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Kat
July
Yoga turns into a weekly thing, which then turns into brunch afterward with Meg’s friend Veronica.
“You’re in the best hands,” Veronica always says, anytime the conversation turns toward my house hunt. “She’ll find you something great.”
One morning, we’re lingering over the remains of lunch, empty plates scattered around us, when Veronica asks, “Why the long engagement, Kat?”
Her question feels like a test. Meg had just finished telling us a story about how someone once tried to break in to the car where she’d been sleeping, and Veronica had told us about the time her husband, David, got a DUI. Women forge friendships around shared confidences, and in order to stay on the inside, I need to give them one of my own. Scott’s voice in my head warns me. Nothing personal. Not your parents’ names, or even the name of your childhood dog.
Here’s the thing about the truth—it makes everything surrounding it seem like the truth as well. One tiny fact—one true thing—can spread out and legitimize all the lies I’ve told. “Scott used to have a gambling problem,” I say, hardly believing I’ve said the words out loud. But as I say them, I know it was the right decision, because I feel them drawing nearer, lowering their own walls. Being vulnerable is the fastest way to connect with another person. “Mostly online stuff. But we worked through it, and he’s two years in recovery. So we’re taking our time with the wedding. Letting things gel before shaking them up again.”
Meg looks concerned. “Is your aunt’s inheritance a problem for him?”
Veronica chimes in. “Aunt? Inheritance?”
I quickly fill Veronica in on Aunt Calista, legal superstar and benefactor to her struggling niece. Then I turn to Meg and say, “Large amounts of money aren’t really a trigger for Scott,” I riff. “It’s more the adrenaline of winning that gets him. But he’s been working the program, and we have some really strong guardrails in place. It would have been easy for me to quit, to walk out, but he got me through something really tough a long time ago and it would’ve been hypocritical of me not to stand by him. He’s a good person, and a hard worker. I believe in him.”
Meg’s eyes are wistful. “I love a good redemption story.”
The conversation moves on, but I’m stuck on what I’ve revealed, trading something true about myself in exchange for a sliver of Meg’s trust. It was a calculated risk, but I had to take it.
***
Meg has continued to take me to see properties—usually about three or four a week. I always find some reason why I’m not ready to move forward on any of them. We’re walking through another tiny house in need of major rehab in Westchester when Meg says, “Be honest with me…you’re not really interested in buying a house, are you?”
I’m peering into a utility closet when she says the words, and I freeze, trying to compose my face to be more true confession than oh shit. I turn to face her and say, “You’re probably right, although I want to buy a property,” I admit. “It’s just…I like seeing that huge number on my bank statement. For the first time in my life, I don’t dread opening that envelope every month. I spent my whole life living check to check. It’s nice to have that kind of breathing room.”
Meg leans on the counter separating a tiny galley kitchen from the laundry room. “I get it,” she says. “There’s something really powerful in knowing you’ve got security.”
“I like the company though.” Which is truer than I care to admit. Meg always has stories to tell—about deals that almost fell through, a client with absurd requests—a wine cellar and a sex toy room, if you can find it. I don’t believe a word of any of them, but a part of me is impressed with how well she’s developed her backstory. How easy it might be for someone who didn’t already know who and what she was to believe her. This is how people like Meg operate. They build an incredible fantasy world, and when you’re living inside of it, you stop caring about what’s real and what’s not.
“I’m kind of relieved, to be honest,” Meg says. “The houses at this price point are depressing. I wouldn’t have wanted you to spend your money on any of them.”
Back in the car, we pull away from the curb and head back toward the Beverly Hills Apex office where my car is parked. “Perspective is a funny thing,” she says. “My mother would have killed to have lived in any one of those houses. I would have too.”
About a year ago I wrote a piece for an online psychology blog titled “Ten Simple Ways to Build Trust,” and I’ve been employing as many of them as I can. Things like being on time, mirroring her body language, and being generous with my own information, like my confession about Scott. All of it leading up to my next question. “What exactly happened?” I ask, hoping she’s ready to answer. “You mentioned that you lost your home?”
“It’s a cliché, really. My mother fell in love with the wrong guy,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road as she talks. “Her biggest regret was getting involved with him, and for what he put me through.”
“Did he…?” I trail off.
“No, nothing like that. He barely looked at me. I was awkward and bookish and mostly hid in my room when he was over. But because of him, we lost our home. Our family history, really. There’s only so much you can take with you when you’re living in your car.”
“Did your mother have any legal recourse?”
Meg shakes her head and looks over her shoulder to change lanes. “My mother barely had a quarter for the pay phone. She was terminally ill. By the time any of that got sorted out, she would have already been dead.”
“How did he do it?” We still haven’t named him, and I’m careful not to reveal that I know it’s Ron we’re talking about.
She’s quiet, and I worry I pushed too far. But then she says, “My mom needed to refinance the house—get cash out of it. But her credit was shit. She couldn’t secure a loan on her own, so he offered to cosign in exchange for putting him on the title.”
I sit up straighter, intuiting where this is going. Meg must see my expression because she says, “I know. She believed him when he said they could co-own it. He’d do all the repairs—and believe me, it needed a lot. There was mold in the downstairs library. Earthquake damage from the ’94 quake that never got addressed. He said he’d fix it at no cost and then they could either rent it out or sell it, and split the profits. It would have been a life-changing amount of money for us.”
“But that’s not what happened?”
Meg shakes her head. “He spun some story about how the banks wouldn’t allow him to refinance the loan so long as she was on the title. ‘Forty-five days,’ he told her. ‘Just long enough to secure the loan. Then we’ll put you right back on the title.’”
