Page 23 of Watching Ames

Alex nodded at my request, urging me on with his eyes as I threw out my next demand for this non-existent dream house. “I want…a house that suits me, you know? Something earthy and dark and unique, not just a cookie-cutter home. I want…” I paused for a moment, gaining momentum now that all the imaginary options were spread out before me, “A rainfall shower. A walk-in closet. A big yard without neighbors pressing up against me. I want a space to do my work, whenever I finally bite the bullet and buy personal equipment. And garden beds.”

“Do you garden?” Alex’s eyebrows were furrowed in the center, giving away his confusion at not knowing this tidbit about me.

I shook my head at his question. “No. I’ve always wanted to try. I like the feeling of clay between my fingers, and I feel like dirt would be the same, a good way to connect with the earth and with nature. It’s partially why I like my houseplants so much. But I haven’t had any patio or outdoor space to grow anything since I’ve lived on my own. But if I had a house with space, I think I’d like to try.”

“Anything else?” I laughed, Alex’s almost-smile pulling me out of my anger at the situation I’d put myself in.

“No, nothing else.”

“You know,” Alex hedged, drawing his words out as if unsure if he wanted to say his next words, “A lot of those things are easy to add to a house.” And I understood his implication; that no matter what house I ended up in, some of my dreams could be added after the fact. I could make a house work for me even if the original left something to be desired.

My alarm blared again, reminding me that I had to leavethat minuteto be on time, Alex’s thought exercise having distracted me for longer than I expected. I picked up my bags and leaned in to give Alex a hug goodbye, freezing in place when he whispered in my ear.

“But the other things? A person would have to know you really well to get it right.” His voice sent a tingle down my spine, that deep, possessive voice that had been haunting my dreams for weeks now.

His words had me thinking as I left the coffee shop, got into my car, and drove the short distance to the open house. Had me wondering, as I pulled into the driveway and got out of my car, if Peter knew me well enough to get it right.

I met the realtor outside the address listed on the sticky note, a red-brick townhome a few stories high. She was very clearly Peter’s realtor, her fingers flying over her phone’s keyboard while she spoke into her AirPods at a fast clip. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, taking in the neighborhood. The driveways were filled with shiny, white cars, and all the yards were trimmed perfectly, not a weed or a stray leaf out of place. I watched as a few children trudged up the sidewalk, pleated plaid skirts and navy pants betraying their private school origins.

“Amy, right?” The realtor’s voice jolted me back to reality, and I turned on my heel, almost hitting the outstretched hand open and ready for a handshake. I fit my palm against hers, and I noticed her slight frown at the clay dust between my fingers - likely from the plates I’d unloaded from the kiln before my coffee date with Alex - and how she wiped her hand off on the inside of her blazer when she thought my head was turned. “I’m Irene.”

“Ames, actually,” I corrected her, but she’d already turned back to her phone and was headed up the front walkway, heels clicking in a quick staccato beat against the pavement.

“Alright, Amy, let’s go ahead and get started.”

I paused on the front porch as Irene picked up the lockbox, typing in a short code to reveal the key inside.

“Aren’t we going to wait for Peter?” I glanced back at the driveway, finding that Peter’s car still hadn't pulled up behind mine, and checked my phone to find that he was almost ten minutes late with no texts or calls explaining his absence.

She unlocked the front door, herding me into the foyer with her arms like I was a stray sheep rather than a human being. “He won’t be able to make it, so I’m in charge of giving you the tour.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that Peter was bailing on our house-hunting, but I still felt the sting. Not only that he hadn’t shown up, but also the lack of communication. I stewed on the fact that he had time to contact the realtor and inform her of his absence but didn’t have a chance to contact the girlfriend he was supposed to be meeting as Irene chattered on about the house, pointing to the crown molding and vaulted foyer as if they were things I should be excited about.

I went through the motions of the showing in a daze, eyes tracking the light wood flooring, the large crystal chandelier, the heavy drapes that served no purpose other than decoration, seeing as no natural light was coming in through the blinds. The walls boxed in the space of each room, including a traditional sitting room and dining room until the hallway emptied us into the kitchen and the living room. A door in the back of the house led to a large deck overlooking the townhomes the row behind us, a short expanse of manicured lawn separating us from the neighbors. The upstairs was more of the same, a few bedrooms and bathrooms, the largest bathroom containing a jacuzzi tub and white-tiled shower similar to those in Peter’s current home up north near D.C., which I’d visited approximately three times in the years we’d been together, him preferring to come to me instead. I refused to even walk up the final set up stairs to the rooftop patio, surprised Peter would even consider a four-story home when he knew I was deathly afraid of heights.

“How do you like it?” Irene asked as we finished the tour where we started, stepping back into the sunlight through the front door, giving me no time to respond as she continued, “I knew you’d love it. Who wouldn’t? It’s classic, traditional. I’m telling you, this one would’ve sold quickly. You’re lucky Peter put down a down payment as soon as he saw it, or else it would’ve been snatched up.” She continued on for another minute or two, her confession causing my ears to ring in disbelief, until her phone rang and she bid me a hasty goodbye as she headed back to her car.

“I hate it.” The words only came once I was in my car, driving home, when I realized that Alex was right, a person would really have to know me to pick a house I’d like. And not only had Peter picked a house I hated, he’d committed us to it without even speaking with me.

I spent the rest of the car ride stewing on the house, the cornices on the windows and the crown molding in the dining room that Irene spoke so positively about in direct opposition to everything I currently had decorating my apartment. I had even gone so far to show Peter some of my Pinterest boards and saved ideas, his eyes flicking over the pictures in what I thought was interest but was clearly just a cursory glance before he returned to his emails.

The profound lack of respect - both for my time by canceling our joint showing without texting me and by putting a down payment on a house that I hadn’t even seen - was a wake up call. I was reminded of what I’d been promising myself before Peter came back into my life: that if he returned, I’d stand up for myself and for what I wanted. It had been so easy to fall back under our old routines and let him walk all over me, and I felt ashamed at how little I stuck to my guns once Peter rushed back into my apartment and ordered me to get him dinner. But the image of waking up every day in that house, hating my life, was enough to harden my resolve. Enough to make me wonder if Peter knew me at all, if my opinion meant anything to him. If I even wanted to live in a house with him at all.

* * *

It had only beentwo days since the showing disaster when I found a set of keys sitting in my mailbox, a small keyring attached with an address listed. Peter hadn’t mentioned another showing, and I couldn’t help the spark of hope that flared to life in my chest. Maybe Irene had been mistaken, mixing up clients who had bought their significant others ugly houses they would hate.

The longer I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that Irene was mistaken, and Peter had dropped these keys off to begin a long line of showings for us to sort through. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had them lined up throughout the week, efficiently sending me on a tour of the city until we landed on a place to live. I shook myself for being so emotional after the showing, allowing a miscommunication to upset me. We hadn’t really had time to talk either. I had gone with him to a work dinner the night before, but he had been so busy discussing work with his coworkers that we hadn’t even spoken about the house.

The label on the keyring didn’t list a time, and I had the morning off, so I headed out to check what I worried was another iteration of the townhome from two days prior. I wore my work overalls just to piss off Irene, the stains from clay and glaze marring almost every inch of the black fabric.

I typed the address into my car’s GPS, which led me on a short drive further away from the city, the houses growing larger along with the lot sizes, trees growing closer together the longer I drove. After just under a half hour, I pulled off a side road and then turned onto a private driveway, driving through a short span of densely packed trees that thinned out into a large front lawn.

The paved drive was lined on both sides with mulch beds packed with flowers and greenery, floral scents and the buzzing of bees filtering through my cracked windows as I moved further up the driveway. Around the curve, the house came into view, wide and sprawling. The outside was gray brick, cut with black trim around large picture windows and rounded out with dark wood doors and accents on the front porch.

I parked my car, in awe at how much I already loved this house. I didn’t see Peter, unsurprised at his disappearing act considering he hadn’t shown at our last showing either. Seeing a car in the driveway - one that reminded me of Alex’s but in a larger size - I made my way up to the front door myself, unlocking it easily with the key before dropping it into the breast pocket of my overalls.

“Hello?” I called out into the empty space, double checking that I wasn’t inadvertently breaking into a family’s home and about to have the cops called on me. I wouldn’t have been surprised, considering this house felt extremely out of our - my - budget. But after a few moments with no response, I shut the door behind me, taking in the open-style concept of the house. A black iron chandelier hung above me as darkly stained wooden stairs led to the second floor on my right.

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