Page 10 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

I scroll for my ex, Plaid Adam. I DM him.

“You up?” It’s eleven in the morning so I’m hoping he is and he gets what I mean.

He responds immediately.

And we’re done with him. At least it wasn’t a dog.

Ex propositioned, check. I stand up and yell, “Next!” I’m already irrationally angry at everything and everyone so that step is done. In fact I’d love to run into that asshole, Zane, just to have someone to scream at for no reason.

I dig through the bunkroom closet that used to be our playroom. Now it’s a guest area but Mom always stocks it with crafts and art supplies. She’s been prepping for lots of grandchildren for decades.

“Good luck with that Felicia and Porter,” I say out loud as if my brother and sister-in-law can hear me. They’re the only ones who pulled off a traditional wedding in my sphere. I find some weird leftover crafting kits and head downstairs with a trail of nacho cheese dust behind me.

Flipping open my laptop while shooting whipped cream directly into my mouth I’m halted by an email. There’s one about my severance and one about 401k early withdrawal penalties. The amount cashed in: $237,235.19

This is my crowning moron moment. I named him a beneficiary and he stole it. But is it stealing if he returned it?

KAT: Penalties are on you, neck beard. Call it back rent.

CHAD:

Fucking wet dog? I have no idea. I randomly respond to him.

KAT:

CHAD: No reason to be rude.

“What the fuck does any of it mean?!”

Ginny strides into my parents’ kitchen in a gorgeous shift dress. I point at it and she smiles, turns and says, “Frances Valentien. Cute, right?”

I do a spin for her to show off my outfit. “You’re pulling off that Rhinebeck high’s gym uniform. Do you perhaps have other clothes? Preferably ones without the coffee, cake or wine stains?” She asks.

She has two suitcases with her.

“Highly doubt it. But you’re,” I wave my hands over the kitchen island, “just in time to check out my leather goods. I take only cash.” I trust no devices right now.

She puts a bag down, “No.”

I take a series of pictures of my wallets put together with plastic cording and glue. I don’t think they’ll open.

“I’m going to do this for a living now,” I state.

“You’re not,” she says, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island.

“Well, it’s the only job I have. So, deal with it.”

She picks up my phone and scrolls. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Make garbage look gorgeous.”

“It’s marketing.”

“It’s fraud,” she says.

“What are they doing?” I point to Courtney and Anna as they ascend the stairs.