13
MAGGIE
I hold my phone between my ear and shoulder as I struggle to zip up my new electric blue dress. “Emily, I told you this isn’t a real date. It’s just part of the whole fake marriage gig.”
“Riiiight,” Emily’s skeptical voice crackles through the speaker. “And that’s why you bought a new dress?”
“Hey, it was on sale!” I defend, finally managing to zip it up. “Mega sale. Like, clearance rack buried under a pile of last season’s rejects kind of sale.”
I twist in front of the mirror, admiring the electric blue fabric. “Besides, a girl’s gotta look good when she’s pretending to be madly in love with her fake husband, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s NOT a date. It’s a fake marriage obligation. Like jury duty, but with better food.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I ignore her comment and start fiddling with my earrings. “Anyway, I’ve never been wined and dined before, you know? It’s always been more like ‘beered and banged.’”
Emily laughs. “Well, enjoy it then! Who cares if it’s fake? Live a little!”
“I will, sistah. You never know when Sawyer might decide he’s done playing house, then it will be back to instant ramen and peanut butter sandwiches.”
“You’re really planning for the end already?”
“Just being practical. I’m trying to save up for when it’s time to move out. I need to figure out how much I’ll need for my own place.”
“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 exhausting to 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. Some ONE better 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.
“Well, joke’s on you, dress,” I say out loud, because apparently, I talk to inanimate objects now.
I flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in my bra and panties. The house feels too quiet, too empty. Even Otto, the parrot, is silent on his perch downstairs.
“This is what you get for hoping, Maggie,” I tell myself, refusing to cry. “This is what happens when you let your guard down.”
But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers, “Maybe there's a good reason. Maybe something really did come up.”
I squash that voice immediately. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt.
No, it’s better to expect the worst. That way, you’re never disappointed.
I bolt upright, my mind racing. No way am I letting Sawyer get to me. Time to channel my inner Barbie and get my sparkle on.
With that feminine rage I was joking about earlier, I grab my phone and type out a message:
Me: Plans canceled YAY. I'm free. Want to pick me up? I’m wearing something sexy.
The response is almost immediate.
Sawyer: What the heck?
I bite my lip, suppressing a giggle as I type:
Me: Oops wrong number
Sawyer’s reply pops up instantly.
Sawyer: Maggie, what’s going on?
I leave him on read, tossing my phone aside with a satisfied smirk. Let him stew in that for a while.
Humming to myself, I sashay over to my closet and pull out that red dress from the Thornton dinner—the one with the slit that had Sawyer practically drooling. My Jessica Rabbit dress. I shimmy it on, relishing the feel of the fabric against my skin.
“This is for me, to feel good.” I murmur, smoothing the dress down. “Not for any man. I’m taking back my power.”
I paint my lips a dangerous shade of red, the color of warning signs and sirens. Then I go downstairs and pour myself a generous glass of merlot, because why the hell not?
Otto squeaks from his perch. “You’re so cute.”
“Awww, Otto. Thanks. I think you’re so cute!”
He cat whistles at me. “Come here, sweetie. Wanna grape?”
I eye my wine. “I’m drinking my grapes. Are you hungry? Do you want grapes?”
He blows a raspberry. “Call the police.”
“The police?”
“Bad boys, bad boys—” he sings, then makes a siren sound. “Watch TV.”
“Is that from a TV show, Otto?”
“You wanna ‘stachio?”
Okay then. I go to the kitchen and get him grapes and pistachios. He’s making gurgling sounds the whole time.
When he sees me come back, he says, “Hello sweetie. Whatcha doin’?”
“Bringing you snacks,” I say, putting a few grapes and pistachios on the landing of his cage. He makes kissing sounds and starts to eat contentedly, dropping pistachio shells on the floor.
I’ll clean that up after I finish my wine. I’m not really expecting Sawyer to come home for hours, and I kind of don’t care anymore at this point. But when I hear the front door slam open half an hour later, I can’t help but feel a wicked thrill of satisfaction.
Heavy footsteps storm through the house, then Sawyer bounds into the sitting room, his eyes wild. When he spots me on the sofa, he freezes, his gaze traveling from my painted lips down to my bare leg.
“You wore that dress to torture me, didn’t you?” he growls, his voice low and rough.
I take a slow sip of my wine, savoring the moment. “Now, why would I do that?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes.