Page 3 of Negotiating Tactics

“None of that now, Alex,” I said to myself with a little giggle.

The first laugh I’d had in hours.

I walked to the left, staring up at the dramatic archway that separated the foyer from the rest of the home. It wasn’t an original feature, but it blended perfectly with the home and made me excited to explore.

Eventually, I hoped to find the kitchen and a nice glass of cold water, and after seeing that archway, I knew I’d enjoy the search.

Despite my shitty night, I started to feel somewhat better. After all, it was true, yes, that I’d lost my home, but there were worse places I could have ended up.

I tried to take in everything, my gaze roaming as I walked through the small sitting room and through to a larger living area, which I followed to a piano room. The next two rooms were fully furnished, though I had no idea what purpose they served. It seemed no one else did either, because the rooms felt like I’d been the first person to enter them in years.

Finally, I found the kitchen.

It was as high-end as I would have expected, with what looked to be industrial grade appliances, beautiful white countertops, and shiny white marble floors.

The kind of kitchen that was a joy to look at but would be hell to clean.

I didn’t plan on spending enough time here to do either.

I looked around the kitchen, surprised to find it fully stocked. Then I shrugged and rummaged through the refrigerator. I wasn’t hungry, so I still resisted the impulse to grab a snack, knowing artisan asiago cheese puffs wouldn’t fix the frustration that was eating at me, no matter how delicious they might look.

I also bypassed the seltzer—both flavored and unflavored, the fancy as fuck zero-calorie cola, and the bottle of rosé that was screaming my name.

Instead, I filled a heavy tumbler with water and took three long refreshing gulps.

Then I refilled the cup, even though—after the day I’d had—I fucking hated water. When I’d left my home of eight years, about thirteen thousand gallons of it had stayed behind.

Suddenly feeling tired, I rinsed out the glass, left it on the counter, and continued my exploration of the townhouse.

To think, just five hours ago, I’d been curled up in bed, settling in to read.

I’d halfway drifted off until I heard a crack and then a gush.

Trying to ignore that memory, I unzipped my duffel bag, then pulled out my laptop case.

When I was a kid, I’d always taken my schoolwork to bed, something my mother had constantly complained about. The habit had followed me into adulthood, a fact I was grateful for tonight.

My laptop had been saved, along with the four suits that I’d picked up from the dry cleaner on my way home. So, I had clean work clothes, the pajamas I was wearing, and the gardening shoes Birdie had gotten me to wear around the house. And I was pretty sure I’d left a pair of loafers in the bottom drawer of my office desk.

That, plus my tablet, was all I had left to my name.

I laughed out loud as I stared at the mostly empty bag, but the sound was grim.

It had felt like a nightmare, rushing into my living room to see Niagara Falls pouring from the ceiling.

My couch, my television, and all of my furniture, soaked.

Even the floor had started to buckle from the water.

The shock had held me in place, my mind racing because I didn’t know what to do.

Then, I’d kicked into action.

First up, I’d called the fire department, because my desktop computer and television had started to smoke.

Then, with foresight I had been surprised I still had, I grabbed the things I could salvage and maneuvered my way down the fire escape.

By the time I got down to the street, neighbors had started to gather outside, and in the hour between when I left and the firefighters gave us the all clear to go back in, it had hit me that I had probably lost everything.