Read the first 3 chapters of The Sailor Situation!

The Sailor Situation

 Chapter 1 — Liv

They call me 'The Boss' behind my back—whispered by my staff in the break room, mentioned with awe by clients at cocktail parties, said with equal parts pride and concern by my friends over gossip. My name is Olivia Barnes, Liv to friends and family. But my reputation? That's all Boss, and I own it.

I tap my earpiece, my reflection in The Pierre's ornate mirrors catching my eye as I stride past. Even after seven hours on my feet, not a hair is out of place in my sleek dark chignon, my Alexander McQueen blazer still crisp. People expect perfection from me, and perfection is what they get.

"Maria, the lighting in the west corner is too cool. We need it warmer, more romantic. And where are my ice sculptures? They were supposed to be here half an hour ago."

The ballroom of The Pierre Hotel is a canvas waiting for its final brushstrokes. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their light reflected on the gold leaf details that trace the room's architectural features. A small army of staff weaves through the space, transforming it for tonight's Bennett-Astor wedding. At $2.5 million, it's not just another event — it's my wedding of the season.

My Louboutins click against the marble floor as I navigate between tables. Usually, this rhythm soothes me, a percussion line to the symphony of organized chaos that is my life. Not today. Today, each step represents another second ticking down to my own impending disaster.

"Liv." Sophie, my assistant director, appears at my side. Her typically pristine bob is slightly disheveled — the only sign that we've been here since 4 AM. Dark circles lurk under her eyes, concealed but visible to someone who's known her for five years. "Everything is under control. The team knows what they're doing."

I ignore her comment, spotting a slightly wilted rose in one of the towering centerpieces. "This needs to be replaced." I reach for the offending bloom. "And the champagne towers—"

"Are being set up as planned," Sophie interrupts, stepping into my path. At five-foot-four to my five-nine (six-one in heels), she has to crane her neck to meet my eyes, but that doesn't stop her. "Liv, you're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling." The words come out sharper than intended and a nearby florist flinches, nearly drops her shears. Sophie raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the look. It's the same one I give brides when they're about to have a meltdown over napkin shades.

"When was the last time you took a break?" She checks her watch — a gift from me last year when she saved a wedding from disaster. "You need to get out of here for at least an hour. Get some fresh air."

"I'm fine." I straighten a place card that's approximately two millimeters off-center.

"The place cards are fine." Sophie's voice softens. "This isn't about the event, is it? You've been off for weeks."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, the anxious knot in my stomach tightening.

"Go. Take a break. That's not a suggestion — it's an order from me who, need I remind you, you hired specifically to handle things when you can't."

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in Sophie's eyes stops me. She's right, and we both know it. With a sigh that's more exhaustion than annoyance, I tap my earpiece.

"Team leads, status check." One by one, they report in.

“Flowers: on schedule.”

“Catering: prepping according to timeline.”

“Lighting: adjustments in progress.”

“Music: sound check in one hour.”

Of course everything is under control, just as Sophie said.

"I'll be back in ninety minutes,” I tell them. “Sophie's in charge. Any emergencies, route through her first."

I grab my Hermès bag from my makeshift office — a converted coat check room from where I've been orchestrating this wedding.

The September air hits me with the first hints of autumn as I step onto Fifth Avenue. My mind races between centerpieces and family obligations while I weave through the crowd of tourists and business people. Three ignored calls and two blocks later, I push through the heavy glass doors of my favorite coffee shop.

The barista, Jake, starts making my double-shot oat milk latte before I reach the counter. Our office is nearby and he's used to me appearing at random times, when I'm on the verge of firing someone or abandoning a bride at the altar myself. Not that I'd ever do either — my reputation is worth more than momentary satisfaction.

My private phone buzzes just as I settle into my usual corner table with my coffee, shrugging off my blazer and feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. Chloe's name flashes on the screen — my best friend since our college days. She moved to New York a year after I moved here and she’s the only person who can read me better than Sophie. The difference is, Chloe knows everything about me. Sophie doesn't.

"Are you at the venue?" she asks when I answer. Her voice carries the slight echo of her corner office at Goldman Sachs, where she's known to terrorize junior analysts while painting her nails.

"I'm taking a break." I cradle my latte, letting its warmth seep into my hands. They're always cold these days, no matter the season. Mom says it's because I work too hard. "Sophie practically forced me out."

"Good for her." Chloe's voice softens with concern. "Now tell me what's really going on. I know you, Liv. You haven't answered my calls in days and you don't take breaks in the middle of event setup unless something's wrong."

I trace the rim of my coffee cup, watching the steam rise. "Is it that obvious?"

"It is to me." She pauses. "This is about Sarah's wedding, isn't it?"

Fuck. She knows me too well. I hesitate for a beat and then the words I've been holding back finally spill out. "I don't know what to do, Chloe. They're all expecting me to bring her to the wedding in two weeks."

"Ah, the mysterious Sailor." Chloe's laugh holds equal parts amusement and concern. "Your imaginary girlfriend. Have you considered just telling them you broke up?"

"And spend my entire stay being set up with every eligible bachelor in Maryland because Mom thinks the right man will save me from queerness?" I take a sip of my latte, grimacing at the thought. "No thanks. You remember what happened at Christmas."

"The lawyer and the guy who breeds horses," Chloe recites. "Though the horse guy was kind of handsome, right?"

"Yeah, he was. If only I were into men." I massage my temples. "Mom keeps saying how happy she is that I've finally found someone who can 'handle' me, even if she’s a woman. It seems they’ve accepted me being gay as long as I’m with someone who can keep me in check."

"Keep you in check?" Chloe snorts. "You run Manhattan's most exclusive wedding planning business. Your waitlist is longer than the line at Magnolia Bakery. Since when does The Boss need keeping in check?"

I'm about to respond when someone pulls out the chair across from me. I look up, irritated at the interruption, to find a woman settling into it. She's wearing simple gray track pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a hoodie, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

"Excuse me," I say, covering the phone. "This table is taken."

"All the tables are taken," she says, shooting me a humorous grin as she scoots her chair back slightly and lifts her cup from the table. "Don't worry. I just want the chair. You can have the table all to yourself."

I narrow my eyes at her, but she just keeps smiling, completely unfazed. After a moment, I return to my phone call, determined to ignore her.

"Anyway, I don't know what to do. Mom's so excited about meeting her," I tell Chloe, keeping my voice low. "And my sister's been asking when we're moving in together."

Chloe snorts, and I sigh.

"I know. An imaginary girlfriend. It doesn't get any more pathetic than that." From the corner of my eye, I catch my uninvited companion's eyebrow quirking with interest. I shoot her a glare. "Chloe, I'll call you back, okay?" I mutter, hanging up before she can protest. The stranger is still watching me.

"Trouble in paradise?" she asks.

"That's really none of your business," I say. She looks amused like she stumbled upon some great entertainment and decided to investigate. She's clearly got nothing better to do.

"Let me guess..." She leans back in her borrowed chair. "You made up a girlfriend to get your family off your back."

I stare at her.

"I have ears," she simply adds. "So, what did you name your imaginary girlfriend?"

"Again, that's none of your business. You should stop eavesdropping. It's rude."

"Oh, come on. Humor me. I'm dying to know."

There's something in the way she holds eye contact, the confidence in her smile. The way she's looking at me... I know that look. She's gay. Or at least interested.

I take a sip of my latte, weighing my options. This is my sanctuary, my corner table, and I'm not about to let some curious stranger chase me out. But she's clearly not going anywhere either, so I let out a resigned sigh. 

"Sailor," I finally say with a grimace.

She bursts out laughing, the sound drawing glances from nearby tables. "Sailor?" she manages between chuckles. "You named your fake girlfriend Sailor?"

"I was running an event when my sister called," I say defensively. "It just... slipped out. I was literally surrounded by model waitresses in sailor uniforms at the time." I pause, realizing how that sounds. "It was a cruise nautical-themed wedding, okay? I'm a wedding planner."

"A wedding planner with a fake girlfriend? This just gets better and better." She's still grinning, shaking her head. "And now your family's expecting to meet this seafaring woman?"

"She's not a seafarer," I say, chuckling despite my irritation. "She's a finance director."

"Ah, of course. Cute, successful..." The woman’s dark eyes dance with amusement. "Why can't you just tell them you broke up?"

"I don't... I don't like to admit failure," I say, straightening in my chair. "Not in work, not in my personal life. Besides, if I tell them that, they'll just try to set me up again at the wedding."

"But what choice do you have?"

"I'll figure something out." I lift my chin. "I always do."

"Like finding a fake girlfriend to bring to the wedding?" She shifts in her chair, lifting one leg to rest her ankle on her opposite knee — that classic relaxed pose that reads unmistakably masculine. It's in her energy too. The way she takes up space without apology, that cocky grin.

"Why not?” I say, not opposed to the idea. “I'll just pay someone to accompany me. There's nothing money can't fix."

"I suppose that's true." She shrugs. "Look. I know what you're dying to ask me, and please don't feel like you have to beg. Of course, I'll come with you."

I laugh — a real, genuine laugh that surprises me. It feels good and I realize I can't remember the last time I laughed out loud. Whatever her motives are, the woman is undeniably entertaining.

"I'm sure I can find someone more... suitable," I retort, eyeing her pointedly. She is attractive — annoyingly so — but I'm not about to let her know that. "You look nothing like a finance director. More like a gym instructor."

"Whatever." She sips her coffee and eyes me over the rim of her cup. "Your loss."

"What? Were you serious?" I frown. "What's your angle? Desperate for rent money? Or is this just how you spend your Friday afternoons — harassing women in coffee shops?"

"A little bit of both," she retorts. "Being your Sailor sounds fun."

I’m completely thrown off balance. Is she mocking me? Or does she genuinely need money? It’s impossible to tell.

"And why should I trust you?"

She leans forward. "Why should you trust anyone?" Something flickers in her eyes, but it's gone before I can read it. She pulls out a napkin from the holder on the table. "Do you have a pen?" she asks, pointing to my purse.

I hesitate. This is ridiculous. But I find myself opening my purse and pulling out a Mont Blanc anyway.

"Thank you." She scribbles something on the napkin. "In case you change your mind." She slides it across to me with a wink. "I promise I'm worth every penny."

And then she’s standing, leaving most of her coffee and turning to leave.

"Wait!" I call after her, although I have no idea why. "I don't even know your name. I’m Liv."

She pauses at the door, glancing back with that infuriating smile. "Sailor," she says, and then she's gone, leaving me staring at the napkin with its hastily scrawled phone number.

 

Chapter 2 — Blair

The coffee shop door swings shut behind me, muffling the low hum of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine. I step onto the sidewalk, adjusting to the rhythm of the city as it swirls around me. Fifth Avenue feels particularly alive today, a mix of purposeful strides and aimless wandering. For a beat, I stand still, caught in the chaos before heading north toward Central Park.

I hadn't planned to stop for coffee this morning. I was on my way to the park for a run—a habit I've developed to keep the restlessness at bay. But when I passed the shop, I couldn’t resist the smell of roasted beans. And then she happened.

Olivia Barnes. It only takes a quick search on my phone to find her wedding planning business; she's at the top of the Google search engine and her picture is prominently plastered over the welcome page.

I weave through the crowd, dodging a group of tourists clustered around a map. She's quite the character. All bite, polished to an inch of her life in that crisp blazer and heels. Her irritation at my interruption was practically radiating off her, but she didn't budge, protecting her space. That's the part that intrigued me; it was highly entertaining. Most people would have moved to another table or ignored me entirely. Not her. She stayed, sparred, and even laughed. Well, eventually.

I'm not entirely sure why I offered to be her fake girlfriend. It wasn't a serious proposal. I was simply fighting boredom. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist pushing her buttons a little.

Passing the edge of the park, I make my way to my usual starting point near The Mall. The wide, tree-lined pathway is dappled with sunlight filtering through the leaves. The air smells faintly of damp earth and fallen leaves, with a hint of roasted nuts from the vendor cart nearby. A few early joggers pace along the path, their steady footsteps blending with the distant sounds of a saxophonist playing near Bethesda Terrace.

I shrug out of my zip-up hoodie, tie it around my waist, and start running. My feet find their rhythm on the pavement as I navigate the familiar trails. Central Park has always been my escape, a place where the chaos of the city fades into the background. There’s different kind of energy here—less frantic.

I take the path that loops around the lake, my pace quickening. Ducks glide across the water and a loved-up couple leans against the railing of Bow Bridge, their heads close together, lost in their own world. I weave around them, the cool air filling my lungs.

As I run, my mind drifts back to Liv. Not in a romantic way—more like an amusing puzzle I'm not quite done with yet. She's got a presence, that's for sure. A confidence that could intimidate a room the moment she steps inside. I wonder if she'll find someone to play 'Sailor' with her.

I've always been good at reading people. It's a skill I've honed over years of negotiating and assessing risks. Liv is pretty transparent. The way she clutched her latte like it was a lifeline, the tension in her shoulders that didn't fully ease even when she laughed — she's carrying more than she lets on.

I reach the reservoir where the water gleams under the mid-morning sun, and the city skyline rises beyond it, a jagged silhouette against the bright blue sky. I slow to a jog, then stop by my usual park bench, leaning against the backrest to catch my breath.

"Blair?"

A voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, already half-smiling, and there she is. Valerie. Shopping Cart Valerie, at least that's what I've called her in my head for years now.

She's wearing the same patched-up coat I've seen a hundred times before, her hair a wiry tangle that refuses to obey any logic. She's pushing her shopping cart—her constant companion, piled high with an assortment of bags, blankets, and God knows what else.

"Hey," I say, still catching my breath. "How are you? You need anything today?"

She grins, revealing a set of teeth that's seen better days. "Nope, just a cigarette for the road."

I glance at the cart, wondering what road she's talking about. Valerie's been walking circles around Central Park for as long as I've been running here. But I don't press. I just pull out a cigarette from the pack I keep in the pocket of my sweats. I don't smoke myself, but Valerie does.

She takes it with a nod of thanks, lighting it with a battered Zippo. "Missed a hell of a squirrel fight earlier," she says, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Two of 'em went at it like it was the end of the world."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Who won?"

"Hard to say. They both took off before I could declare a champion. But one of 'em's missing a patch of fur now." She parks her cart within arm's reach and perches on the bench.

"What happened to you today? You're late."

I sit down next to her and smile. This is the strange ritual we've fallen into. Valerie doesn't know anything about me, and I don't know much about her. But for some reason, this—sitting and catching up over nothing—always feels like the most normal part of my day.

"Met someone interesting," I say. "She's... weird."

"Oh, yeah?" Valerie's eyes glint with curiosity. "How so?"

"She was..." I pause, searching for the right words. "Maybe looking for a fake girlfriend to bring to her sister's wedding. Something like that anyway."

Valerie takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Well, that's a new one. That stuff only happens in movies."

"Exactly! That's what makes it so absurd. She's got this whole imaginary person already cooked up. Her name's Sailor."

Valerie chokes out a laugh, smoke curling around her. "Sailor? What is she, a pirate?"

"Apparently, she's a finance director."

Valerie snorts. "I bet the imaginary girlfriend owns a golden retriever named Captain." She leans back on the bench, taking another drag. "Sounds like she's got more drama than the squirrels."

Valerie stubs out her cigarette and tucks what's left into a small tin she keeps in the cart. "Well, I'm off. Got places to be, creatures to argue with."

"You mean the pigeons?"

"Obviously. Those are the only ones worth my time." She grins, wheeling her cart away without another word.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" I call after her.

She turns, narrowing her eyes at me. "What? You getting sentimental now?"

I laugh it off, but the question lingers between us. "Anything. Food? A room? A bed?" It's not the first time I've offered. It won't be the last.

Valerie waves me off, a flick of her hand as dismissive as it is final. "I'm fine. Told you before, I've got everything I need right here." She gestures to her cart like it's a treasure chest.

I think about giving her my number, but I don't. She probably doesn't have a phone. Even if I gave her one, she wouldn’t be able to charge it. Valerie seems content in her own way, and who am I to disrupt that?

I've done absolutely nothing for six months now, and it's starting to bug me. Six months that were supposed to be all about relaxation and freedom, and yet here I am, finding normality in a homeless woman in Central Park. I sold my company to escape the grind, but maybe I underestimated how much I'd miss having something to do.

I could be anywhere right now. I could be halfway across the world, drinking cocktails on a beach or hiking through mountains. But instead, I'm here, running the same paths, sitting on the same bench, talking to Valerie. It's not that I don't enjoy it—I do—but there's something unsettling about the quiet. The lack of urgency. I spent years building something enormous from nothing. And now, I've stopped. Completely.

Some days, it feels like a relief. Other days, it feels like a void.

I watch Valerie wheel her cart away. She's a constant in a city that never stops changing. She's unshakable in her own way, navigating her life with a clarity I can't understand. I envy her, sometimes. The simplicity of it. The certainty.

The park is starting to fill up now, the trails filled with runners, families, and tourists. I stretch and start running again.

 

Chapter 3 — Liv

The exodus begins at 2 A.M. Drunk guests head outside to stumble into Bentleys and Maybachs, their uniformed drivers standing at attention. These aren't your average wedding guests calling Ubers—every single person here is worth at least seven figures, and they move through the world accordingly.

Some of the younger ones, the tech heirs and hedge fund kind, head upstairs to the mansion's guest suites. The older money prefer their own beds and their own staff waiting at home. I watch them go, mentally checking off names against my guest list. The Weatherbys—pharmaceutical fortune, third generation—climb into their Rolls Royce Ghost. Mrs. Weatherby struggles slightly with the car door. Her husband doesn't help her; his attention is on his phone.

The big weddings are always the same. The guests arrive in a flutter of excitement and leave in a haze of expensive champagne and social exhaustion.

I maintain my smile through sheer force of will, my cheek muscles aching from hours of picture-perfect expressions. My feet are screaming inside these heels—a necessary evil in this business where appearance matters as much as execution. But I can't leave yet. Not until the bride and groom make their exit. It's an unwritten rule I learned early in my career: the wedding planner is the last to leave, always ready for that final moment when the bride wants to express her gratitude or share her overwhelming emotions about the day.

Grooms, on the other hand, are typically focused on one thing at this point in the evening—sobering up enough to perform their husbandly duties. They rarely seek out their wedding planner for heartfelt conversations. Rory Valentine is no exception. I can see him across the terrace, loosening his Tom Ford bow tie while his groomsmen huddle around him. He's swaying slightly, the telltale sign of a man who's been sampling the Macallan 25 a bit too liberally.

My mind shifts into post-event mode, running through the comprehensive breakdown checklist that starts the moment the last guest leaves. Floral arrangements need to be dismantled—the bride specifically requested that certain pieces be preserved and delivered to her sister's Manhattan penthouse tomorrow. The crystal and china, all rented from a specialty company that caters exclusively to events of this caliber, must be inventoried and packed with museum-level care. The string quartet's equipment needs to be moved to the service entrance. The ice sculptures—three of them, each costing more than most people's monthly salary—will be melted and disposed of by 3 AM.

I can see my team lingering in the shadows like well-trained ghosts. They're dressed in black uniforms that help them blend into the background, invisible as they're meant to be during events like these. Sophie catches my eye and gives me an almost imperceptible nod. They're ready. They've done this dance hundreds of times before. By 6 AM, the hall will look like nothing ever happened there.

That's the beauty and tragedy of my work. I create perfection that's designed to disappear.

And then I see her—Priscilla Valentine, née Hamilton. Even after seven hours of celebration, she looks almost ethereal in her custom Vera Wang gown. Her hair, styled by a colorist who flew in from Paris specifically for this weekend, remains mostly intact, and she's approaching me with that particular walk wealthy women perfect—confident but graceful, never hurried.

Priscilla comes from pharmaceutical money, fourth generation. Her great-grandfather developed three major antibiotics that are still prescribed today. The family fortune has been multiplied through strategic investments and advantageous marriages. She's thirty-two, Harvard MBA, sits on the boards of two major charities, and now married Rory Valentine, whose family made their billions in commercial real estate development across the Eastern seaboard. Together, they're worth approximately 2.3 billion dollars, though numbers like that shift daily based on market fluctuations and property valuations.

Rory is thirty-five, Princeton and Wharton, with old-money confidence that comes from never having worried about anything more pressing than which yacht to take to the Hamptons. He's handsome with good bone structure and a trim body. His hair is thick and his teeth are whitened to an unnatural but still socially acceptable degree of brightness.

Together, they’re beautiful, wealthy, well-connected, and statistically doomed.

Wealthy couples divorce at rates that would make gambling addicts nervous. The Kardashian marriage to Kris Humphries lasted seventy-two days. Britney Spears' first marriage lasted fifty-five hours. Even staying within my professional sphere, I can count at least a dozen couples whose marriages lasted less than a year.

Approximately fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce, but when you narrow it down to people with liquid assets over ten million dollars, that number jumps to nearly sixty-five percent. Add in family businesses, inherited wealth, and the pressure of maintaining generational fortunes, and the odds get even worse. There's something about extreme wealth that corrodes intimate relationships. Maybe it's the inability to trust whether someone loves you or your portfolio. Maybe it's the way money insulates people from the normal consequences that force couples to work through problems. When you can afford separate houses, separate vacations, separate lives, there's less incentive to do the hard work of partnership.

"Olivia," Priscilla says, emotion thickening her voice. Her eyes are bright with tears that threaten to spill over her makeup. "I don't even know how to thank you. This was..." She gestures around us, taking in the remains of the evening—the scattered flower petals, the empty champagne glasses, the soft music still playing from hidden speakers. "This was absolutely perfect. Exactly what I dreamed of."

I reach out and take her hands in mine, feeling the weight of her fifteen-carat engagement ring against my palm. "Priscilla, it was my absolute pleasure. You were such a joy to work with, and seeing your happiness tonight—that's why I love my job."

The lie comes easily. The truth is more complicated and far less sentimental. I care about perfection, about execution, about the flawless orchestration of an event that will be remembered and talked about for years. Whether the marriage itself succeeds or fails is entirely outside my purview and, honestly, not something I spend much time worrying about.

Priscilla squeezes my hands. "We're heading straight to the jet," she says. "For a two-week honeymoon in Bermuda. We'll be staying at the Cambridge Beaches Resort—you know, the one with the private pink sand beaches."

Of course I know it. I've planned three weddings for couples who honeymooned there. Two of those couples are already divorced.

"That sounds absolutely magical," I tell her, and I mean it. Even if the romance won't survive the realities of merging two massive fortunes and all the family politics that come with them.

Rory appears at her side, having apparently pulled himself together enough to travel. "Ready, honey?" His arm slides around her waist. "The pilot's waiting, and we need to be wheels up within the hour."

Priscilla turns back to me one last time. "Seriously, Olivia. Thank you. For everything. I know I was probably..." She laughs, a sound that's part embarrassment, part exhaustion. "I know I was a lot to handle sometimes."

She wasn't, actually. Compared to some of my clients—the oil heiress who changed her mind about the color scheme four times in the final week, the tech heiress who insisted on having her deceased grandmother's ashes incorporated into the floral arrangements—Priscilla was remarkably reasonable.

"You were perfect," I tell her, and watch as fresh tears spring to her eyes. “The perfect bride.”

They leave in a flurry of final hugs and promises to stay in touch that we both know won't be kept. Rich people have a way of compartmentalizing their service providers. I'm part of their wedding story, not their marriage story.

As their Maybach disappears, I finally allow myself to check my phone. Seventeen missed calls, forty-three text messages, and eighty-seven emails. The price of perfection is constant vigilance, and even during events, crises need managing.

But the message that catches my attention isn't work-related. It's from Emma, my sister, and it's marked urgent with multiple exclamation points. Sent to my work phone; the number she only knows to use for real emergencies.

Liv, I REALLY need to know if you're bringing Sailor as a plus one to the wedding. The caterer needs final numbers by Monday and I'm literally losing sleep over this. Just tell me yes or no so I can stop obsessing. Love you but seriously PLEASE RESPOND.

I almost laugh out loud. After orchestrating a multi-million dollar event, after managing a guest list that includes two senators, a former cabinet member, and enough Fortune 500 CEOs to start their own small government, my sister is stressed about adding one more chair to a farm wedding in Maryland.

But I understand. Emma's wedding isn't about making society pages or networking. It's about love and family and promises made in front of people who actually matter to them. The stakes are different but somehow higher.

The irony isn't lost on me. I can execute a flawless event for 350 guests without breaking a sweat, but I've been avoiding committing to bringing my fake girlfriend to my sister's seventy-five-person celebration.

I type back quickly: Yes, of course she's coming. I'm so sorry; I was running an event. Stop stressing. Love you.

The lie perpetuates itself with each passing day. At some point in the coming two weeks, I'm going to have to figure out how to materialize a fake girlfriend or admit to my sister that I invented her. I check the time as I head back inside to sign off and grab my purse. My staff can handle the breakdown and I really need to be home with a double scotch. Perhaps two.

 

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