Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,3

the floor.

Once I’ve rinsed my coffee mug and loaded the girls’ breakfast plates into the dishwasher, I turn my attention to the kitchen window. Green grass. Tall trees. Fall leaves. Calm mornings.

I take a deep breath in, hold it for a count of four, and exhale. A warm home. Coffee. The dishwasher. Catching my reflection in the glass, I roll my eyes. It’s silly. This new habit. But Dana swears by it, and well, no one can deny it certainly seems to be working for her. I make a list of the things I am grateful for, something I would’ve balked at only a year ago. Maybe even a month ago. As I watched Dana and then the others transform their lives, I thought, what the hell. Mentally listing things to be happy about while performing routine tasks isn’t going to kill me.

As I wipe down the table, I reflect on last night. Greg’s three-day stubble rubbing against my inner thighs, the twinge of soreness that lingers, serving as a reminder of what we did. That we have a lifetime to keep doing it. To be so lucky.

I think about the girls happily chatting about something they saw on YouTube. I wonder, briefly, if we let them watch too much YouTube, and the answer is probably yes, but I catch myself as Dana says to do. I shift my attention back to the window, back to our street. We really are fortunate. I can’t think of a better place to raise a family, so I add our neighborhood to the list. Sure, it’s not our old place, and sure, there’s no beach and no mountains, but the people here make up for it.

Across the street, Mr. Crowley shuffles down his driveway, leans over, and picks up his newspaper. He surveys his grass, seemingly blade by blade, before hobbling back to his front porch, where he slowly eases down into his faded wicker chair. He’ll sit there for the better part of the morning, giving the stink-eye to the dog walkers, a gentle reminder to clean up after their pets. It’s routines like this that bring me comfort. The simplicity feels like the kind of thing you can count on.

A man jogs by with a stroller, stopping to speak to Mr. Crowley. I smile as the old man hoists himself up. He makes his way to the curb, at a snail’s pace, delivering a lollipop from the stash he keeps next to his chair. My girls know it well. I add Crowley to my list and smile. Scenes like this make me believe that we made the right decision about where we chose to live. Greg had not been so sure about the house the first time I showed it to him. He didn’t outright tell me no, but I could tell he wasn’t in love by the way he pointed out minor flaws. And the name, he’d said. Who would want to live on a street with a name like that? He was testing the waters. He wanted to see how deep I’d sunk my toe in.

I would, I’d told him, and that was that.

My phone vibrates on the counter, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. I scramble for a dishtowel, quickly dry my hands, and then swipe to view the text in full. It reads that an offer was made on one of my listings. I smile at the heavens. Maybe Dana has a point. Maybe it can’t hurt to spend more time counting one’s blessings.

Before placing the phone back on the counter, I glance at the screen. There are two missed calls from my broker. I sigh and lay it face down, throwing the dishtowel over the top of it. It’s family day, so she’ll have to wait. Greg and I made a deal early on to be present when we were at home with the girls. So I try to keep my phone out of sight, and on vibrate as much as possible.

It vibrates again like a siren calling. I walk away. And then turn back. I can’t help myself. Another text has come through. Also from Dana. Girl, if you don’t call me back in two minutes, I’m passing this on to Sharon.

Tapping her name on my screen, I brace myself.

“Dana,” I say, scooting out the back door and onto the patio. “What’s up?” Rocky flings himself forward, knocking me into the doorframe with a thud. He circles me several times, stopping only long