The official appointment with the real estate agent arrives, and I vow to be involved and optimistic. We start out in the sunny kitchen of our rented house, reviewing the properties on the laptop so we can prioritize which ones we want to visit in person.
Annabella is the total opposite of the coiffed celebrity agent we had in LA. She’s mid-sixties, wears jeans and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse, and keeps her hair in a braid down her back. She’s a friend of Lita’s, who owns the restaurant Blitz and I went to on our first date.
She frequently lapses into bursts of Spanish, mostly expressions I have learned to interpret, some as inexplicable as “I’m going to throw my flip-flop at her.” She calls all girls “Mama,” even toddlers.
I like her fine. She’s practical and if she sees us looking at a house that’s “too big or too stupid,” she whips the screen around and clicks to the next listing.
I want to feel something for the glamorous homes that flash across the pages, but it’s not happening. It’s one set of doors and lawns and rooms, then another. I pause on a limestone one with pale yellow trim, and Annabella immediately says, “That’s the one I picked.”
We agree to drive over and see it. It’s in Alamo Heights, not far from Blitz’s parents. Annabella sticks us in the back of her banged-up Prius. She’s chatty on the way over, pointing out taquerias that have the best guacamole and other little hole-in-the-wall businesses I would never have noticed otherwise.
When we pull up to the house, I really hope that it will feel right, the way our house in LA did. I want to picture myself living there with Blitz, making breakfast, installing a barre in a spare room, sitting on the back porch.
But it’s like there’s a gray mist between me and everything else. No color can get in. Instead I think of Gabriella, and how she couldn’t roll up those steps without a ramp. And I imagine a birthday party with girls in tutus and ribbon sticks. Something that can never happen.
It takes tremendous effort to open the door and get out of the car. Blitz is animated, commenting on the towering oak trees and a magnolia in the front corner. He points out the explosion of pink flowers by the walkway and the cute Adirondack chairs on the porch.
But all I see is what isn’t there. What can’t be there. I follow them up the stone path and step onto the porch. Annabella fumbles around with the key and gets the door open.
The foyer is bright and white, a curved set of stairs heading up to a landing. Above us are tall windows, and a chandelier dangles from the second floor.
“Perfect spot for a really big Christmas tree,” Annabella says.
“It’s May,” I say with more edge to my voice than I intend.
Both Blitz and Annabella turn to me. Annabella glances at Blitz, and I can tell what she’s thinking. What are you doing with this Negative Nelly?
“You okay, Princess?” Blitz asks.
This grates on me today. I’m not a child. Princess makes me think of the little girls, rolling around the ballet room, holding their light-up sticks like scepters.
“Will you ever stop calling me that?” I ask.
Annabella glances between us. “I’m going to check on the other rooms while you two settle in,” she says and not-so-subtly escapes the tension.
Blitz folds his arms around me, pulling me close. “I thought you wanted a house. We don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready.”
I lean my forehead against his chest. I want to feel normal. But there is this vise around my heart, and it’s got a hold on me.
“Let’s just walk around,” Blitz says. “We’ll pretend we’re Weeza and talk trash about every room.”
This does get a small smile out of me. We head off to the left, which puts us in a bright room with hardwood floors and a china cabinet built into the wall.
“See, this is where people stuff their faces,” Blitz says in his best Weeza voice. “It’s so stupid. Why does anyone need a room just to eat? In fact, eating is stupid.”
We walk into a stubby hall with a pantry on one side and a sink and glass cabinet on the other.
“Why is there a sink here when there’s a perfectly good one in the kitchen?” Blitz asks. “Totally ridic.”
Another smile. We pass through a breakfast nook with a big bay window, then into the gleaming kitchen. Everything is new and updated.
I start to feel a little better about the house.
Blitz points to the oversized stainless steel refrigerator. “And water coming out of the fridge too? Waste. Of. Space.”
Annabella pops her head through the archway on the opposite end. “Love the kitchen, right?”
“It’s nice,” I say, running my hands across the stone countertop. I imagine my mom cutting potatoes on her chopping board. Would my parents ever see my house? Probably not. Dad believes I am a whore.
Maybe I am. What does it matter? It’s just a word. He is no saint himself.
But now I’m all knotted up again.
“Take a look at the fireplace in the family room,” Annabella says.
My heart pings at the word family. I’m not really in one right now, am I? My parents don’t speak to me. I can’t see my brother.
Does Blitz count? He is a boyfriend, definitely. We’ve been together six months now. He seems happy, grinning at me as he takes my hand so we can go look at the fireplace.
The room is grand, cavernous, one wall made of stone, another floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
The fireplace matches the stone wall, big chunks of limestone, a mantel built in.
Annabella holds out her hands. “I can see so many happy memories taking place in here.”
I want to see the good things. To picture myself with Blitz.
But I can’t help but see what won’t be here. My brother Andy won’t run race cars across the floor. My dad won’t put his feet up and watch a football game with Blitz, even though he used to do just that with his own friends before everything went sour.
And Gabriella. She won’t roll across the smooth hardwood. I won’t sit on the sofa and work on her recital costume, taking up the straps or gluing on extra stars.
I turn to the French doors that lead to the backyard. It’s all just pointless. “I don’t want it,” I say to Blitz. “It’s not right.”
He turns from the fireplace. “Okay, Livia. We definitely want it to be just right.” He turns to Annabella. “Did we have a second choice to view?”
“Sure,” she says. “Let me pull up another address.”
“No,” I interrupt. “No more today.”
Blitz comes up and puts his arm around me. “You okay, Princess?”
“Please stop calling me that!” I say. “Please.” The only princess is the one I can’t see anymore.
Blitz lets out a long gust of air. “Okay, Livia.” He looks over at Annabella. “Let’s try this again another day. I’m sorry.”
Annabella holds up her hands. “I get it. Big decision.” She leads us to the front door.
I want to feel bad, but I can’t. As I look back at the house that is probably perfect, I can’t see anything good about it, only the what-ifs and never-wills.