Page 50 of Mom-Com

Epilogue

Two Years Later

Gabby

I didn’t want to say “I told them so,” but...I totally told them so. I called that. Should have placed money on the bet. The two lovebirds were the real deal. They were going to make it in a sea of failed relationships and broken promises.

I was over at Lily-Marie’s house—or should I say Lily-Marie and Jameson’s house, as they’d moved in together last year when they got engaged—enjoying their co-ed baby shower. They didn’t want to do a girls-only baby shower and have to be apart for the afternoon. I know, how sickly sweet was that shit?

Anyway, I agreed to host the baby shower and had spent weeks planning games, party favors, decorations, and meal planning. Nothing was too much for my girl, Lil. Now that it was basically over with just a few stragglers porch lighting, I could sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labor in the form of a stacked plate of barbecue ribs and cake. Might have seemed like an odd combination, but it was delightfully sinful.

And I needed some sin. God, yes, I needed something sweet after the world’s nastiest breakup and subsequent dry spell. Just as Lily-Marie was reaching the pinnacle of happiness by having her hot boyfriend propose to her at the happiest place on earth, I was experiencing the deepest valley of depression. Obviously, I swore off all men after catching my fiancé of five years cheating on me with his boss. It had been a long year.

I was getting restless. Maybe a little baby-crazy watching Lily-Marie pop out a third human being while I was stretch-mark-less at the ripe old age of thirty-four. Or maybe it was the beautiful princess cut diamond on her finger that blinded me on the regular.

Some might say I was jealous, but I so wasn’t. I was envious.

Big difference.

Jealousy would make me petty and mean-spirited. And I wasn’t. I just wanted everything she had for myself.

I bit into the juicy rib meat, ripping it off the bone and nearly moaning from the sauce’s flavor bursting in my mouth. A head or two swiveled in my direction, but I didn’t care. Etiquette meant I should apologize for making a public display of eating my food, but it was as close to an orgasm as I’d be getting any time soon, so those judge-y fuckers should cut me some slack.

Jameson was leaning against the back wall of the house leisurely talking to some friends, his arms around Lily-Marie, his thumb absentmindedly stroking her belly. He leaned forward and nuzzled into her neck, whispering something to make her blush and start giggling.

They were adorable. He’d proposed and they’d gotten married two weeks later right here in this backyard, Milly the flower girl and the two boys the groomsmen. I’d been the maid of honor, looking like a skeleton in my satin dress. I’d discovered that heartache killed one’s appetite.

No one had been looking at me anyway, not with Lily-Marie in her white wedding dress that rivaled any princess, real or in the movies. Six months after they started dating, she’d found the dress, begging me to keep it at my house so Jameson wouldn’t know about it and feel pressured into proposing. She’d glowed on her wedding day like she had the world at her feet, which she did. Jameson doted on her like it was his life’s purpose. Even the kids had been angels that day, wanting their parents to have true love together. The whole thing was a goddamn fairy tale.

I finished my last rib, licking my fingers clean before using one of the wet wipes I’d liberally strewn over the picnic table for the guests. More dirty looks, but I wasn’t going to let one drop of that barbecue sauce go to waste. I wasn’t a quitter.

Grabbing my fork, I eyed the huge square of cake I’d cut for myself. Did I mention I’d lost a lot of weight after the breakup? Well, I had some making up to do. Some may think I was having a close brush with gluttony, but really, I was just looking out for my health.

See, I had a plan.

My newspaper job put me in contact with many interesting people in the entertainment industry. At the suggestion of an acquaintance from years ago, I’d been approached last week to be part of a new show called Real Househusbands. It was a reality show where they followed around couples where the woman was the breadwinner and the househusbands led interesting lives doing whatever unemployed rich people did all day.

I know you’re sitting there thinking there’s one little problem: I didn’t have a husband.

Yes, I know, but when opportunity knocks, you don’t give all the reasons why you can’t do it. You say yes and then scramble to figure that shit out.

I had three weeks until they started their interviews of the couples. Three weeks to find a husband. Three weeks to show the world my life wasn’t a total wreck. Three weeks to present a new, sparkling reality and shove my happiness down my ex’s throat.

Revenge would be so sweet.

If Lily-Marie could find a husband with a sexist 1950s list of ways to trap a man, I was sure I could pay a guy to act as my husband for a few months of filming. Weirder things had happened. Once I’d made my ex jealous, I’d finally be able to move on, find a real husband, and ride off into the sunset together. Easy-peasy.

Right?