While I refill the coffee machine I fantasize about crawling back into bed, indulging in a day of on-demand movies and copious amounts of tea with honey, and then I picture my calendar. I could do the agreements and marketing plans for my new listings from bed, but everything else—including the four showings I have today—requires me to be dressed and present.
“I wish,” I say. “But houses can’t stage or show themselves.”
“Good thing, otherwise you’d be out of a job,” Ryan says, generously pouring hot sauce on top of his eggs. “What about pushing your showings back a bit? Go in a little late.”
I take a sip of orange juice and wince, the acidity burning my throat. “I told Tom I’d help him out this morning. He’s got an agents’ open house at the McLaren property in a couple of weeks. Remember, I told you about that listing? The one with the tennis court and pool?”
Ryan nods, swallows a bite of egg. “Right. With the nude statues in the garden?”
“The very one.” The home’s owner, a widow with a lot of money and specific tastes, had a thing for bronze statues of naked women in a variety of bizarre poses—Tom and I were currently debating whether to have the statues removed and put in storage before the open house. “Anyway, it’s a major listing, and he’s promised me a chunk if I help him out.”
“How big a chunk?” Ryan asks.
I set my index finger and thumb about an inch apart and squint at the space between them. Ryan pushes back from the table, wiping his face with a napkin. “That hardly seems worth getting out of bed for even when you’re well.”
A prickle of irritation moves through me. I know I’m being oversensitive, and Ryan simply voiced a fact. I’ll probably do most of the work, and Tom will take most of the credit—and the commission. Tom’s reliance on me—calling me on vacation, on my days off, much too late in the evening, and me always taking his calls—has been somewhat of a sore spot between me and Ryan, especially lately as my own client list has grown.
However, as I’ve often reminded Ryan, I owe Tom—so I take his calls when they come in, and help him when he asks. When I tried to reenter the workforce after a decade home with Audrey, my skills stale and as outdated as the plastic-cased Bondi blue iMac I used to craft my resume, Tom and his brokerage gave me a chance when no one else would. I started as his administrative assistant, then got my real estate license, and over the last six years I’ve proven I’m great at selling houses—I’m now in the top one percent of Realtors at the brokerage. But as Ryan has reminded me more than once, I didn’t have to go back to work, his salary plenty to keep us more than comfortable. In some ways it seems like he still sees my career as a hobby, which is incredibly frustrating.
My phone pings at me, and I glance at the screen. Pull dinner out of freezer. “Do you want chicken Marbella or tilapia tacos for dinner?” I ask Ryan. My best friend, Julie Larrington, and I do batch cooking once a month, which makes life a lot easier when I have to work late, like I will be doing tonight. “Or turkey and white bean chili? I have one more of those, I think.” My arms reach deep to the back of the freezer, and I shiver with the cold blast of air on my bare arms.
“Chicken gets my vote.” He swallows the last of his vitamins before grabbing his travel mug to wash it out. “But remember I’m in that conference all day? I won’t be home until eight, eight-thirty.” Ryan’s a radiologist at Massachusetts Memorial Hospital, which is only fifteen minutes from the house. He loves his job, especially the flexibility, but has grown weary of the hospital’s inefficiencies. Today’s conference, for example, is focused on “nurturing internal relationships,” which Ryan says could be covered in sixty minutes but will take ten excruciating hours instead.
There’s
