Page 4 of The Kat Bunglar

“I just got the email this morning—I’m officially a tenured professor at Northwestern University,” he replied, his eyes shining with pride.

“That’s an incredible achievement. Congratulations,” she said sincerely. Standing next to him, the dreary, bedraggled Monday morning air transformed into something sparkly.

“And then I met this beautiful lady who accompanied me to the train station. Two incredible things happening back-to-back. Coincidence? I think not,” his arm briefly brushed up against hers as he stood close to the platform, subtly guarding her against the edge. Her arm tingled from the brief contact.

The grating sound of metal on metal signaled that the next train was arriving soon. As the Metra screeched to a halt before them, Gabriel stepped aboard, but something held Laila back.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

“No, my mistake. I, um...left my work bag at home. I’ll catch up with you later,” she called out as the doors closed.

“You got it, Penthouse,” he shouted with a wave.

Her heart pounded. She couldn’t catch her breath. He had finally spoken to her after weeks of waiting. He had called her beautiful. Her? She’d never felt this way before. What was this sensation?

And was it appropriate to bring up at the next couple’s therapy session with her husband?

Present Day

July 4th

Los Angeles

Kat Kar

“Is that a yacht? Is she on a freaking yacht? Talk about retail therapy at its finest,” Kat replayed Laila Malik’s Insta-story.

Christian read over her shoulder, “Ja’maican me crazy!”

Kat shuddered in horror. “Well, the puns are super tacky.”

Christian rolled her eyes. “I mean, she is old. It’s cute that she’s trying. Ooooh, is that her husband?” She let out a low whistle. “That man is a total Zaddy. Oof, he Ja’maican me crazy!”

Kat burst out laughing—but her smile vanished when she clicked on the latest Insta-story: a $1,400 Sabyasachi bucket bag was casually slung over Laila’s shoulder as she strolled along a public (read: urine-infested) beach under harsh, direct sunlight.The bag was going to get ruined!

“Ugh, I’m telling you, Christian. This woman’s life is perfect. She lives in a penthouse. That gold statue in the corner could probably feed us for a year. Last month, she was at a ‘Feed the Kids’ luncheon to help the at-risk youth of Chicago. Only rich people attend luncheons for poor people.”

Kat clicked her acrylic nails impatiently on the cheap Ikea tabletop as Christian plopped down on the bar stool next to her, also scrolling through her phone.

Kat suddenly realized she hated that table—the laminated oak color, and one wobbly leg meant they could never set anything heavy on it. All her books on fashion, art, marketing, and e-commerce were stacked in various corners of the apartment.

Her eyes flicked toward her phone as she stared at the Boca Do Lobo dining table in Laila Malik’s house. The ornate gold finish had her drooling.

She glanced at her little notebook and reviewed the information she had gathered thus far on Laila Malik.

• 34 years old

• Married

• No kids

• University of Chicago alum–studied Criminal Law before switching to Immigration Law

• Board Member of the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights

• Plays in the Women’s Volleyball League every Thursday. Her team is (naturally) number one in the division.

Laila Malik seemed a littletooput together. How many accomplishments could one woman stack? Who was she trying to impress? It all felt a little desperate if you asked Kat (not that anyone was asking her).

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