Weekend Wife (Sassy in the City 1)

Amazing. Though there was no way in hell I was admitting that out loud. I decided to focus on the oddities of it. “Grant had very specific ideas about what he wanted me to wear, so that was weird. But otherwise, the opportunity to put on designer clothes was fantastic.”

“Do you get to keep them?” Felicia asked. “Is that in the contract?”

I stared blankly at her for a second. “I never thought to ask. I don’t know. I mean, maybe? It’s not like he can return them.” My brain hadn’t gone that far forward. “But I have to treat this the same way as a costume. That’s what it is—a costume to get in character.”

Hey, we all tell ourselves lies.

I was just including my friends in my attempt to lie to myself.

“Method acting. Sure.” Felicia nodded. “But if he can’t return them, make sure you ask for the clothes. You can sell them for gobs of money.”

The thought of selling such beautiful garments was like having a bouquet of fresh blooms ripped out of my hands and tossed onto the ground, but she was right. It was the practical thing to do. Maybe I could sell certain pieces and keep others.

Sure, to wear to Duane Reade to buy shampoo. I mentally eyerolled myself. I didn’t have a designer life.

Felicia was the practical one of our bunch, and the queen of the hustle. She could make money appear like the internet was her personal sofa cushion. She just lifted and loose change was there, mingling with crumbs and hair. She scoured online auctions and real-life thrift shops and turned around and resold them for a profit. It was a time-consuming occupation but she seemed to revel in it. She’d once described it akin to gambling, the thrill of watching numbers.

“I will never do that,” I said. “You know me. They’ll be in my closet for years before I have the ambition to put them online.”

“I’ll do it for you for a ten percent commission.”

“Sold.” When I thought about what the clothes had cost it was kind of staggering to think I could wind up with thousands more from this job. Besides, we lived in the same apartment so I could just walk the clothes four feet to Felicia’s room.

“That’s so gross,” Savannah complained. “Those were gifts. You can’t sell gifts.”

Felicia, who was more up on the latest fashion trends and designers was on her phone. “I’m looking at Chanel’s social media. Are any of these pieces what you got?” She started to turn the screen for me to see, then said, “Oh my God, Leah, this is you! On this woman’s page. She tagged you. I think she’s a sales consultant.”

“What? Let me see!”

We all jumped off our stools and huddled around her, staring at the screen over Felicia’s shoulder. “It’s me singing,” I said, stunned. “I knew she was recording and she asked if she could post it, but I didn’t actually think she would.”

“You sound fantastic,” Dakota said. “You don’t sing as often as you should.”

I gave her a look. Sometimes the obvious eluded Dakota. “Are you kidding me? I sing at work every day, you just don’t see it.”

“Oh, right.” Dakota laughed.

Felicia played it again. “Look at how many views, Leah. A couple thousand. That’s awesome.”

“My fifteen seconds of fame. Literally.” I was proud of the way I sounded without any sort of warmup. The designer outfit made me look different than I did in real life. My expression was serene, the mirror to the sides of me casting an intriguing reflective light over the whole scene. It felt staged instead of spontaneous.

“She tagged Grant too.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It would serve his purpose to let it be known we were together, but did I really want the world at large to think we were a couple? What would that mean for my personal life? Especially given that it wasn’t even true. “That seems presumptuous of her.”

“Why? You’re ‘dating.’” Isla made air quotes. “It seems natural she would tag him too. Especially given he was footing the bill for the clothes. Does it matter?”

No. “It doesn’t. I don’t know. Sorry, I don’t mean to be weird.”

Fortunately for me, Savannah changed the subject when she spotted a guy. “Oh my God, Isla, that guy is totally checking you out. Don’t look.”

Isla, predictably, turned around with zero subtlety. “That guy? He’s wearing a wedding ring.”

“Oh, never mind. Wait. Unless he’s a widow and he’s still healing from his loss. I mean, that’s a tricky issue. When do you take the ring off?” Savannah gazed thoughtfully at the man who was wearing far too predatory a look to be a grieving widow.

“The amazing thing is, she’s serious,” Dakota said.

“Do you think statistically the number of widows is higher than cheating men?” Isla asked. “Because I don’t. I think it’s like ten thousand to one.”