I fell in love with Scott’s calm demeanor, his steadiness, his sense of humor. And while my mother wasn’t thrilled to see me tie myself down—just remember how quickly a career can end before it even starts—I didn’t care. Scott allowed me to finally start healing.
Which is why, when he ran into his own trouble a couple years ago, I didn’t think twice about supporting him. After everything he’d done for me—giving me the occasional lead on a story, helping me come out of my shell and trust again—I wasn’t going to walk away when he needed me.
But lately, Scott’s been pushing me to start planning our wedding. Wanting to talk about things like name changes and joint bank accounts. The more he pushes, the slower I want to go. I feel safe in this space we’ve created. Committed to each other, but still separate. And I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t trust him, or I don’t trust myself.
I snuggle in close to him and close my eyes, but my mind keeps working. He isn’t going to be happy to hear I’m back on the Meg story, reluctant to lose me down this rabbit hole again—one he thinks is a dead end.
“She didn’t break any laws,” he’s always happy to remind me.
“She took $30,000 and a car.”
“He gave her access to the money. It would be impossible to prosecute, which is why he never did. She’s not a con artist; she’s just a pissed-off woman. And for good reason.”
I can’t explain to Scott that it’s more than a story to me. I want to climb inside Meg’s mind, inside her life, and piece it all together, dot by dot. Figure out how she manipulates people, infiltrates their lives, getting them to trust her. I want to know where she’s been for the last ten years, and why she’s returned. And then I want to tell everyone about it. Take something from her, the way she took everything from me.
Kat
June
As I guessed, Scott isn’t thrilled. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks over breakfast the following morning.
I pick apart the muffin in front of me and say, “What do you mean? This is a real story, not one of those content-mill pieces I’ve been churning out for the past two years.”
But I feel a prickle of irritation, because what he’s really asking is whether we can afford for me to step away from the piecework and copyediting jobs that have replaced the investigative stories that sometimes take months to write and sell.
Two years ago, shortly after we got engaged, Scott got into some trouble gambling. He’d managed to accrue over $15,000 in credit card bills, and together we’ve been slowly paying it off.
“Meg’s story would put us within spitting distance of wiping the debt out completely.” I’ve mastered the nuances of this topic, hiding my resentment that a percentage of my income goes toward it as well. Money I earn, not by researching and pitching real stories to real publications, but by writing crappy content that pops up at the bottom of websites. How to Make a Backyard Butterfly Garden or Ten Genius Hacks for Your Next Trip Abroad.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I’m worried about what it will do to you. To go back to all of this again—the people, that time in your life. You’ve worked so hard to put it behind you.”
“I can handle it,” I tell him. Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. Already I can feel the heat of Meg’s proximity pulling me backward.
“I still think you should finish your novel. What you’ve got so far is great.”
I brush away his words. “We’ll never pay off the debt that way.”
When I’d agreed to marry him, I knew I’d have to sacrifice some of my own dreams and focus on being a good partner. Scott helped me deal with my shit; it wouldn’t be fair for me to let him flounder alone with his. But there was a fair amount of trust that he destroyed when he finally confessed how much trouble he was in. How much he’d already pilfered to cover himself. Things he’d sold, desperate to hide the truth from me.