Page 1 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
You reign in such inward retreats of my soul that I know not where to attack you; when I endeavor to break those chains by which I am bound to you I only deceive myself, and all my efforts but serve to bind them faster.
Heloise d’Argenteuil
Top Five Reasons (Out of 100) I Am NEVER
Coming Out Of This Blanket Fort
1) 220 hand-engraved invitations.
2) $18,000 hand-pieced Vera Wang gown.
3) 1500 Felicity roses imported from Ecuador.
4) Bridal portrait on the current cover of Wedding Chic magazine.
5) Text message from fiancé calling off dream wedding a week before it happens.
I threw the pen on the floor and propped the pad of paper against my headboard. If anyone managed to get past my locked bedroom door, they could read the list and not pester me, unless they wanted to hear the other ninety-five.
“Mia, please. You have to come out of there.” Coco rattled the handle before pounding on the door again.
“No, I don’t.” I pulled the crisp white sheets over my head and yanked my pillow into the tent with me. Embroidered on the pillowcase in navy thread was TBM, for Tucker and Mia Branch. The monogrammed sheet set had been a wedding shower gift, along with monogrammed towels, a duvet, some throw pillows, a set of luggage, and even a bathrobe. The softest, most comfortable bathrobe in the universe. Tainted with Tucker Branch’s initials.
“Then you have to let me in.”
“Why? Do you have wine?”
“It’s nine A.M!”
“And?”
“Mia, please. You don’t have to come out. I just want to talk to you. Come on, we’ll…make a list or something. You love making lists.”
I did love making lists. They calmed me, made me feel like I was in control, on top of things, sticking to a plan. But all over the floor were crumpled and wadded-up lists with titles like Pooping Your Pants in Public and Other Things That Are ALMOST As Humiliating as This But Not Quite and Not 10, Not 50, but 100 Reasons Why Tucker is a Fucker, and I was pretty sure making another one would not make me feel better. “No deal. And who’s we? Who else is here? I told you not to let my mother in again.”
“No, your mother went back to Chicago. It’s just Erin. She’s making some coffee.”
Coffee sounded pretty good, actually. Maybe not as good as wine, but a close second. I waffled a bit, and Coco sensed my hesitation.
“You can put some Bailey’s in it,” she coaxed.
Good enough. I threw the sheets off me and slid out of bed, a king-sized monstrosity with a horribly uncomfortable mattress that Tucker bought purely because it was the most expensive one in the store. I told him it was too soft for me, but he’s the kind of person who just assumes the most costly brand of anything is always the best. Now I was stuck sleeping in it alone.
Alone, between my expensive TBM-monogrammed sheets on my expensive squishy mattress in an expensive fucking suburban townhouse that I didn’t even own. I’d moved out of my cool downtown Detroit loft months ago, and there was a waitlist to get into that building.
FML. That’s what I need to monogram on all this shit.
