“Afternoon,” I said, thinking of what needed to happen first. “I’ll call before I head over.”
When I hung up, the kitchen looked different.
Not hostile, just no longer a place to linger.
I grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and wrote the rule of silence at the top of a clean sheet of paper, then bulletpointed the steps again the way I needed to see them with ink on paper.
I folded that page and tucked it into my wallet.
The last thing I did was text an agent.
A friend of a friend had mentioned Ryan Cooper months ago, someone who knew Congress Park like a chessboard.
I found the number and typed, “Can we meet in the morning, coffee near South Pearl? I want to talk about selling. Price target $910,000 cash if possible. 12 days.”
He responded before I could set the phone down.
“7:30 a.m. Brew and Vista. I’ll be there.”
I washed my coffee mug and set it upside down to dry the way Mom used to, edges aligned just so.
I checked the bay window latch and the deadbolt, walked the hall, and paused in front of her photo before turning out the light.
Somewhere in Dallas, people were making plans around a kitchen table that wasn’t theirs in a house they would never own.
Here in the quiet, I protected I made mine.
The line on my phone had gone dead hours ago, but it felt like it was still humming in the air.
I listened to it and slept with my shoes by the door.
I got to Brewin Vista 10 minutes early and took a seat by the front window where the sun warmed the table.
The barista pulled shots in a quick rhythm.
Laptops opened and snapped shut.
Cyclist clipped in and out, leaving tracks of road grid on the floor.
Ryan strode in on time, tall and alert, a navy blazer over a t-shirt that said he belonged in both a boardroom and a garage.
“You must be Ethan.”
His handshake was dry and sure.
“Tell me exactly what you want.”
“I want to sell fast,” I said. “No drama. Cash if we can. 12 days. The price is $910,000.”
He didn’t blink.
“Congress Park right houses. Don’t sit there. I’ve got someone hunting and that pocket tech money clean paperwork pays on time. We’ll need photos today. Inspection within 72 hours. If the buyer is who I think it is, we could be signing a contract by the end of the week.”
It sounded like a plan made for the version of me I needed to be.
I nodded.
“Keep it quiet. I don’t want any chatter in the neighborhood. No signs.”
“Of course.”
He tapped notes into his phone, then looked up.
“Mind if I ask why the rush?”
“It’s just time,” I said.
He seemed to understand that boundary and didn’t push.
For a moment, the window flickered with a memory.
Me and Mom on this same strip after a supply run, eating tacos on the curb with sawdust in our hair.
She had pointed north with her chin and said, “Congress Park is about to take off. You built in the right place.”
I’d laughed, telling her I picked the lot because she liked the pecan tree in the yard.
She’d shrugged.
“If you ever have to start over, this house can be your runway.”
Back in the present, Ryan scrolled through his contacts.
“Something funny,” he said. “Last week, a guy called me asking about a place that sounded a lot like yours. Claimed it was his relatives, needed to move it quickly. Name was Derek.”
He glanced at measuring my reaction.
“Derek Vaughn.”
I felt my jaw set the way it does when you brace in a storm.
“I know the name,” I said, and wrote it in my pocket notebook.
Anyway, then I closed the notebook as if I just put a lid on something hot.
“Photos this afternoon work?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll schedule a walkthrough with the buyer for day after tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll text you the time. We’ll keep everyone’s footprints light.”
When we stood to leave, I felt the ground tilt toward Momentum.