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“So I’m resigning?”
He lifts the stack of papers, offering it to me. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“What’s this?”
“My answers. To the form. And the list of questions I decided not to include. It’s what you asked about for question 199. I didn’t force myself to reach two hundred. I cut down from three-fourteen because I thought it was too long. Perhaps it wasn’t actually long enough. After a single night, the form garnered hundreds of responses. Most of them useless. I came upon yours yesterday, and it struck me like none of the others had, so I’ve been preparing to confront you all night.”
All night, he says. As though anyone who hasn’t slept is allowed to look like him. He doesn’t even have dark circles under his eyes. Without makeup, my bags could carry Saint Bernards.
“Consider it, please,” he says. “Date me for a few months, then answer a yes or no question. If you still hate me too much to go through with marrying me, I won’t force you. But if you humor me during this probationary period, I’ll give you a Christmas bonus that covers your debt.”
I go rigid, staring at him.
“In spite of my legal immunity, I’m happy to put that in writing if it would give you some security. I am also happy to issue a down payment constituting half of what you need to pay off your debts as I suspect having the cash in your account would provide further comfort.”
He can’t be serious. There has to be a catch. There’s no way my answers to his questions warranted this kind of response. I’m missing the angle. The second I agree, he’ll make my life terrible. He has to be interested in getting even. Humiliating me. Using me. Something.
Except, of course, that’s what I’d do in his position. And we are very much night and day.
“Marcella…” he begins softly, “…you say we clash, but one of us spent hours tediously constructing a form in hopes of finding someone to spend their life with. The other spent hours filling it out. Genuinely. Whether you were passing the time or not, whether you were drunk or not, you can’t tell me there wasn’t any sincerity or thought put into your answers. You challenged every question from every direction, and it was stunning to behold.” He moves the pages closer, urging me to grasp them. “In many ways, I think we’re alike. Let me know what you think after you read my answers.”
Hesitant, I take the stack. “Being somehow compatible on paper doesn’t mean you don’t completely annoy me in real life.”
“Just consider it. Unless you were planning to quit on me before December, what do you have to lose?”
My dignity.
But wait.
I’m still hugging a trashcan, so I guess that ship has already sailed…
Chapter 2
See attached spreadsheet of pros and cons.
– Marcella
Brigid hums through my headphones while I slouch on my couch and whack bats in the mines of Stardew Valley—the best farming sim game ever made and my single solace. While the marriage candidates may be alcoholics or basement dwellers or sexist or immature or wannabes, they have never once posted an ad for a wife online.
I appreciate that.
Even though I shun them all in favor of having a cute sewer monster roommate every time.
Krobus, man.
That little guy gets me.
“I think you should do it,” Penny says merrily.
“Let’s not rush into this decision. There has to be a trick.” Brigid sighs so loud the noise registers on our three-way Discord call. “Can someone harvest the greenhouse? I’m staying on the island another night.”
“In the mines, beating up my feelings,” I mutter, and smack a slime.
Penny chirps, “On it!”
“As I was saying—” Brigid starts.
“Do we have red cabbage?” Penny interrupts. “Jodi wants one, and I think I can get it to her before I pass out.”
