Page 41 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Which would have been fine. Except now I’mnotmarried, which means I’m all debt-free with nowhere to go and no money to not go there with.

My lease ended this week, with my stuff in boxes at Drew’s place. Now, living with Dad will be more long-term until I can find something else. And my bank account is sitting pretty with a big fat three-figure sum total.

I don’t even have the option of starting a whole new mountain of mini-debt with the credit card I just finished paying off. Because I cut it up.

My whole life right now feels like a collection of tiny bad decisions all stacked up in a Jenga tower. And Drew pulled out a key piece right at the bottom, sending everything crashing down.

“Mills.” Van’s big hand lands on my shoulder. Squeezes twice.

“What?” This comes out a little snappier than I meant it to. I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Sorry.”

“No apologies, remember?”

“Right. The rules.” His fingers gently knead my shoulder, then slide up to the back of my neck. I’m not even into massages—usually I’m too ticklish—but Van’s strong fingers almost have me groaning right here at the Avis counter.

“What’s the deal?” Van asks. “Are you okay?”

“I just hate that you’re paying for stuff. But …” I swallow, then work up the courage to meet Van’s eyes. “I’m kind of in a bad financial place right now. All things considered.”

“Look—I was thinking about taking a trip during this break anyway. And I would have spent money on that. So, stop worrying. I’d probably have spent way more in Vegas.”

“What were you going to do in Vegas?” I ask.

I’m immediately sorry because the kinds of reasons men might go to Vegas aren’t all ones I want to think about.

He shrugs. “Maybe catch a few hockey games. A show or two.”

I’m immediately dying to know what kinds of shows Van would attend. Music? Magic? One of those sexy revues where the women do high kicks with feathers and sequins?

“But mostly blackjack,” Van says, and the sudden tightness in my chest eases.

“You like blackjack?”

“I do. And it doesnotlove me back. So, really, you’re saving me from myself. And from the house taking all my money.”

I don’t know if any of this is true or if Van’s lying, but I find myself happy to believe him. And then I find myself saying, “I've never played.”

It’s the thinnest of veiled requests. Me basically begging him to teach me.

Van grins and says, “Guess we’ll have to pick up a deck of cards with the rest of our supplies.”

Right. Because now neither of us has any other clothes than the ones we’re wearing. No toiletries either.

So we stop at a Walmart before we get to the tiny island resort, which is separated enough from the mainland to make leaving to buy things a pain. I’m sure everything at the resort will be way overpriced.

But I draw the line at letting Van buy me underwear. It’s embarrassing enough that he’s paying for my clothes—bad enough that we’re buying Walmart clothes. I have not shopped at Walmart in years. While it’s greatly improved from what I remember, it is not my typical style. If I could afford it, I’d buy everything from Anthropologie. As it is, I cannot without the power of my credit card, so my typical style is pairing one nice, special piece with bargain finds from Ross or H&M.

Tonight,allmy finds are bargain. And I may burn them when I get my actual bags. If I had to describe this style it’s very bright. And very rayon.

They carry a few of the makeup brands I use, and I try to stick to the essentials: face wash, moisturizer with SPF, foundation, concealer, blush, and mascara. I don’t want to appear too high maintenance, though if I’m being honest, I’mmediummaintenance. If it weren’t for the ridiculous amount of freckles I have always hated, I probably wouldn’t wear more than moisturizer and mascara. But Idohave freckles. And some PTSD from being constantly teased about them when I was little.

I also grab a new notebook in a cheerful yellow with a honeycomb design and a pack of pens in case I have ideas and need to write. I’m never without a notebook and feel better once it’s in the cart along with a pair of flip-flops, sunscreen, a fluffy towel, and a beachy book in case I feel like reading.

It bothers me that Van is going to have to pay for all this. But I’ll allow it.

I will not allow him to pay for the bras and underwear.

“Just put your stuff in the cart, Mills,” he says. “We’ve been over this. I’ve got the money. I’ll cover it, and I don’t want you to worry about it.”

---