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The only thing that could’ve made this day better was if that some other time, maybe? would’ve been a yes.
But lucky for you, in two weeks, you’ll have a whole school year to make that happen.
All of a sudden, I’m excited for the start of my junior year.
Friday, August 23rd
Maria
Tap-tap-tap-tap, my index finger bounces off the ledge of the passenger door of my taxi. A vision of what feels like miles of cars assaults my eyes through the windshield.
Early afternoon traffic on a Friday is never optimal, but today, well, it’s downright dismal.
I should’ve never agreed to three showings so close together.
Talk about a real rookie mistake. Or, you know, a Claudia mistake.
“It’s a damn parking lot out here,” my cab driver grumbles, and it does nothing for my anxiety.
Scanning the nearest street signs, I note that I’m only two blocks away from my next appointment, a swanky building located in an area known as Central Park East. But when I glance at the clock on the dashboard, I see my time to get there has dwindled down to ten minutes.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stay rooted to my seat for about thirty more seconds, but when the traffic doesn’t budge and my taxi driver starts to play a game of Yahtzee on his phone, I know I’m left without a choice.
Full-term pregnant or not, I’m going to have to finish this trip on foot.
I let myself savor the cool air conditioning of the taxi for another few seconds, and then I haul ass. Door open, I toss forty dollars toward my driver and quickly grab my purse and bag.
“What the hell, lady?”
“Sorry, but I have to go! Thanks!” I shut the door and carefully maneuver through the traffic, both hands on my belly, until I reach the safety of the sidewalk.
I know my cab driver is pissed at me, because my problem has now become his problem, but that’s life, man. Not to mention, I paid him double the fare the meter on the dashboard showed.
He’ll get over it.
Me, on the other hand? Well, I just hope my swollen feet can tolerate the long, hot trek inside these heels I decided to wear today. It’s almost pathetic how my need to maintain a professional appearance still trumps my body’s cries for comfort.
A bead of sweat runs down my back as I maneuver through the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Hell’s bells, it’s hot. Why is it always so hot?
New York summers can be brutal, and like every other day for the past month and a half, today is no exception.
Suck it up, buttercup, and keep that preggo ass of yours moving.
Half a block into my blistering stroll, my phone buzzes with a new text message, and I quickly pull it out of my purse to see the very last name I want to see right now—Patricia Clemmons.
It’s been four weeks since I got stuck in the elevator that was located inside the building of a Greenwich Village property she decided she wanted to purchase.
Four weeks since you told Remington Winslow you’d call him…which you still haven’t done.
I roll my eyes at myself and focus on the task at hand—Mrs. Clemmons.
Ever since the Greenwich Village seller accepted the Clemmonses’s offer, I’ve had an influx of calls and texts from Patricia, all of which revolve around her closing date. But not for the normal reasons you’d expect. Any rescheduling that’s occurred is because her bougie ass likes to take last-minute, purely recreational trips to Fiji.
In the last several weeks, she’s caused me more headaches than my assistant and this pregnancy combined. Which is saying a lot because Claudia sucks at her job and my due date is only two days away.
I swear, if Mrs. Clemmons tries to reschedule her closing again, I’m calling the seller myself and telling them to back out of the deal. I don’t care how much commission I’ll have to walk away from.
Patricia Clemmons: Mr. Clemmons and I can make the closing next week.
“Hallelujah!” I shout so loud I startle a fellow pedestrian in passing as I finish the last block of my hot-as-balls walk across Central Park. Whoops.
Determined to get this date in stone, I type out a quick response to Mrs. Clemmons and the seller’s agent, solidifying the closing that I’ve already assigned to a new agent at my firm. I will most likely be busy with a newborn next week. At least, that’s what my OB-GYN, Dr. Maddox, has told me.
I hope Daniel, one of two new agents that I hired out of desperation about a month ago, will be able to close the Clemmonses without any issues. I really, really hope. I’ve been trying to get both him and Brenda, the other agent I hired, up to speed, but I can’t deny, four weeks before I leave on maternity leave isn’t much time.
