ONE
BROOKE CALLOWAY
I pauseat the entryway mirror and give myself a quick once-over before my first showing of the day. My dark brown hair falls in smooth, loose waves around my shoulders. I’m wearing a Chanel silk button-down blouse tucked neatly into tailored black slacks paired with my favorite pair of Jimmy Choo heels. I run my finger under my bottom lip, fixing a slight smudge of lipstick and nod. There, that’s perfect. I run my fingers through my hair and smile with confidence. I’m about to sell the shit out of this house.
My sisters think I’ve got it all together with my perfect hair, flawless makeup, and designer clothes. Most days, I’ve even got myself convinced that the outside matches the inside. But in the quiet corners of my mind, doubt still lingers. Fear too. I’m still that nineteen-year-old girl who was cautiously starting out, thinking about exams and tuition and keeping my scholarship intact, when my whole world turned upside down.
One minute I was rushing across campus, coffee in one hand and my phone in the other. Next, I was standing in a funeralhome choosing flowers and trying to figure out how to become a parent to a thirteen and sixteen-year-old overnight.
Thank the heavens Mom and Dad were prepared. They had wills, insurance, plans. They’d done everything right in case something ever happened. I just never believed it actually would. I was young and naïve. I learned real fast that life doesn’t care what you’re ready for. After that I needed control like I needed breathing. I needed to know that nothing else was going to jump out and take me by surprise. I don’t know if I would have been able to handle it if it did.
Control is part of the job, so is knowing exactly who I am when I walk into a room. I like things put together. I like knowing what I’m walking into. Schedules, lists, backup plans. Chaos had its turn in my life once and I learned real fast that I don’t enjoy surprises nearly as much as some people do. Being the dependable one became a habit. Then a reputation and eventually my main personality trait.
I’m the top agent in Jackson for a reason. The one clients trust with their money and their stress. I never flake or fall apart or forget things. Most days, I’m proud of that. I worked hard to get here.
Still, standing alone in someone else’s dream house, waiting for strangers to wander in and imagine their future here, the quiet has a way of sneaking past my defenses. All the success and nice things in the world don’t exactly keep you company.
I straighten a chair that’s already straight and adjust the stack of brochures.Get it together, Brooke.
I take a good look around and sigh. This house is ridiculous, with its waterfront views, three balconies, marble countertops,and a kitchen big enough to host Thanksgiving for an army, the kind of place I could actually see myself in someday, with a husband and a couple of kids running barefoot through the halls. Kids… when was the last time I even let myself think about having children, about a family that was more than just my sisters?
Before my world imploded when I was nineteen, I wanted so many things, had so many dreams for a life that never happened. I don’t regret stepping in to take care of my sisters when my parents died, I don’t know how I ever could. Bella and Bri aren’t just my sisters, they’re my best friends, my constants, and my only real family.
“This is the main living space,” I say, stepping aside so the couple can walk in ahead of me. “It's an open concept, but the ceiling beams keep it from feeling too warehousey.”
The woman lets out a soft gasp. “Oh wow. It’s gorgeous.”
I smile, because that’s my job and also because yeah, it really is. “Wait until you see the view from the back deck.”
They drift toward the wall of windows, and I follow, already listing upgrades like I haven’t said them a dozen times this week. “All hurricane-rated glass, custom frames, and the doors fully pocket so the whole wall opens up.”
The guy whistles. “That’s… yeah, okay. That’s impressive.”
It is. So is the fact that Bella is probably feeding baby Jax right now while he stares at her like she’s the only thing that matters. Bri is at work with her feet up, her husband Blade hovering like he can shield her from every inconvenience of pregnancy. They got everything they ever wanted, and knowing that settles something deep in my chest that’s been tight for years.
“This way,” I say, guiding the couple toward the kitchen. “Soft-close cabinets, marble counters, and the island’s wired for extra outlets if you’re big on entertaining or working from home.”
The woman runs her hand over the countertop. “I could live in this kitchen.”
I laugh. “Same. I’ve shown this house so many times I’m emotionally attached to the fridge.”
They laugh, and we keep moving, because standing still is dangerous when my thoughts start drifting. When our parents died, I was a freshman in college, barely nineteen and suddenly responsible for two girls who still needed permission slips signed and lunches packed. College went on pause, and everything else shifted into survival mode. I didn’t really think about it back then. There wasn’t room for feelings, only bills and schedules and making sure they were okay.
“Down this hallway is the guest suite,” I say, opening the door. “Private bath, walk-in closet. It’s perfect for visitors who want their own space.”
Or for sisters who needed somewhere to land when the world felt too heavy. Not that they do anymore. They’re married now, one with a baby and the other with one on the way, safe and loved and wrapped up in this loud, protective Iron Reapers family that treats them like gold.
“And the primary bedroom is back here,” I add, leading them farther down the hall. “It faces the water, so you get the sunrise right from bed.”
The woman actually squeals. “Stop, that’s so cute.”
I grin. “It’s extremely romantic. I’ve considered bringing wine and pretending I live here.”
The guy laughs. “Can we see the bathroom?”
“Absolutely.” I push open the door. “Dual vanities, heated floors, soaking tub, and that shower has six jets because apparently one is never enough.”
They step inside, murmuring to each other, and I step back giving them their space. I walk out leaving them to talk and hover outside the bedroom. My thoughts turn back to my sisters. I did what I was supposed to do. I got them through high school, through college, into careers, into lives where they don’t need me hovering anymore.
