Page 41 of Offside Bride

“What about the marriage contract money?”

I sigh, plopping down on the bed. “Ugh, don’t remind me. It feels so…icky. Like I’m some kind of kept woman. And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s probably illegal. I’m already living here rent-free. I’d rather make my own money. At least that way, I’ll feel like I’ve earned it.”

“Noble, and a bit morally pretentious. You are crappy at this whole sugar baby gig,” Emily quips.

“Squatting at your house sure wasn’t working out for me.”

“Well, I think it will be a while before you have to worry about moving out,” she tries to reassure me.

It’s hard for people who’ve never been in the system to understand foster home living. Every kid knows they could be back in the group homes at the drop of a hat. I never had more possessions than could fit in a black Hefty bag, and that bag was always halfway packed at all times. Just in case.

But I’ve never wanted to bore Emily with that sob story, so I laugh and say, “That’s life, beeooches.” Then I add, “But I think maybe I can make this Etsy shop work, especially since book sales are in the toilet.”

I checked the numbers again today, which was super depressing. I might be one of those delulu people who think they can actually make it as an author. It feels like I’m doing all the right things, though. Ads, social media, newsletter promos…you name it. And I’ve taken so many courses, it’s embarrassing. I’m not feeling sorry for myself or anything. It’s just exhaustingto work so hard and see no results. So, I have arrived at the disappointing conclusion that the Universe doesn’t want me to write books.

But I laugh it off, because that’s one thing I’m good at. “HA! Maybe I just suck as an author.”

“No! Your writing is amazing. Give it time.”

I sigh dramatically. “What is time other than a construct of man’s invention?”

Emily laughs. “Right? Down with the man!”

“Yeah! Screw the patriarchy!”

“Girl power!” Emily chirps, then hits a high pitched “Whoop!”

“I’m fueled by coffee and feminine rage,” I say.

Emily’s really getting into it now. “Get your sparkle on, Barbie…”

There’s a muffled voice in the background. Probably Owen. Then Emily calls out, “Nothing, honey. Just talking to Maggie.”

I can barely make out him saying, “Tell her I say hi.”

“Hi Owen,” I say, waving even though he can’t see me.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. “Hold on, Em. I’ve got a message.”

I pull the phone away from my ear, my stomach dropping as I read Sawyer’s text.

“Something came up. Can’t make dinner. Raincheck?”

Seriously? That’s it?

“Em, I gotta go,” I mutter into the phone, barely registering her goodbye before hanging up.

I toss my phone onto the bed, watching it bounce on the duvet. The stupid, overpriced duvet in this stupid, oversized house. What was I thinking? Of course Sawyer would bail. He probably found something better to do. SomeONEbetter to do.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter, pacing the room. My new dress suddenly feels too tight, too flashy. I yank at the zipper, struggling to get it off.

I should’ve known better.

How many times have I been let down before? Foster homes, boyfriends, publishers…Why should Sawyer be any different? He’s just another name on the long list of disappointments in my life.

But the anger bubbling up inside isn’t just for Sawyer. It’s for me. For letting myself get excited about a stupid dinner. For thinking, even for a moment, that this fake marriage could be anything more than a business arrangement.

I finally wrestle the dress off and throw it across the room. It lands in a heap of electric blue, mocking me with its cheerful color.

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