Chapter 5 Now
Now
The next morning, I get to the office early and submit a revised pitch for the Diamond Group story to my editor, a hardened newspaper editor turned digital click-chaser named Mandy Nguyen.
Confirming that the team behind New York City’s hottest restaurants has targeted Brantley Beach for their next venture would have been intriguing enough, but now I could reveal that they’d be replacing a local institution in the process.
Mandy loves “a talker”—and I’m certain I have one on my hands with this story.
On one hand, Diamond Group taking over Bubba’s prime boardwalk location will, without a doubt, boost the local tourism economy.
On the other, it’s the latest of many examples of the old guard getting pushed out, whether locals like it or not.
While I wait for a response I file a quiz designed to help couples find their perfect signature cocktail recipe, then pivot to a first-person roundup of my takes on Pinterest’s top floral trends. Petite centerpieces? I do. Branch bouquets? I definitely don’t.
“Are you in early to break the news that fifty percent of heterosexual marriages in the U.S. end in divorce?” asks David Torres, Shore Life’s audience development manager and my work husband, as he takes his seat at the desk next to mine.
I swivel my chair and shoot him a snarky glare. “Thinking of saving that for my next column. Could be a very romantic kicker.”
He stifles a laugh as he boots up his laptop and monitor.
“Actually,” I say, “I was pitching a food story. I’ll let you know when I hear back from Mandy. Might be good for the newsletter.”
“Clicky?”
“See for yourself.” I take the envelope from the clerk’s office out of my bag and hand it to him.
“This better be good, because the new tip line we’re doing on Instagram and Facebook is a total flop.
If one more middle-aged lady named Susan slides into our DMs saying she swears she spotted Bruce Springsteen at the beach, I may quit and put my law degree to good use like my parents always dreamed I would.
” He holds up the papers in front of his face. “Wait, what is this?”
Shit. I definitely handed him the wrong envelope. “Long story,” I say, snatching the papers back. “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.” But as I go to tuck them into my bag I really look at the top page for the first time. And my stomach drops as I realize what I’m reading.
It’s a marriage license application, but not the one I thought it was. Because Sebastian’s information is listed in the section of Applicant A, but Applicant B isn’t Claire Cunningham.
Applicant B is me.
“Holy fuck.” I realize too late that I’ve said this out loud rather than in my head. Debbie from analytics shoots me an appalled look from across the room.
David scoots his chair closer to mine. He lowers his voice. “Lina, what’s happening?”
I fail to formulate a coherent response. I pore over the page again, searching for Claire’s name. I finally find it on the witness line.
According to this document, I’m getting married to Sebastian Nikolaou, and Claire had been our witness.
“I’m okay,” I manage to squeak out to David, who is clearly worried and waiting for answers. “I’m just … processing.” I look up from the papers to him. He raises one eyebrow, his expression shifting from one of concern to curiosity.
“I’m great at processing,” he says. “Try me.”
I double over and cradle my face in my hands as I speak, because I physically cannot handle seeing David’s reaction to what I’m about to say.
“Remember that guy from high school I told you about? I think it was a Thai day.” David started working at Shore Life about a year after me.
He correctly identified the New York Times Cooking recipe for the pesto he saw me taking out of the kitchen fridge and we’ve eaten lunch together nearly every day since, confiding in each other about everything from our gripes with Mandy to our relationships (his current status: happily engaged to his college sweetheart, Henry. Mine: nonexistent).
I hear David snap a finger. “Is this the Cali guy? Hot Greek surfing god who destroyed you and then vanished into thin air?”
I groan.
“Sorry, sorry. Continue.”
I take a deep breath. “I ran into him and his fiancée while I was picking up something at the city clerk’s office. They were applying for their marriage license and needed a witness, so I helped them.”
“Okay … okay, I mean, not an ideal run-in for sure, but was he, like, a total dick or someth—”
“I signed the wrong line, David.” I keep one hand on my face and extend the application to him with the other.
Pause. Then: “Holy fuck.”
“Is everything all right over there?” My eyes are still closed, but I can tell this is Debbie. I shoot up, grabbing David by the arm and pulling him into the break room. We huddle next to the coffee maker.
“Daaaaamn,” David trills. He looks like he’s just gotten to the plot twist in a movie and can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “This is some rom-com shit.”
I shush him. “You’re the one who went to law school,” I hiss. “What does this mean? Am I married to Sebastian?”
David folds his arms across his chest, thinking.
Then he sighs. “I need to read it again.” He’s still holding the first page, and I look over his shoulder as he reads.
“No,” he says finally, with lawyerly authority.
“Not yet, anyway. Technically this means that the state of New Jersey has issued you an approved license to get married, but you’d still have to actually do the thing—have some sort of ceremony, get an officiant to sign it, all that jazz—to certify it.
Too long; didn’t read? This really isn’t a big deal for you.
” He points at me with the paper for emphasis.
“Embarrassing, sure, but legally meaningless at this point. It’s kind of a big deal for Surfer Boy, though.
He needs to get this shit fixed before the wedding.
There’s a seventy-two-hour waiting period to get a marriage license in Jersey.
You have to tell him, because if he shows up to his ceremony with this there isn’t going to be a wedding—not a legal one, anyway. ”
My stomach drops. I can think of nothing more embarrassing than having to find Sebastian and tell him that I botched his marriage documents.
But actually I can: David’s right, letting him find out on his own—on his wedding day—would be a million times more humiliating.
What if he thought I sabotaged him and Claire on purpose?
Or, at the very least, that some subconscious part of me was still obsessed with him and had taken control? The whole situation is mortifying.
I hear a loud throat-clear behind us and turn to find Mandy’s latest assistant, a twenty-four-year-old with a master’s degree in journalism named Jenny, who treats managing our boss’s calendar like operating a news bureau.
She reminds me of myself in my Ever After days, before I became jaded and cynical.
“Lina? Mandy wants to see you in her office.” She’s clutching a clipboard to her chest so protectively you’d think it contains confidential military tactics. It’s probably Mandy’s lunch order.
“Thanks, Jenny,” I say with a tight smile. “I’ll be right in.”
Jenny waits for me to follow her. When I don’t, she lets out a huff of disappointment and turns to leave. David moves to follow her.
“Where are you going?” I hiss.
“I have a call,” he says, wincing at my wide-eyed look of abandonment. “We’ll come up with a game plan at lunch, okay? Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”
Once the two of them round the corner and disappear from sight, I take a series of deep breaths, attempting to temporarily expel the memory of this ridiculous situation with each exhale. Then I follow orders like the good soldier I am and head to Mandy’s office.
“Lina, come in,” says Mandy, gesturing for me to take a seat as I try to blink away the image of my name on the application. How could none of us have noticed the mistake?
“I was just reading your pitch.”
Focus, Lina.
“What did you think?” I ask.
Mandy pushes her thick black reading glasses up the bridge of her nose as she considers my question.
She’s a short, stern woman with the no-nonsense attitude of someone who had started her career as a crime-beat reporter at a leading New Jersey newspaper, back when newsrooms were good ol’ boys clubs.
Ten years ago—after being passed over for assignments and promotions one too many times—she’d decided if you can’t beat ’em, pitch ’em an idea for a sister site focused on lifestyle content.
Something about that word, lifestyle, made men feel emasculated, but her publisher couldn’t argue with Mandy’s business case for the idea.
Shore Life launched later that year, with Mandy as founding editor.
“It’s good stuff,” she says finally.
I fight the urge to squirm in my seat. “But…?”
“It feels a little … dry. For us, at least. I’m sure the papers will cover. We’d need to figure out an angle we could own.”
“I’m not sure we need to overthink the angle here,” I say carefully. “Bubba’s is a local institution. And Diamond Group is a giant in the industry right now—one with national name recognition. I think this deal will interest a lot of people. It will cause conversation, maybe even some controversy—”
“I heard Bubba’s son is getting married at the restaurant at the end of the summer,” Mandy interjects.
He might not be if I don’t fix this mess, I think.
“I looked up the bride,” Mandy continues. “She’s got a solid Instagram following. She’s even on TikTok. Apparently she’s got quite the skin-care routine.”
And then I do squirm, because I realize what Mandy’s suggesting.
“Mandy, I can’t …”
She cocks her head, curious. But what is there to say? That I can’t cover this wedding because I used to be in love with the groom and his fiancée probably thinks I’m a crazy stalker who’s trying to sabotage their marriage?