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Kat
June
As I guessed, Scott isn’t thrilled. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks over breakfast the following morning.
I pick apart the muffin in front of me and say, “What do you mean? This is a real story, not one of those content-mill pieces I’ve been churning out for the past two years.”
But I feel a prickle of irritation, because what he’s really asking is whether we can afford for me to step away from the piecework and copyediting jobs that have replaced the investigative stories that sometimes take months to write and sell.
Two years ago, shortly after we got engaged, Scott got into some trouble gambling. He’d managed to accrue over $15,000 in credit card bills, and together we’ve been slowly paying it off.
“Meg’s story would put us within spitting distance of wiping the debt out completely.” I’ve mastered the nuances of this topic, hiding my resentment that a percentage of my income goes toward it as well. Money I earn, not by researching and pitching real stories to real publications, but by writing crappy content that pops up at the bottom of websites. How to Make a Backyard Butterfly Garden or Ten Genius Hacks for Your Next Trip Abroad.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I’m worried about what it will do to you. To go back to all of this again—the people, that time in your life. You’ve worked so hard to put it behind you.”
“I can handle it,” I tell him. Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. Already I can feel the heat of Meg’s proximity pulling me backward.
“I still think you should finish your novel. What you’ve got so far is great.”
I brush away his words. “We’ll never pay off the debt that way.”
When I’d agreed to marry him, I knew I’d have to sacrifice some of my own dreams and focus on being a good partner. Scott helped me deal with my shit; it wouldn’t be fair for me to let him flounder alone with his. But there was a fair amount of trust that he destroyed when he finally confessed how much trouble he was in. How much he’d already pilfered to cover himself. Things he’d sold, desperate to hide the truth from me.
For a long time, I went to weekly Gam-Anon meetings. Aside from the strategies I’ve learned to support him, I also know how lucky I am, how much worse it could have been. The stories I’ve heard are enough to make me swallow my frustration—a double-mortgaged house, bankruptcy, college funds squandered; $15,000 is a small price to pay.
But it’s been enough for me to put off the wedding, claiming that Scott needs more time in recovery. And with the return of Meg, I’m glad we’re not in the middle of guest lists and centerpieces and menu tastings. There will be plenty of time to get married after my piece releases. After Meg Williams becomes a household name.
***
The Google Alert that had landed in my inbox three months ago sent me to a real estate website for Apex Realty, a Los Angeles-based company, featuring Meg’s photograph in full color in the upper right corner.
Meg Williams—Bringing You Home.Beneath it was a brief bio that touched on the few facts I already knew. Born and raised in Los Angeles, California, daughter of a single mother who worked hard to support her child, Meg brought that work ethic with her to the Midwest, where she has been a top agent for the last ten years. She’s won numerous awards, including the President’s Award, given to agents who earn in the top 1 percent of commissions quarterly. Meg specializes in finding just the right property to match a client’s needs, and her tough negotiating skills have saved her clients millions of dollars over the past decade. I snorted. Ten years ago, Meg was blowing up Cory Dempsey’s life, not embarking on a successful real estate career. Newly relocated back to the Los Angeles area, Meg looks forward to partnering with you for all your real estate needs.
Beneath her statement was a gallery of properties in Michigan she’d supposedly sold, the cheapest one just under $4 million. Below that were nearly twenty client testimonials.
At the bottom was a Los Angeles area phone number and a link to the real estate firm she’d been affiliated with in Michigan. When I clicked on it, it took me to a boutique agency website, located in Ann Arbor, and a picture of a cute storefront. But there were no links to any other agents, just a phone number, photos of featured properties for sale, and their list prices.
When I called, it went straight to voice mail. A woman’s voice said, “You’ve reached Ann Arbor Realty. We’re out showing properties to clients, but please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can!” I hung up without leaving a message.
I’d been certain the license number listed on Meg’s website had been fake. Getting a real estate license takes months of studying, several exams, and the submission of fingerprints. I’d been stunned when I found her on the California State Real Estate Board site, listed as an active agent working out of the Beverly Hills Apex office.
***
I wait a couple days after the fundraiser to call Meg. She answers on the third ring.
“Hi Meg, my name is Kat Reynolds,” I say, offering up the fictional last name I sometimes use. “I’m hoping you can help me… I’m looking to buy a home in the area, and you come highly recommended.”
“That’s fantastic,” she says. “But I’m pretty slammed with clients right now. Can I refer you to one of my colleagues?”
According to the state of California, Meg’s license was granted six months ago. No matter how good she might be at selling houses, there’s no way she’d be turning away new business this early. “That’s too bad,” I say. “Ron Ashton gave me your name. I was hoping we could set up an appointment for later this week.”
Her tone shifts immediately. “You’re friends with Ron?” I hear her shuffling some papers, and then she says, “You know, I can probably fit you in. Let’s talk through what you’re looking for, how much you want to spend, and I’ll try to set up some appointments for Thursday afternoon. Would that work?”
“That sounds great,” I tell her.
***
On Thursday, Meg and I meet at the Apex office. She guides me into a conference room where a single file folder sits on a large glass table. When I open it, there are five properties inside, all of them on the Westside. The cheapest one is a tiny white bungalow, listed at $1.2 million.
