Page 46 of Falling For Us Again

The clock is ticking, and sooner or later, I’m going to have to make a choice.

Chapter 15

FRAGMENTS

Jenna

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second dragging as I wait for the real estate agents to arrive. I glance at my watch—12:15 p.m. I still have fifteen minutes before they’re here. I take a deep breath, my gaze sweeping over the sprawling living room. I have agreed for them to come and evaluate the property.

I hear the distant rumble of a car approaching, and when I open the door, I’m greeted by the sight of two well-dressed professionals—Marcy and another man from Croft Real Estates. Marcy, who has frequently been in touch with me over the month, wears a chic, burgundy dress. She looks exactly as I imagined a savvy real estate agent would look—a wide, confident smile and bubbly personality.

“Ms. Goldberg,” Marcy says, smiling broadly, extending her hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. My daughter loves your books. Decadence is her favorite.”

“Likewise.” I return her smile, shaking her hand firmly. “And that's so sweet of you to say. I'm happy to hear that.”

The man introduces himself, offering a similarly professional handshake. “Ken Fisher. Thank you for meeting with us today.”

“Thank you both for coming. Please, come in.”

They step inside, their eyes scanning the house with interest. Ken and Marcy begin their inspection with practiced efficiency. Ken takes out a notepad and starts jotting down observations as he moves through the rooms. His gaze is analytical, darting from the ceilings to the wood floors, his eyes occasionally lingering on the windows where the sunlight plays.

Marcy, on the other hand, seems more engaged with the personal aspects of the house. She glides through the rooms with an air of familiarity, her touch light as she runs her fingers along the banister of the staircase. Her gaze softens as she takes in the old family portraits and the faded wallpaper, remnants of a time long gone.

“Beautiful house, really,” Marcy comments, her voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. “I can see why you’ve held onto it for so long.”

“I wasn't holding on to it.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

“Oh,” she says.

I give her a small smile. “My aunt wants me to keep it, but I don't see the point.”

Ken glances up from his notes. “It’s understandable. Houses like this, with their history and charm, are more than just property. They’re part of your life.”

I nod again, unable to find the words to respond.

“Why do you want to sell the house?” Marcy asks.

My throat suddenly feels dry, and I have to clear it. “No one lives here. No one has lived here in a decade. I’m based in LA.My aunt travels out of the country regularly for work. There’s no point in keeping it.”

“I see you recently renovated the ceilings,” Ken nods as he notes the observation down.

I lead them through the kitchen next, pointing out the outdated appliances and the worn tile countertops. Ken listens thoughtfully, murmuring something to Marcy about renovation possibilities. I keep nodding, my fingers gripping the sides of my dress tighter with each passing minute.

I guide them through the house, showing them the small office space where my father used to read—the good days before he became an unrecognizable man.

We move toward the hallway, and I instinctively slow my pace as we approach the room at the end.

My mother’s room.

The door looms in front of me like a gilded fortress. I still haven't opened the door to her room since I arrived; It requires too much emotional strength, strength which I am lacking.

After she died, I began sleeping in her room as a way of holding on to whatever little piece of her presence and warmth I could find; My father hated me doing that. It infuriated him to no end, till eventually he locked the room up.

Ken and Marcy pause, waiting for me to open it, but I hesitate, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

“I, um... I haven’t gone in there since.” My voice falters, and I can’t finish the sentence. I feel a rush of heat rise to my face, embarrassment prickling at my skin.

They glance at each other, then back at me, sensing the emotion but not quite knowing what to do with it.

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