Uninhibited

Big sigh

*
You know the saying, "When one door closes, another opens?" Fuck that self-satisfying bullshit.

I grumble like the saltbox I currently am, and open the glass door to Hayes Realty. I almost bust my ass on the way in, thanks to a mixture of slippery slush, and the drink carriers I'm juggling, loaded with the most asinine concoctions on the planet.

And yes, slush. November can be a finicky bitch in the weather department around these parts. No matter what, even in this puffed-out black parka, my body can't seem to retain any warmth. I guess it happens after years of adjusting to a different climate.

Not that I miss it. Arizona was fun while it lasted, but I was beyond ready for a change. Unfortunately, things aren't going how I thought they would. Or maybe deep down I'd expected it to be this way.

Delivery time.

I trudge to the meeting room, having to hook my flats on the bottoms of several doors en route, bobbling the coffees and saying a silent prayer I don't end up wearing them.

Already been here for about two months, and I gotta admit, it's been blah, at the very least.

My required courses are nearly completed. Just another month, give or take, of remembering facts and laws that make me wanna gouge out my eyes. Once I pass the test, I'll become a licensed realtor in the great state of Pennsylvania—insert ultra-sarcastic excite here.

I've been learning the ropes, sorta. Though, after a stunt pulled at a showing last week—I was only being honest—good ole Ceci kiboshed me from going on any more for the time being, claiming I'm too green and need to learn how to act appropriately.

What about me isn't appropriate?

Okay.

But there's that shit again. How can you get better at anything if you don't practice? Also, I deemed it necessary to speak the truth, regardless of if it meant blowing a sale. The house had mold. How was I gonna sleep at night knowing the couple with a new baby was ready to sign their next thirty years away? Sorry, not sorry.

"Ah, Briar." My dad looks up from his spot at the table. Everyone has their laptops out, tons of papers scattered around them as they do their normal Monday monotony. "Thanks, sweetie." He stands and gives me an affectionate smile. His soft brown eyes that study my exasperated expression are my only source of warmth. None of the other realtors stray from their shark tank of numbers.

"You're late."

Both out heads turn towards my mother—Cecilia—who pinpoints her laser glare. I'm serious. She's the definition of RBF. Her leather chair rolls from the table, and her arms cross. A fresh manicure strums over the long black sleeves of her dress.

"It's icy out and she went to get—"

Mommy dearest lifts a silencing hand, and the loving man who always tries to come to my rescue gets shut down immediately. Alright, she's not that bad, we've just been having the odd tiff here and there. And it doesn't help that she still seems overly keen on being in control of my life. I'd had a reprieve for years, but now it's game back on.