More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies

by Tamara Dorris

  I decide, in the name of time, to call Brad Ryan and let him know all of this information instead of emailing it, which is my preferred mode of communication. When he tells me to offer $5,000 over asking price, I am impressed. A man who knows what he wants. That’s when I realize I did not get a deposit check from him. Crap.

  “Okay, well I’ll get the contract right over to you, but I’ll need to come by tomorrow and get a deposit check. Can you leave it for me on the table?” I am nervously hoping he doesn’t have any more caged animals waiting for me.

  “I’ll likely be here.”

  “Taking a day off?” I ask, as if he’s interested in having a conversation.

  “Going to start packing some things up.”

  Not only does this guy know what he wants, but he’s not even acting as if anything can go wrong. I find this interesting because I was reading a website last night on the law of attraction and it said that one of the keys to having it work is to expect what you want to come true. It said that there is great power in expectation and believing that what we are asking for is coming to us. Funny, Brad Ryan does not strike me as a law of attraction kind of guy.

  At the office, I am thrilled to learn that Odd Todd and Tina’s deal has been signed and should record tomorrow. This is great news, and it also means that the other house we have in escrow is fairly safe from falling through, being that Todd signed final documents as opposed to say, blowing up the escrow office. Now all I have to do is contact Ed and Carla’s bank again today to see if the revised offer is being accepted. Banks bug me so badly.

  Tac only came in the office for a minute and he actually winked at me as he strutted past. Interestingly, it didn’t really bother me. I mean, I still can’t stand him, but not quite as passionately as before. I think it’s kind of turning into mild disgust now.

  Last night I waited for Brad Ryan to email me the signed offer and I went ahead and had him make a copy of the deposit check and send it too, so that I could get the offer submitted. I am not supposed to do that.

  You see, the deposit check, which should be one percent of the purchase price, is kind of like the buyer’s way of telling the seller he is dead serious about buying the house. It’s kind of a rule that a copy of the deposit check is included with each offer. In this case, I knew the house had other offers in on it, knew that I was getting the check today, and knew that Brad Ryan told me that he was putting $5,000 down as his deposit, so that was an offer I wanted to get in. Broker Bert would get very mad at me for not collecting that check beforehand.

  I finish up a few emails and tell Becky I have to go on an appointment. I do not tell her it’s to pick up a check that I said I already had. I mean, it’s not like she and Broker Bert are a thing, but I sure would hate for her to slip and say something if they kiss again.

  Brad Ryan’s garage door is open and I do a double take. Inside his garage is not the black sedan that was there last time. I get out of my car and cautiously approach the driveway. I am fairly sure that this is some kind of huge cosmic joke. Inside Brad Ryan’s garage is my white car. My white Mercedes. Did the Universe deliver it to the wrong address? What is my car doing in his garage, and where is his black one?

  I knock on the door leading into the house and see that the door isn’t even shut all the way.

  “Come on in,” he yells from the living room.

  “Where’d the new car come from?” I ask, feeling I have a right to know.

  At first he looks pleased that I noticed, and then continues putting newspaper around the photographs of his daughter.

  “Lease was up, got a new one.”

  Lease?

  “You lease your cars?”

  “My firm pays for it.”

  I wanted to explain to him about the cosmic mistake and that really, that is my car and it should be in my garage, not his, but something tells me that he wouldn’t understand.

  Standing there with a perplexed look on my face must be obvious because he says, “Never heard of leasing a car?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that…”

  “Okay. Check’s on the table.”

  Apparently Brad Ryan didn’t want to hear what I was thinking anyway.

  “Alright, well I got the offer submitted last night, so I’ll let you know when I hear back.”

  “I expect you will,” he says, stuffing more newspaper in the box.

  I fake a smile, he nods, and I go out the front door. I do not want to walk past that damn white car again.

  I get to yoga about ten minutes later than I planned. Turns out that Herman and Sam Jr. had a little game of tag or something and all the toilet paper from the hallway bathroom was strewn from one end of the condo to the next. They both look guilty and exhausted so I can’t be sure who started it, but my guess is that Herman was trying to frame Sam Junior. Needless to say, I’m rushing to get to yoga, can’t find a parking space, and realize my shirt is on inside out right as I’m stepping into the studio. Class has already started and Dawn is telling everyone to set our intention for the class. I throw my mat down, out of breath at this point and try to get myself organized. This is when I look in the front mirror, assume my grounded seated position and realize Tac is sitting in the front row. He winks at my reflection in the mirror.

  What is Tac doing here? Is this what that office wink was all about? He knew he was coming to yoga today? Is this supposed to be a surprise or is he stalking me? I’m trying to get all spiritual, listening to what Dawn is telling us to do, but I find I can’t focus. First he previews my sheets, then my listing, and has the nerve to write on offer on the listing. Now he’s coming to my yoga studio? Actually, his downward dog isn’t half bad.

  I do my best to ignore him, but he doesn’t even seem to be looking at me. In fact, I think he’s enjoying all the attention he’s getting from Dawn, being the new one and all. I am instantly jealous. I remember when I was the new one. Well, she likes me better anyway.

  After the class ends, I am wondering how impressed Tac is with all my smooth moves. I notice he’s not worried about me at all. In fact, he’s talking to Dawn like they are old friends. Oh, and I see him checking out the cute brunette who always practices in the corner to his left. She has a very lovely standing bow.

  Interestingly, I spent the whole class rehearsing how I would brush him off when class was over. How certainly he’d want to talk to me. I have to admit, it’s an awful lot of trouble to try and get my attention this way. It’s actually kind of endearing when I think about it. I feel almost embarrassed that he’s shirtless since I know quite well the only other time I saw him without his shirt on.

  I roll up my mat, taking my time so he can catch up with me, but he’s not even trying to break away from talking to Dawn. I grab my things and head out the door. I even sit in my car for a few minutes checking messages and stuff in case he comes running out to flag me down. No Tac. I swear I don’t know why he wants to make my life so miserable.

  As soon as I get home I make a salad. I am serious about being healthy. I also am serious about meditating, so I set my egg timer out and decide that when I get up in the morning, I will officially meditate. I say officially because really, ending the day with yoga is kind of like meditating. We do actually meditate in yoga, and then there’s the Corpse pose that has us lying there with a fairly empty mind (at least the days Tac doesn’t make a surprise appearance).

  In my office with my healthy salad and 1.5 glasses of merlot (yes, I use two glasses to be sure I’m not pouring too much—I’m tricky that way), I pop open my work email. I see a message that looks important and then realize it’s from the listing agent on the house that Brad Ryan wants. I take a big breath in hoping really hard that our offer has been accepted. After all, he’s already started packing and his house will close pretty soon.

  “Melissa, my seller has decided to accept your buyer’s offer. Congratulations. Escrow is open at National in Carmichael. Please get the check there right away.”

  I am thrilled
! First of all, if I get any luckier with my sales, I’ll need more cubicle space for all my awards. Secondly, I’m pretty glad for Brad Ryan. I’m not sure why, but I don’t like the idea of disappointing him. I think about whether I want to call and tell him or email him. I pick email. I click on the ‘forward’ button and write:

  “Brad, great news! You got your house!

  Let me know what kind of inspections you’d like and if I should schedule them with my guy.”

  Now the truth is I really don’t have a guy. I do have two people who I have used before, but it’s not like I’ve been doing this as long as I like to let people believe.

  I read my horoscope, kind of half-waiting for Brad Ryan to tell me what a great agent I am and whether I should schedule an inspection. My horoscope says: “It’s time for you to start trusting your intuition more and release the resistance to that which you do not know.”

  Hmm.

  Not really sure what that means. I think about Crystal Visions. Maybe tonight would be a good night to chat with her. Part of me is relatively sure that Tac wants a second chance with me, but the other part of me knows he can’t be trusted. Oh! Maybe that’s the whole intuition thing? Well, even so, I really don’t feel like he’s someone I want to hang out with anymore. I decide I’ll save my psychic call for when I have a more serious issue because right now, I’m actually feeling pretty good.

  Just then, my work email notification goes off and I see it’s from Brad Ryan.

  “Good news. Yes, please make an appointment for a home-inspection for Friday afternoon. I want to be there. BR”

  Boy, he sure isn’t one for small talk and he sure is presumptuous. Assuming I’m not already busy on Friday. The nerve. However, I’m in such a good mood about all these real estate deals coming together that I overlook it and in spite of myself, send him a smiley face in my response. He already thinks I’m nuts, so why not?

  As I finish up my wine, ready to go to my time consuming nighttime skin-care regime, I decide to check my blogger emails. Interestingly, I see one from Tac.

  “Dear Nala, guess what? I went to yoga today! I didn’t go to your studio downtown, because I wasn’t entirely sure how foolish I might look, but I ended up doing pretty well. Ready when you are! Warmly, Tac.”

  I take the last sip out of the glass and think I’m beginning to understand what my horoscope was trying to tell me.

  What a knob.

  Just as I’m rubbing my pricey new skin cream on my face, my mother calls. I wonder why my intuition didn’t tell me to turn my phone off.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi there. Listen, I wanted to let you know we decided to wait ‘til after the holidays before he moves in.”

  “Okay.” I do not know why she thinks this is something I need to know at 8:45 p.m.

  “I just thought you’d like to know in case you had your heart set on sleeping over Christmas Eve.”

  My heart set? Just for the record, I have not had a sleepover at my mom’s house for eight years, but I am guessing since this will be my first Christmas being single in quite awhile, she thinks I might want to.

  “I think I’ll be fine, Mom. Let’s just have Christmas dinner, okay?”

  “Are you sure honey, because the last thing we want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.”

  I have no idea what this woman is getting at.

  “Mom, I am fine. I’ll probably go to yoga Christmas morning and then come to your house later, okay?”

  “Well, if you’re sure. I wouldn’t want him to stay over Christmas Eve otherwise.”

  Ah. Now I’m seeing her motive.

  “So you were pretty much checking on whether or not I was staying Christmas Eve so that you know if you should invite the foot doctor to play Santa?”

  “Oh, Melissa, I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

  After I finish my phone call and anti-aging ritual, I get cozy in my bed and grab the journal that’s been sitting next to my bed for something like two years. There’s even a pen next to it. I struggle to remember where it came from. I think I bought it at a bookstore or something a long time ago. Anyway, per one of my law of attraction books, I will start writing things down every night that I am grateful for. Firstly, I plan on being able to write each night that I am grateful for eating right and sticking to my 1.5 glasses of wine on weeknight rule. I also note how super duper thrilled I am that I have so many real estate deals going on. Next thing you know, I’m going to start investing in stocks or something. I wonder if Brad Ryan invests in stocks. He seems smart like that. I fill up an entire page of things, even including my cats, my yoga and that Odd Todd did not blow up my escrow officer. Things are going pretty well. I even add a line about how I am grateful I didn’t get more involved than I did with Tac. That boy has issues, and while I kind of had a soft spot for him, I’m trusting my intuition and wishing him well. It may be a week or two before I can send him white light, though.

  It’s amazing how much energy one has when she is selling a lot of houses, eating better, doing yoga and drinking less. I am confident that Tony Robbins would use me as a positive example if he knew more about me.

  The home inspector I used for my racist lesbian client a few months ago said he will meet me at the house Brad Ryan is buying at 11:30 a.m., and Brad will meet us there too. I arrive at 11:15 to open the place up and to be impressively early. I find I am bored after five minutes of waiting, but then I hear a very loud motorcycle and watch as it pulls up to the curb.

  Brad Ryan rides a Harley?

  He dismounts, one lanky leg at a time, and pulls his helmet off. I thought his hair was a little shaggy for a lawyer. It looks like he hasn’t shaven in a few days and it’s actually a little intoxicating. It’s almost like his motorcycle entrance was scripted for a cigarette commercial or something. I maintain a professional demeanor.

  “Traded the car in?” I ask, smiling.

  “Naw, this is just my toy.”

  I’m beginning to see why he had such a nasty divorce.

  “Ah. They scare me.”

  “Scare you? Why?” He looks honestly perplexed as he sets the helmet on the seat of the bike and walks toward the house.

  “I don’t know. Just a phobia I guess.”

  “Ever had an accident with one?”

  This seems like a fair question.

  “Nope. Never been on one and don’t want to.”

  Brad Ryan shakes his head like maybe I just picked the wrong answer on a game show, and then we both watch the home inspector pull up and pull out his ladder.

  “How old would you say that roof is?” Brad Ryan asks, surveying the composition roof.

  Now, it’s important to note that I do not know anything about roofs, except that most houses have them. I also know that with an FHA loan, they have to be in decent condition. I think they have to last at least two years in order for an FHA loan to be approved.

  “Oh, it’s not that old,” I tell him.

  He looks at me sort of quizzically, and seems to be fighting a grin.

  “The average life of a roof is what, about ten years?”

  I nod my head in agreement because it sounds like a good enough guess to me.

  “And so you think this one is about how old?”

  Now I feel like I’m being cornered and my yoga-ego just can’t stand for that. I look at the roof, careful to notice if any of that icky moldy stuff is on the front board thingies, otherwise known as eaves and fascia board. Hmm.

  “I’d say about five.”

  Right then (thankfully) the home inspector walks up and staves off that uncomfortable conversation.

  I introduce the inspector to Brad Ryan and we all go inside. I know that one of the things home inspectors need is time alone. They have a job to do and are happy to go over their findings once the inspection is done, but would-be buyers can’t follow them around and get in their way. For some reason, I do not feel like I need to have that talk with Brad Ryan.

  Brad Ryan goes r
ight to the backyard, which I think is interesting, and I stand at the sliding glass door wondering what he’s doing. Now, ordinarily, buyers just come to the inspection to pay the inspector, and I’m only here to let the inspector in. I do not hang around. Napping Stan says that he’s always stayed through the entire inspection to hear the outcome, but that’s just a waste of time to me. I notice, though, I’m not leaving.

  “So how’s the escrow on my other house going?”

  “Fine. In fact, you should be signing the first part of next week.”

  I want to ask him where he will stay for the two weeks before this house closes, but since that seems personal, I ask, “So are you putting your things in storage?”

  “Yep. I want to do some work in here before I move furniture in,” he says, pulling a tape measure from the hip of his jeans like it’s a gun and he’s Clint Eastwood.

  “Want to hold this?” he asks, positioning the end of the tape measure on the floor board. I don’t really mind holding it, but it’s the bending over part I’m not so crazy about. I do my best forward bend, careful to keep my legs straight. I think Brad Ryan notices my amazing pose, but doesn’t want to say anything.

  “So what do you do for fun, Melissa Murphy?”

  I like the way he says my name. I mean, he rarely says it at all, but then to use both my first and last name is kind of, I don’t know, cool. I wonder if he knows I think of him in two names as well?

  “I go to yoga,” I offer, realizing that my only other obsession is spiritual enlightenment, and he may not understand that one.

  “That’s exercise, isn’t it? I mean for fun.”

  Brad Ryan has a point. I want to tell him it’s way more than that, though. I think about how I can explain to a cowboy attorney who thinks scary motorcycles are fun that yoga is a lifestyle. That it keeps me sane and enlightened. I consider mentioning my blogging job, but decide not to.

  “Well, yes, I mean, I stay fairly fit.” I say this, holding my stomach in as I stand up and watch the tape measure whip back into position. Then I add, “What do you do for fun?”