Scarlett
“I cannot believe you landed a job that is actually full-time,” Claire says as she refolds the clothes lying
on my bed that I have already folded. I tell myself it’s just older sister stuff, that all older sisters act like
undeclared mothers at their worst, but I’m probably lying to myself. “It’s wild,” I say. “And it’s not the
shady people you wrote that article for,” she clarifies. “No,” I say. “What happened with that?” she asks,
moving onto another pile. “I guess they didn’t need any more articles,” I say casually. “Seriously? I
mean, I don’t ke ep up with a lot of online drama,” she lies. “But that article was widespread. Pretty sure
it has over a million views. Which still makes me nervous, Scarlett. Pissing off a big company like that
is bound to get you in a tight spot.” You mean like practically being blackmailed into pretending to be in
love with the CEO of the company? “It’s fine, Claire. I signed an NDA. Even if they go sniffing around,
I can deny it,” I tell her for the hundredth time. We are at my apartment packing everything, and not just
the things I want to take on my trip. Honestly, I usually pack light for my jobs. It’s easier. But
it also leaves room for buying new clothes and shoes along the way. In fact, the majority of my
wardrobe is from other places, not the mall or the internet. But right now, we are packing up my whole
house, and most of it is going to Goodwill. Claire believes it’s because I am just in a purging mood. She
has no idea I am being evicted and will basically be homeless once I drive to the airport. Obviously, I
am going to leave that tidbit out. “Well. I am just glad you found a better job. I never did like that
anonymous stuff anyway. And you know what? I had a feeling things were going to work out.” I stare at
my sister suspiciously. “What?” she asks. “Since when have you assumed my life would work out?” I
ask. “I mean, you do find ways,” she says as she continues to fold clothes. “Even if you don’t
necessarily follow the path I would. You figure it out. And look at you. You found something more
consistent and stable,” she says as she tucks my things into my suitcase. At this point, I am just letting
her. I’ve resorted to digging through the boxes one last time to see if there’s anything I want to take with
me. I don’t see how I can. I have all the clothes I can fit into my check-in bag, my laptop, camera, and
flight necessities. There are certain things I need during a flight, like a sle ep mask, a neck pillow, and
hair ties. Then I have a multicolored woven linen blanket that I take everywhere with me. And that’s
about it. “So who are you working for?” she asks. “Or are you just hotel-hopping?” I hate the way she
phrases it. Like there’s no rhyme or reason. “Well,” I answer as I come across a small, handmade doll I
got from a little girl in Puerto Rico. I tuck it into my bag. “It’s kind of funny, really,” I say, and Claire’s
smile turns to a grimace. She hates when I use that phrase. Usually because whatever I am about to say
isn’t funny to her.
“Oh?” “I’m working for Bale,” I state, and she blinks. “Bale? As in Bale Resorts? The company you just
wrote a pretty brazen article about?” she asks. “The very same,” I say as if it’s nothing. Honestly, even
with my flowy attitude towards most things in life, I also find it a bit nuts. “And how did that come to
be?” she asks. “Well, I guess after the article, they were looking for damage control. Funnily enough, in
a search for a travel journalist, they came across my Instagram and decided to reach out. It feels like
fate,” I say, zipping up my bags. “It feels fishy...” she squints, and I let out an exhausted sigh, though it
comes with a smile. “I am excited about this job, Claire. It’s going to be good for me to travel again. I
miss it. And I really do have a good feeling about all of it.” “Well, I guess that’s all that matters,” she
says. I know she doesn’t really mean it, but I am thankful she’s not pressing it anymore.
Werewolf packs, rejected mates, and a second chance that was never part of the plan.
After Claire leaves, I take a de ep breath and check my bags one more time. I’ve felt a little out of it
recently and want to make sure I have everything. Mostly because I won’t have anything to come back
to after this. I decide to make a checklist just to be sure. For a moment, I miss my bucket list book again,
but oh well. Can’t do anything about it now. C’est la vie. “Swimsuits, check. New sandals. Check. Sun
lotion and sun oil, doublecheck. Vitamins, tampons...”
I stop. It is that time of the month. Past in fact. And while I’m never late, I’m sure it’s just stress-related.
It’s not like getting laid off, then getting a new job, then finding out my new boss is the Sapphire guy,
then getting evicted has been a walk in the park. Stress-related or not, I’m never late. Not this late. Even
the Easy Flow app is saying I should be a box of tampons de ep into this month’s cycle. I want to brush it
off and not worry. But considering the state of my life right now, it’s hard to. So I’ll take a test. I happen
to have a couple under the bathroom sink that my sister bought for me when she found out I was going
to be traveling as much as I am. Like travel leads to sle eping around. “Little does she know I didn’t
really sle ep around until I was stuck in our hometown,” I mutter as I grab one of the sticks from under
the sink. It feels odd taking a pregnancy test. I guess because it’s not something I think about often. But
the last thing I want is to be distracted when I start this job. A job that, thanks to multiple surprise
clauses, has enough distractions on its own. So I go through the motions, open it, pop the lid, do the
thing, set it down, and wait. It’s just five minutes, right? Five minutes for mental clarity and peace of
mind. But in the same way that water doesn’t boil when you stare at it, time drags when you’re waiting
to count pink lines. Maybe a glass of wine. Claire always brings over a couple of provisions when she
stops by. Today it was a home-cooked meal I can pop in the microwave and a bottle of good wine. I pop
the cork and hum around the kitchen, pretending like my fate isn’t cooking in the other room. “You’re
being silly,” I tell myself. “You had sex one time. One time without protection!” And it’s true. I’ve
never been without either the pill or a condom before. I’ve also never had sex with a random nameless
guy before...
I fill a glass and pad into the other room. Thankfully, I’ve got about thirty seconds left. It’s going to be
fine. My life is on the up and up. I pick up the test off the counter and at the same time, tip the glass to
my lips. Then I stop, the wine crashing against my mouth and down my chin. I blink one, twice, three
fluttering times at the test in front of me. Then it drops to the floor along with my jaw. Two. Pink. Lines.
I splash the rest of the wine down the bathroom drain and set the glass down before picking the stick
back up again. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe I’m exhausted and seeing things. But the lines, plural, are
getting pinker by the second. This is fine. Everything is going to be fine. I’m just working for a man
who I had a one-night stand with... Who is also the father of the child growing inside of me... And
apparently, he’s also my fake fiancé... I wrote the article that is ruining his life. He doesn’t know about
that and will surely fire me when he does. He doesn’t even know who I am, and we are going to be
spending every day and night alone together. What could possibly go wrong?