E is for Earlier That Year
Casey — 5 months ago
I was playing air hockey against myself with a wadded-up straw wrapper and my business card. Casey Blackburn, Realtor. Shiny little picture and all.
Business had actually been really good lately; I was just burnt out. Everything felt too steady, and my inner chaos was itching to be unleashed.
I’d started using Tinder recently. At first, it was for the usual reasons. Then I realized dating was still pointless — but Tinder was the perfect way to meet divorcees and guys fresh out of college with their first big-boy jobs. People who needed to buy or sell real estate. I’d closed three million in sales last year thanks to that.
Someday I want to write a book called Single Housing, a foolproof plan with spicy commentary from the trenches. The flirty back-and-forth would start, I’d say something like “Aww, shucks, maybe if you needed to look at houses, we could actually hang out,” and boom — pre-approved with my lender by the end of the day.
I had very strict rules about not mixing business with pleasure. I dated one client once, and when we broke up, I lost six referrals. Lesson learned.
So for now, I’ll keep slinging houses, at least until I’m rich enough to buy a place with a view, a clawfoot tub, and enough bubble bath to soak away my customer service trauma while I write the book that buys the next one.
I just don’t know how many more fake-smile, professional-voice conversations I can stand before I snap. “What’s prompting you to look for a new house?” I mocked under my breath. Why do normal and steady feel like actual suffocation to me?
I guess I’m somewhat of an untamed mare, if you will. I need to run free and frolic with no plans or schedule, just to see what kind of shenanigans I can get into. Nothing permanent, and that’s intentional. I literally have zero responsibilities — not even a plant to water.
I scored! I cheered in my head for my silent business card hockey team. Damn, that means my left hand was losing.
I always figured basking in success would look more like a rap video, more oily and less clothed. But it’s all just so... mundane. I miss the college days when I felt completely free.
If I’d known what that call from my former resident advisor was about to bring, I would’ve sent it straight to voicemail.
It was January in Arkansas, cold enough to freeze your lungs on the inhale, but not quite cold enough to cancel plans. Which was too bad, because all I really wanted was to be drinking champagne on a yacht with my squad. Or at least in a hot tub with champagne if it was going to be this freaking cold.
But I digress.
Technically, I was working. Realistically, I was sitting in a smoke-scented dive bar off Highway 40, nursing a vodka soda and pretending to update MLS listings while chain-smoking Camel Crush.
Look, I’m a realtor with a morally casual attitude. That means I talk to strangers for a living, and this place was full of strangers. Not always the good kind — the kind who ask if a house has central air and a fenced yard. More like the kind who tell you about their ex-wives and try to trade you a four-wheeler for a duplex.
Still, it was great for people-watching. And I could smoke indoors without losing toes to frostbite.
I was debating whether I wanted chicken wing sauce all over my laptop when my phone buzzed across the sticky bar top.
Jill.
I squinted. A call, not a text. Weird. Jill doesn’t do phone calls until after work, after wine, and only if we both have snacks and nothing emotionally fragile within arm’s reach.
If we get on a call together, it’s a guaranteed two-hour event, accounting for my oversharing and Jill’s relentless protective streak. She’s always reminding me to “be safe,” like I’m not an adult with a knife in my purse and a surprisingly decent credit score.
Jill works the most random hours in Cincinnati. She majored in transportation logistics with me back in college, but turns out she was too ADHD for a desk job (aren’t we all?). Now she’s an interior designer, a tennis coach, and maybe a barista on weekends. The point is, she’s busy, and this call was off-schedule.
I answered with a sigh. “If you’re pregnant or in jail, blink twice.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “How are you?”
“Well, earlier today I showed a house to a guy who seemed totally normal. Four minutes after I pulled away, I had to veer off the road as a high-speed police chase tore past me. Guess who was behind the wheel? House Guy. So, typical Tuesday! Maybe my lunar moon is about to eclipse. Maybe not though — I wasn’t held hostage. Anyway, enough about me. How are you?”
“Good,” she said, like she only had time for essential words. “But how far is Memphis from you? And haven’t we talked about you meeting strangers for showings?”
I blinked at my drink. “Why, what’d you do? And for the record, I followed safety protocol. He sent a picture of his license. Plus, I have a knife in my purse.”
“Casey. A toy knife doesn’t count.”
“It’s real-ish.”
“Still.”
“Anyway, Memphis is four and a half hours away, give or take a fugitive in a pickup.”
“Perfect. You’re coming to a wedding.”
“Jill. We don’t do weddings.”
“I know. But this one’s for Mallory.”
“Mallory? Like... RA Mallory? Had to get her stomach pumped because she chugged too much water when she had the flu Mallory?”
“She’s rebranded. She’s marrying that guy Ben from UT. The wedding’s in Memphis. And it’s the same weekend as Memphis in May.”
I perked up. “Barbecue, music, potential regret. And a UT reunion? Say less. Are Shitney and Tessa coming?”
“I knew you’d say yes. Tessa’s slammed with work and John Andrews wants to look at houses. And Shitney? She said she can’t be trusted around open bars after that Hilton incident with the violinist.”
“I didn’t say yes. I said say less. There’s a difference. But yeah, those both track.”
“You’ll come. We’ll dance. We’ll overdrink and underdress and try not to get kicked out of the hotel or reception or city. Oh — and we’ll see how many wedding guests we can seduce.”
I leaned back in my seat, grinning. “Fine. I’m in. But I want shrimp cocktail and first dibs on the tall ones.”
“Deal. Countdown starts now. Also, I’ll call you Sunday night to talk more about your crime-stopper showing. Love you.”
That’s when we launched the game. The Going to Memphis Alphabet.
“I’m going on a trip to Memphis,” Jill texted, “and I’m going to bring... an Alibi.”
I fired back: “Bourbon.”
“Cigarettes.”
“Drama.”
This was shaping up nicely. What could possibly go wrong?
Memphis was waiting. Jill and I were reuniting. And my lunar moon? Definitely about to eclipse.
I just had no idea I’d never come back the same.
