Page 34 of Offside Bride

“Probably just guy stuff,” I say, mindlessly scrolling apps on my phone but not seeing anything.

“Mmhmm,” she hums. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he’s doing. Taking care of…guy stuff.” Mrs. Pruitt turns on the vacuum again, continuing her passive-aggressive cleaning spree. Over the noise, she says, rather loudly, “Well, a happy husband makes for a happy home, doesn't it?”

I really want to ignore her, but the seed of doubt has been planted, and it grows with each swipe of the vacuum. My mind is racing, conjuring up images I definitely don’t want to see. Sawyer with some nameless, faceless woman. Sawyer laughing, touching, kissing…

No. Stop it, Maggie. This is ridiculous. We’re not a couple. Why should I care?

But the thoughts won’t stop swirling. Where is he? What’s he doing? Why didn’t he at least text?

The vacuum’s drone becomes unbearable, each whir like a taunt, matching the chaos in my head…I can’t think, can’t breathe.

I bolt off the couch and storm out the front door, desperate for fresh air and silence. I burst outside, gulping in deep breaths, trying to clear my head from these ridiculous thoughts.

A cheerful voice calls out, “Oh my gosh, hi neighbor!”

I skid to a halt, nearly face-planting into a stroller. The woman pushing it beams at me with an almost unnatural level of pep. She’s wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt that proclaims “Mom Life is the Best Life” in glittery letters. She looks vaguely familiar—probably one of the many faces I’ve nodded to since moving into this neighborhood of perfect lawns and gossiping housewives.

“I’m Jessica. I live two doors down,” she chirps, extending her hand. “I’ve been meaning to come say hello properly. Oh, and this little nugget is Brylee.”

In the stroller, a chubby-cheeked baby gurgles happily at me.

I paste on a smile and shake Jessica’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Maggie.”

Jessica’s eyes dart to my driveway. “Wow, is that your new car? It’s to die for! I've heard the safety ratings are off the charts. Of course, with little miss here,” she pats the stroller, “we had to go for the SUV. But maybe for my next mom-mobile!”

She laughs as if that’s a joke, and I manage a weak chuckle. Jessica seems nice enough, and in another life, we might have been friends. But right now, my head is still spinning from Mrs. Pruitt’s insinuations and Sawyer’s mysterious absence.

“So, how are you liking the neighborhood?” Jessica asks, bouncing slightly on her toes. “We should totally get together for coffee sometime! I know all the best playgrounds and mommy-and-me classes around here. Or maybe a playdate? Oh, but you probably don’t have kids yet. Double date then! It’d be so fun to have another couple to hang out with!”

I bite my lip, guilt creeping in as I realize I’m about to brush her off. She seems so nice, but I can’t make friends with local moms. I’m not even a real housewife.

“That sounds lovely, Jessica. But I actually need to head back inside. I've got some…work stuff to take care of.”

Jessica’s face falls for a split second before brightening again. “No worries! I’m just two doors down if you want to borrow a cup of sugar or anything.”

I nod noncommittally, already backing toward the front door. “Same goes for you—if you ever need to borrow…eh…smelly hockey gear.”

She snorts. “Will do.”

“Listen, I've got to run, but it was nice meeting you.”

“You too!” she calls, her cheerful “Bye-bye!” following me as I retreat inside.

Mrs. Pruitt seems to have moved on to another part of the house, thank goodness. I head down to the basement eager to check on my little plaster eggs, raw fish, and dog poop, hoping they’re ready for me to make into jewelry.

The familiar scent of paint and plaster should greet me, but instead, I’m hit with the sharp sting of bleach. My heart rate picks up as I round the corner to my workspace. “What the—” The words die in my throat. My table, usually a chaotic mess of half-finished projects and supplies, is wiped clean. Spotless. Empty. My paints, brushes, and molds are crammed haphazardly into a plastic bucket shoved in the corner.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, frantically searching for my finished pieces. The ultra-realistic eggs, fish, and…other items I’d spent hours perfecting are nowhere to be found.

Then I spot the trash can.

With trembling hands, I lift the lid, and my heart shatters.

There, tossed carelessly among crumpled papers and coffee grounds, are my precious charms. The delicate egg yolks are cracked, the fish scales chipped beyond repair. My lovingly crafted dog poop—which, okay, sounds weird, but was actually really cute—is smooshed beyond recognition. I gingerly lift out a broken charm. Days of work, ruined in an instant.

My throat burns as I fight back tears. This can’t be happening. Those pieces were almost done, so close to being able to list in my shop.

“Mrs. Pruitt!” I call out, my voice cracking. “Mrs. Pruitt, where are you?”

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