Page 66 of Lovetown, USA
So I’m not new to this. I’m true to this. Or Iwas.
I hope I still got it.
And then I see something.
A small line item tucked inside a “residential property tax exemptions” table, sandwiched between veteran benefits and homestead exemptions. It’s labeled Marital Stability Incentive Program.
I blink.
Then read it again.
The language in the fine print seems almostdeliberatelysterile, perfectly designed to keep curious eyes sliding past without a second glance.
But I don’t miss a damn thing.
Qualified residents who enter into a legal marriage within thirty-six months of establishing primary residence in the jurisdiction shall be eligible for a phased property tax reduction over a five-year period.
That’s it.
The smoking gun.
Satisfied, I sit back in the chair and smile. I’m not doing a victory lap yet, but I finally have something real I can use.
I jot notes furiously, the scratch of my pen the only other sound in the cavernous room. Every word I write feels like it’s feeding the beast of my exposé. It’s proof that this ridiculous town isn’t a fairytale come true. It’s a program, and it’s been carefully planned.
True love, my ass.
I finish taking notes, gather my things, and head next door to the coffee shop, once again assaulted by the aggressive heart motif covering almost every inch of this fucking place. I’m almost mad that I’m starting to get used to this shit.
Couples fill nearly every table, even now at two in the afternoon when their asses need to be at somebody’s job. They’re holding hands, leaning in close, smiling in that nauseating way that makes you wonder if all the lights are on upstairs.
I settle at a small table by the window and dump my stuff on top, trying my best to block out the annoying laughter around me.
Laptop open, a Love Potion Latte in hand, I’m just starting to type up my notes when my phone buzzes.
My mother.
“Hey,” I say softly into the phone, lowkey hoping she doesn’t hear me.
“Hey, baby.” Her voice is a little too cheerful, which is always a bad sign. “I guess you heard by now.”
“Heard what?” I say, even though I already know.
“Me and your daddy are going on a cruise.”
“Great,” I deadpan. “Have fun.”
“We plan to! We’re gonna celebrate our anniversary.”
“Yes, I remember you mentioning that,” I say as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not sure if you hear yourself when you say that, but it doesn’t sound good on my end.”
“What do you mean?”
I blow out a breath. “People don’t commemorate their divorce together. It’s not a thing.”
“Of course it’s a thing,” she laughs. “We might not be on paper anymore, but we still enjoy each other’s company.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I say. “You’re divorced. Maybe stop celebrating it like you’re in a rom-com. It’s not cute.”
