Chapter 11
BECCA
It’s been two weeks of house-sitting at the Rothschilds. Two weeks since my marriage cracked wide open—too big to ignore, too sharp to hold.
Bernie and I walk the usual morning loop around the neighborhood. Everything here is perfect: shiny hedges, fancy pavers, and dogs dressed better than I am. I keep my head down and my breath steady.
Back at the house, I unclip Bernie’s leash, and he flops onto his bed with a groan, legs splayed like he ran a marathon.
I snap a picture and send it to the Rothschilds, along with an update on their roses.
I don’t expect a reply yet since they’re nine hours ahead, but Mrs. Rothschild loves her daily reports. It’s the least I can do.
After a quick shower and some dry shampoo sorcery, I open the front door to leave for work—and find one again.
Gift number nine.
Always waiting for me after Bernie’s walk, before I leave. As if he knows my routine better than I do. Sam’s little daily offering. His penance in ribbon and twine.
The second day, it was a cupcake from that ridiculous bakery I always refuse to splurge on. Seven dollars for a cupcake is robbery. Except when it’s on Sam's personal card. I took a bite anyway … and didn’t think about the price.
The note read: I know you love these and think they’re overpriced, but anything that makes you smile like that is worth it.
Another day, flowers from our backyard—our flowers—in a mason jar. You said they grow better when you’re happy. I figured they deserved a pick-me-up.
Then two tubes of my favorite Chapstick. If memory serves, you’ve either lost one or whittled it down to the plastic. I’m hedging my bets.
Damn him. He was right.
Day five, a worn baseball cap from the local Cascadia Bucks, the one I bought him on our third date when a bird pooped in his hair. Still the worst team in the state. But you laughed so hard that day, I knew I’d marry you. This hat always looked better on you anyway.
Sam never used our joint account for things like this. Dates, little gifts—always his card, like he didn’t want it to count against our budget. He used to say his personal account was for spoiling me. And in a lot of ways, he did.
Until one decision made all of that feel … irrelevant.
Today's gift is a bottle of my favorite laundry scent boosters. The kind I use on all our sheets and blankets that helps drift me off to sleep.
The note says: You always said scent is tied to memory. I can’t describe this one except home. I thought you should have a little piece of it while you’re away.
I blink. Hard. My throat knots.
And then something inside me twists. Snaps. Sam grew up different. He works hard, sure, but he’s never had to count quarters the way we did.
We didn’t have a washer and dryer. My mom drove us across town to the cheapest laundromat, stuffing everything into one machine to save a few dollars. I did homework on a detergent-sticky countertop and checked under machines for spare coins.
A little piece of home while you're away?
Is that what he thinks this is? A getaway? A sabbatical?
Am I supposed to thank him for remembering the scent of the house he signed over to himself? Sure, I created the paperwork, but he signed it and didn’t even fight for me to stay in his home.
Because that’s what he did. Legally. The postnup says so. I saw it. I had it reviewed. Our house. His name.
I grab my phone and scroll through his contact. No more gifts. No more nostalgia. No more pretending this is romantic.
I hit call.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey—”
“Don’t hey me.” My voice shakes. Not from nerves. From fury. “Stop leaving me little memory bombs on the porch like this is some kind of reunion countdown. You signed the house over to yourself, Sam. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
A beat of silence. He exhales. “Becca …”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to act like this is temporary. You don’t get to make me cry with laundry soap while you own the house I made with you, in every way that mattered.”
“I didn’t do it to hurt you—it’s the opposite.”
“But you did. And now you’re trying to backpedal with cupcakes and Chapstick like I’m supposed to come home wagging my tail. I’m not your dog, Sam!”
“I know you’re not,” he says quietly. “You’re everything I got right, until I blew it.”
My stomach flips. But I won’t soften. Not yet.
“You want to fix this?” I snap. “Start by not acting like I left. You pushed me out.” And with that, I hang up.
I drive to work, stewing in my anger. Yes, he is sweet. Yes, I appreciate the kind gestures. But does he think a few presents is going to fix what is broken? I never said my feelings out loud. Never told him how it felt to come second to Holly and everyone else. But Sam knew my history with money.
Only a few months after Sam asked me to marry him, we’re lying together in bed, legs around each other, him drawing lazy patterns on my arms, my head on his chest.
“Big wedding or small?” I ask, voice muffled.
“Small, of course. I don’t like that many people besides you.” He nuzzles in and kisses my head while I sigh at that statement.
“Okay, how many kids?” I wonder next.
"As many as you’ll give me.”
“Sam,” I exclaim, swatting him playfully.
He laughs. “Alright, two. One boy, one girl. But if you happen to throw twins in there I won’t be mad.”
“You know I can’t control the sex of the baby.”
“Sure you can. I know you can coax the right swimmers in an organized fashion.”
I laugh as he rolls over to look at me.
“Okay, next question. Separate or joint finances?” I ask as my voice wavers a bit.
“Baby, joint of course. We’re a team, what’s mine is yours.”
I take a deep breath before I respond. “I know, but you know how I grew up. I need full control over my money. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, I do. I just … get scared of going back to the little girl who was worried about debt collectors and repo men.”
Sam looks at me softly, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I get that.”
I sit up, looking straight at him. “I need to know what’s happening with our money. Especially the big stuff.”
“You will,” he assures me. “We’ll both have access to everything. We can set up alerts—every transaction, if you want. And we’ll each have our own spending money. No guilt, no questions.”
“You can’t promise that, what about for your business? Those are large purchases.”
“You’re right,” he says, lips grazing my collarbone. “I’ll still manage my business purchases and decisions. Our joint accounts—anything over fifty dollars, I’ll run by you first. Unless it’s for whipped cream. That one stays between me and the fridge.”
I roll my eyes and laugh, tugging him closer.
And I believed him.
I wipe away a tear and head into work.
This? This I can do. Property showings, phone calls, projections. It all adds up neatly. Not like my emotions, which are playing tug-of-war between my heart and my head.
I realize I forgot to bring lunch again today. Damn it, Sam.
Okay, maybe not technically his fault—but he threw my morning off, so this one’s on him too.
I walk to the café across the street, order a Diet Coke, an extra-large salad, and a cookie I’ll pretend to regret. I pay with the gift card Sam left in one of his little offerings. I may be furious, but I’m not about to waste free money.
As I turn to sit down, I spot the last person I want to see. Holly.
She waves sheepishly. “Hi. Can we talk?” She’s curled into the corner booth in a soft pink cardigan, looking more like a nervous younger sister than the woman holding seventy-five thousand dollars of my future.
I glance around. The place is packed—no easy escape routes. I nod curtly and sit across from her.
“I only have twenty minutes. I’m on the clock.” The edge in my tone makes her flinch, and I regret it immediately.
“I get that,” she hurries to say. “I came here to ask for your help.”
I blink at her. She can’t be serious. “For help?” I repeat slowly.
She nods.
“What else could you possibly need from me? Between the extra money Sam’s been sending and the $75,000 he gave …” I shake my head. “Don’t act like I don’t know we’ve been covering more than we agreed to on your grandparents mortgage deal.”
Holly shifts uncomfortably.
“It was supposed to be a thousand. We bumped it to fifteen hundred when you went back to school. I agreed because it meant we'd be debt free faster." I let out a short breath. "But clearly that wasn't enough." I lean forward. "So where does it actually go?"
“I didn’t … save it,” she admits. “Not like I should have.”
She lets out a breath. “Dinners, clothes, a couple bags I didn’t need. And then … Mandy.”
She glances up at me, bracing. “Her parents cut her off six months ago. She said it was temporary, just until things picked up, so I covered some things for her too. Rent, dinners, stuff like that.”
Holly shrinks in on herself. “I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time,” she says quietly.
“It was just … little things. And Mandy said once everything took off, it would all even out.” Her voice trails off and she picks at the edge of her sleeve.
“I thought that’s just how this works. You spend now, make it back later. ”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and something in me snaps. Fine, if she doesn't get it, I will make her understand.
“Your mother and Mandy like to remind me I didn’t come from money.
But what you don’t know is that I have severe financial anxiety.
I lose sleep. I double-check every number.
I’ve done therapy. I have systems in place, like spreadsheets, to help me cope.
Because growing up, there were months where heat was a luxury. ”
Holly inhales sharply. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice trembling. “I wasn’t cruel to you, but I was dismissive. You didn’t act like Mama. You weren’t into fashion or parties like Mandy. I guess I just thought you were … boring.”
I nod slowly. Not surprised. “People act like having your life together is boring. But because I prioritize stability and mental health, I’m not considered fun.”
I almost tell her exactly how fun her brother thinks I am, but I bite my tongue.
“What did you come here to ask?” I say, softer now.
“I realized … I’m in over my head.”
I almost snort. “You think?”
But she keeps going, steadier now.
“I know you don’t think I’m ready. And you’re probably right. But I know my customer base. I know what they expect in a salon: products, service, vibe. I just don’t know the back end. The business side.”
She reaches into her oversized designer tote and pulls out a thick stack of papers.
“A product plan. Sample service menus. Mock-ups of invoices. Front desk experience plans.”
I flip through it, skimming. It’s … good. Better than I expected.
“This is solid, Holly. But what do you want from me? My beauty routine consists of knockoff cleanser and drugstore SPF.”
“I need help with the business plan.”
I deadpan. “Isn’t that Mandy’s department? Her ‘expertise’?”
Holly's eyes drop to her hands. “I … I think her experience might’ve been overstated.”
“You’ve known her since you were fifteen. What experience did you think she had? Flirting for tips as a beer cart girl? Didn’t her dad fire her from the country club for being too handsy with the members?”
“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “But I wanted to impress her. I always have.”
She pauses, then adds, quieter, “When I told her I wanted to start my own salon someday, she lit up. A week later, she said she’d found a property developer and a location.
Said we had to jump on it. Had to get Sam involved.
It all moved so fast. I thought she’d handle the logistics—leases, hiring, paperwork. She promised she would.”
“And you just believed her?”
“She was the cheer captain. I was the awkward little sister. She gave me a ride home from Sam’s game once, and I was thrilled.” She hesitates. “I … don’t remember much from the accident, but she texted me every day during recovery. Showed up. Made me feel like I finally belonged. Still does."
I nod once; that explains a lot. “Holly, I get it. But you can’t let someone being there for you once dictate your entire future. Especially not when you’re the one whose name is on the lease.”
She swallows. “I know. I checked last week. She and Rick … they’re not on it. Just me.”
I lean back. That’s not good. “You’re the only one legally tied to this?”
She nods. “She said once the salon takes off, she wants to be the face of our brand. Build her own beauty line. Get close to the right people.” She hesitates. “She said being around Sam—his clients, his connections—could help with that.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she did.
“Holly,” I say, gentler, “you have a shot at something. But you need to protect yourself. Get the numbers. Start treating this like your business.”
She nods eagerly. “What do I need to pull?”
“Service menu pricing, supplier costs, startup expenses, three-month runway, projected revenue, breakeven point. Come back with that, and I’ll help you build a plan.”
“Thank you!” she says, lighting up like I handed her a lifeline.
“And Becca …” she adds, more serious now. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about the loan. Mandy said we needed to push Sam immediately. Said we had to move fast to secure the property and work with Rick.”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “I expected my husband to treat me like a partner, not an afterthought.”
“He feels bad,” she murmurs. “Do you think you could ever forgive him?”
I pause, thinking how to explain what I’m feeling. Then ask, “What’s your biggest fear?”
She blinks. “Getting in another car accident.”
“Right. Now imagine the only way to get around was with one driver. And that driver speeds, swerves, ignores signs. You end up in another crash. Would you forgive them?”
“No,” she whispers. “They made it happen again. On purpose.”
“Exactly. My fear is financial instability. And Sam, without talking to me, burned through my savings and left me exposed. Vulnerable.”
“But you’re not homeless,” she says softly. “You’re not destitute.”
“No. But could you get back in a car with someone who chose to make your nightmare come true, even if you weren’t hospitalized?” I challenge.
She’s quiet for a long moment then, “No. I couldn’t. But he loves you so much, Becca. I’ve never seen a man love someone like that.”
“Maslow’s hierarchy of needs,” I say.
She frowns. “Come again?”
“Basic needs come in levels: food, water, safety, love. You can’t reach for love until you feel safe.” I meet her eyes. "Right now? I don’t.”