The Husband Game

“He would, but that’s not—”

“Be careful, Lila. I don’t want you to suffer the same kind of heartbreak that I did. I don’t want you to put yourself in a vulnerable position, only to get screwed over in the way you least expect. By the person you least expect to do it.”

“I understand,” I say after a long pause, because I know she’s not going to be satisfied with anything but that. On the far end of the line, there’s a quiet moment, before she murmurs.

“I know you do.” Then she disconnects, without another word, which is enough to tell me that she’s still worried. And that pretty soon I’ll wake up to yet another big wall of text from her, once she’s had time to think about more counter-arguments against my plans.

To be honest, I can’t even say I completely disagree with her. This is kind of crazy. And it’s starting to feel wilder now that all my friends are texting me, begging for updates about Charlie, asking why I didn’t mention anything about him before, or how I could get engaged so quickly without even talking to them about it first.

I leave most of their texts unanswered because I can’t deal with more questions about this, not right now. Then I return to Fiona’s text, the only truly, completely excited—rather than confused—message in the bunch. Now what? I ask her, because I’m not really sure where to go from here. I wrote the dating/meet-cute article, now I’ve written the proposal one. What’s next in the series?

I should have guessed the answer to that. But somehow it still comes as a surprise to me when my phone dings with her response a moment later.

Time to start planning your wedding, silly. Don’t worry about the costs. I’ve already talked to a few vendors who are willing to pitch in their services in exchange for a good write-up and review in your next article. You see? she asks, adding a little grinning emoji. This series is paying off already.

I’m not totally sure I agree with that. It might be paying off monetarily, but my personal life is still blowing up in my face over it. But still. At least I won’t have to actually pay for any of the fake wedding hoops we’re about to jump through. Thank goodness for small favors. And hey, maybe if this wedding planning article takes off as well as Fiona seems to think it will, more brands will reach out for placement in the one after that. Maybe we could even start to charge for placements, like how Instagram models make money from their sponsors.

It’s an interesting thought. One that should boost my mood, since I struggle to make ends meet from my writing alone. But instead, it only dampens my feelings. Because I can’t stop thinking about how this isn’t the career path I envisioned for myself. I wanted to make my living at writing, not shilling for wedding vendors.

Still. Beggars can’t be choosers, I remind myself.

Anyway, I can’t spend much more time fretting. My phone dings again. Another message from Fiona.

Chop chop. Need your behind over at the office to start going over these plans together. See you in 15?

I’ll be there, I answer. Then I hop off my bed and beeline for the shower, kicking my ass in gear. When Fiona calls, I answer. That’s just how it’s always been, and how it will always be, as long as I’m doing these projects at her behest. And I keep telling myself that’s okay.

I almost even believe it.

12

After two full days of wedding preparations under Fiona’s watchful eye, I am more than ready for a break from thinking about all of that just now. The ceremony we’re planning might be fake, but Fiona wants to have a real officiant there, along with real decorations, food, guests, a dress for me… the works. Granted, she’s paying for most of it through sponsored product placements that we’ve got going with the website, but still.

It all feels like a lot.

Especially when Charlie and I receive an invitation to visit his family at their cabin in the mountains. Meeting the family? Already?

But this is what we signed up for. If we’re going to do a full ceremony, it means both of our families will need to be in attendance.

Still, even though I’m grateful to escape from Fiona’s wedding-hungry clutches for a little while, I can’t help feeling strange about doing this. Charlie picks me up in his car, and even comes up to meet me at my doorstep so that he can carry my suitcases to the trunk for me. But I can’t even appreciate how gentlemanly he’s being because my nerves are eating me alive.

“Have you told them that this is all fake?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat—the door to which he held open for me, of course. He never lets me touch a door handle if he can help it.