Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

10. Maggie

10

MAGGIE

S prawled on the couch with my laptop, I refresh my sales dashboard for the hundredth time today. The abysmal results on the book retailers is one whole penny higher than a half hour ago, so I guess that’s something. I don’t expect to get rich on one novel, but it’s still a little disheartening when there are sparkling reviews, everyone on social media says they love it, but the sales are just not matching the enthusiasm.

At least I have my Etsy shop.

The paint is drying on my latest designs I worked on this morning. Once they harden to the touch, I can attach earring hooks or clamps to make matching pendants. I’m waiting on some hair clips I ordered online and will be able to give the buyer a choice in the product listing. I also plan to make bundles. Necklaces, earrings, and hair clips, all with the same charm. The fried chicken drumsticks are my personal favorite. I like the way they dangle.

I’ve recently added an over-easy egg, raw fish, and dog poop to the list of designs. They’re so realistic, I can’t wait to take photos for my seller’s page.

The maid, Mrs. Pruitt, a pinch-faced woman, who clearly thinks I’m the bane of her existence, bustles into the living room, aggressively vacuuming. She eyes me with barely concealed disdain.

“Still lounging about, I see,” she sniffs. “Unlike some people who have important business to attend to.”

Is she referring to herself? Or Sawyer? It’s his day off, yet he’s been gone most of the day without a word. Not that I care. He’s probably out…doing whatever hockey players do on their days off. Punching each other for fun? Comparing stick sizes? Who knows?

Mrs. Pruitt switches off the vacuum and gives me a look that could curdle milk. “Mr. O’Malley left early this morning, looking quite dapper if I may say so.”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “I guess.”

She starts dusting the side table, hovering behind me…the little snoop. “Must be something important…or some- ONE important.”

I shut my laptop. “I really wouldn’t know.”

She comes around to the other side, making a show of dusting under the vases and candles. “Oh, I’m sure he’s just…taking care of things. You know how men are.”

I make a non-committal noise.

“And he did smell rather nice, come to think of it.”

I sigh dramatically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” she says, “With your bedroom on the other end of the house from his.”

Ugh. I know there’s no pretending in front of the lady who changes our sheets, but she could at least be discreet about it. I don’t need to explain myself to her, and who knows what kind of arrangement Sawyer has with her? She comes once or twice a week, doesn’t seem to have a regular schedule, and yet she acts more like a daunting and disapproving housekeeper from Victorian novels.

Still, I find myself wanting to come up with some plausible excuse as to why I don’t sleep in my husband’s bedroom. But I press that thought down. It’s none of her business. It’s none of her business.

Mrs. Pruitt’s lips curl into a smirk. “Well, I hope he’s enjoying himself. Men have…needs, after all.”

My stomach does a weird flip. I don’t like this feeling.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. Nope, not going there.

“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?”

Silence.

I storm upstairs, ready to confront her, demand an explanation. But the house is eerily quiet.

I check the kitchen, the living room, even peek into her supply closet. Nothing.

Then I spot a note on the counter in her prim handwriting:

“Finished early today. Took care of the extra mess as you requested.

-Mrs. P”

The tears I've been holding back spill over. I sink to the floor, surrounded by Sawyer’s perfect, pristine house, feeling more alone than ever.

But I refuse to be defeated by this. Anger and hurt course through me, but I’ll be damned if I let Sawyer see how much this affects me. He’s such a neat freak—he must have told Mrs. Pruitt to clean up after me, even if it meant tossing out my art.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. It’s like being back in the foster care system all over again. I’ve always had to guard my heart, stuff down my feelings. This is no different.

With newfound resolve, I grab my phone and pull up a flower delivery app. As I scroll through bouquet options, Miley Cyrus’s song echoes in my head, and I force a laugh. “That’s right, Sawyer. I actually can buy myself flowers. Take that!”

I select an extravagant arrangement of roses and peonies, adding a little note that says:

“To the woman I adore.”

It’s ridiculous, but it makes me smile for the first time today.

An hour later, the doorbell rings. I answer it, feigning surprise as I accept the massive arrangement. I position it near a window that catches the late afternoon sunlight. Then I snap a photo, making sure to get my wedding ring in the shot.

With trembling fingers, I type out a text to Sawyer:

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers, husband.

-Your wife.”

Then I hit send before I can second-guess myself.