Chapter 1: Bubble Baths & Broken Doors

After soaking in a fragrant bubble bath for forty-nine glorious minutes—using a generous pour of Mr. Bubble and posting a sudsy selfie to my Instagram story—I, Autumn Monroe, felt like I’d just won the Super Bowl MVP. That’s right, I was back in the game, and tonight, victory was mine.

The bathroom still shimmered with lavender-scented steam from my favorite Dr Teal’s soak, and as I watched the bubbles drift and pop, I felt like I’d just scored the game-winning touchdown in overtime after a brutal losing streak. The tub gurgled as the water drained, the cool tiles pressed against my feet, and my phone buzzed with a couple of heart emojis from my besties. I grinned, stretching out my toes. Sometimes, self-care really does feel like snagging the last pumpkin spice latte before they sell out in October.

Wearing my favorite SpongeBob tank top and shorts, clutching a piping hot State Fair corndog (honey batter, obviously), and blasting my trusty JBL Bluetooth speaker, I sang my go-to karaoke song—John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.”

I cranked the volume, letting those familiar opening chords bounce off the bathroom walls of my tiny apartment. My hair was still damp, the smell of corndog wafted up, and grease threatened to stain my shorts, but I didn’t care. This was my Friday night, my little slice of freedom.

"Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong... West Virginia, mountain mama..."

I belted it out, only half-hitting the notes, but with all the heart of a true karaoke queen. The music vibrated through the apartment, my voice echoing off the chipped cabinets. The smell of fried batter and lavender soap mingled in the air. The neighbors could file a noise complaint if they wanted—I’d just invite them in for a Bud Light and call it even.

Who cares if I’m a little off-key? Does it matter that I’m unemployed? So what if I’m the so-called 'other woman'?

I spun in a lazy circle, corndog held high like a microphone. The city outside my window kept humming along, but in here, I was unstoppable. I could almost taste the freedom, like a cold beer at a backyard barbecue.

Life is for living—don’t let the corndogs and beer go to waste on a Friday night! That’s what Dad always said, usually right before he’d hand me a soda and a plate of wings at our old family cookouts. Even if the rest of the week was a dumpster fire, Friday was sacred. I tossed my head back, letting my hair whip around, and laughed out loud, missing him a little more than I’d admit.

I shook my head, swayed my hips, letting myself go. The funk of the past two weeks was melting away with every bite and every note, my mood rising with the music. Even if I blew out my vocal cords, I was determined to nail that last high note!

My feet slid across the worn hardwood, and for a moment, I forgot about bills, breakups, and bad decisions. This was my stage, and nobody could take it from me.

"Bang!"

Just as I felt myself about to pass out from that last high note, a loud crash—

The music stuttered, my heart skipped, and the world snapped back into focus. My heart leapt into my throat. That wasn’t the music. I froze, corndog halfway to my mouth.

The door burst open.

I nearly dropped my corndog. The lock clattered to the floor, and the hinges groaned in protest. The rush of cold air swept away the last of the bubble bath warmth, prickling my skin with goosebumps.

My hips, mid-twist, froze at a ridiculous angle. My brain blanked out as I stared at the kicked-open doorway.

I must have looked like a deer in headlights—one leg bent, mouth open, caught mid-song. I could almost hear a sitcom laugh track in my head.

It was Mason Grant.

Of course it was. Who else would storm in like the FBI on a mission?

My disaster of a best friend.

The only guy who’d ever see me in this state and not even blink. Mason, with his wild hair and that look like he owned the place.

"You—" I started to yell!

My voice cracked, somewhere between outrage and relief. "You—what the hell, Mason!"

Wait!

My brain finally caught up. I suddenly realized my "glorious" state: tank top, shorts, corndog in hand. I shrieked, grabbed a throw pillow to cover myself, then darted over and slapped my hands over his eyes, still singing at the top of my lungs, "Creep! Don’t look!"

The pillow slipped, and I nearly tripped over the speaker cord. My face was on fire, but I couldn’t let him win. I pressed my hands over his eyes, but he was taller and stronger, so it was more like me flailing at his face, embarrassment and frustration mixing in my head.

He shoved my hands away, his face twisted with anger, totally ignoring whether I was rocking SpongeBob or Scooby-Doo, and shouted in a voice even louder than my high note:

"Why would you post something like that on Instagram? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

His voice boomed in the tiny space, echoing off the walls. The anger in his eyes wasn’t just irritation—it was real, raw worry. For a second, I forgot to be embarrassed.

He stopped abruptly, chest heaving, like he had ten hearts racing at once.

He looked like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack a tooth.

I didn’t get why he looked ready to explode—his eyes red, maybe from lack of sleep or work stress. Mason’s always had a short fuse...

But what did he just say? Instagram, suicide?

I blinked, suddenly piecing it together. Oh, crap.

"What did you think? That I’m so fragile I’d do something like that? Please, I, Autumn Monroe, am not that weak," I shot him a look, rolling my eyes.

I tried to sound casual, but my voice wobbled. I tossed my hair back, doing my best to play it cool, even though my heart was still hammering.

"Then you—"

He was about to launch into another lecture, I could see it coming from a mile away.

I knew what he was about to ask, so I cut him off, "Hold up..." I grabbed my phone, pulled up a meme, and shoved it in his face. It was a viral joke—a classic Wojak stick-figure meme with a list of "slow suicide" habits.

I scrolled through my photos, thumb shaking, and found it: the meme with the stick-figure guy and a list of "slow suicide" habits. Classic Twitter dark humor.

"Sleeping past midnight = slow suicide, skipping breakfast = slow suicide, eating too much junk food = slow suicide, glued to your phone for 4 hours = slow suicide, never going outside = slow suicide, zero exercise = slow suicide. Suddenly realized, I spent all day slowly killing myself!"

I read it out, hamming it up, then sighed:

"Last night I binged K-dramas until 1 a.m., skipped breakfast, got so hungry I caved and ordered corndogs, and I haven’t left the apartment in over thirty-six hours..."

I flopped onto the couch for dramatic effect, still clutching my corndog like a lifeline. The whole thing was supposed to be funny, not a cry for help.

I was bored in the bath, so I posted, 'Committing slow suicide, do not disturb!' as a joke. Never thought it’d send Mason into orbit.

I glanced at him, waiting for the eye roll or a sarcastic comment, but he just stared, tight-lipped. My joke had clearly landed wrong.

I grumbled and looked up, meeting Mason’s icy stare. It was seriously cold, and I shivered.

His eyes were like blue steel, and for the first time all week, I felt a little guilty. But only a little.

But I hadn’t done anything wrong—no way was I backing down!

I jutted my chin out, refusing to let him see me sweat. This was my apartment, my rules.

So I puffed out my chest and tried to look tough.

I squared my shoulders, channeling every ounce of stubbornness I had. I wouldn’t let him bully me, not tonight.

Mason’s gaze flickered through a bunch of emotions I couldn’t read, then he barked, "Put on some real clothes!"

He sounded like my dad when I tried to sneak out in a crop top in high school. I almost laughed, but the look on his face stopped me.

What?

I gaped at him, still holding the corndog like a shield.

Before I could react, a voice outside called, "Sir—"

There was a knock, and the muffled sound of someone in the hallway.

In a flash, Mason grabbed me and shoved me behind him—I crashed straight into his chest, my nose smacking his shoulder so hard my eyes watered.

He was solid as a linebacker. My nose stung, but he didn’t budge. I could smell his cologne—clean, sharp, familiar.

"Sir, did you just take my Uber?"

Still pressed to Mason, I only heard the voice.

I peeked around his arm, trying to see who it was, but he kept me firmly behind him. Protective, or just overbearing? Hard to tell.

He probably looked back and said, "I think I paid?" The way his voice went up made it clear he wasn’t sure.

His voice was sheepish, like he was caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

Idiot. He never knows what’s going on. I shot him a look, barely hiding a sigh.

I stifled a laugh. Mason, master of chaos, always one step behind when it came to real life.

"Yes, you did pay, and you even overpaid, but you left your wallet behind... I’ll leave it by the door for you."

"Thanks."

Mason sounded relieved, like a kid who just got away with something. I almost felt sorry for the Uber driver.

After a moment, once the coast was clear, Mason finally let go and I could breathe again.

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, looking like he’d just dodged a bullet. I took a shaky breath, cheeks still burning.

But I was mortified...

I’d forgotten I was still in my tank top and shorts! And I’d just tried to look all tough!

The embarrassment hit me like a freight train. I wanted to crawl under the couch and never come out.

Oh my god!

I clapped a hand over my mouth, hoping the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

Burning with embarrassment, I ran to my room and flopped onto my bed, rolling around until I calmed down.

I kicked my legs, buried my face in a pillow, and let out a muffled scream. Eventually, I started to laugh. If this was rock bottom, at least it was entertaining.

I told myself, Autumn, you own this apartment—if you want to streak, that’s your right! The one who kicked in your door owes you a new one!

I practiced my best "unbothered queen" pose in the mirror, tossing my hair and giving myself a pep talk. If Mason wanted to judge, let him pay for the repairs.

Five minutes later, I returned to the "battlefield" fully dressed, acting like nothing had happened.

I put on my favorite jeans and a soft sweatshirt, tying my hair up in a messy bun. Head held high, I strutted back into the living room.

When it comes to pretending, I’m a pro.

I could win an Oscar for my "nothing to see here" act. Mason wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

Mason was sitting on the living room couch, phone in hand, looking calm, like nothing had happened.

He scrolled through his emails, legs crossed, the picture of cool detachment. Classic Mason.

Everything felt like a weird dream.

I half expected to wake up and find out I’d hallucinated the whole thing. My life was never this dramatic, except when he was around.

"Aren’t you working today?"

I leaned against the doorframe, trying to sound casual.

"Business trip."

He didn’t look up, just kept tapping away on his phone.

"Then why are you here? Waiting for me to share my corndogs and beer?"

I plopped down next to him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. He’d better have a good answer.

"Well, if you insist—" He picked up a corndog, took a bite, chewed slowly, and stood up. "I’ll share my frequent flyer miles with you."

He winked, making it sound like a big deal. Show-off.

Huh?

My brain short-circuited. I stared at him, mouth open, corndog halfway to my lips.

"When you went to change, I rebooked my flight."

He said it like it was no big deal, as if rearranging travel plans was as easy as changing socks.

"So?"

I narrowed my eyes, not sure where this was going.

"You’re coming with me."

He tossed his phone onto the coffee table, looking at me like it was already decided.

My brain short-circuited. "Why would I go to work with you? You’re not actually scared I’ll do something stupid, are you? Please! It’s just unemployment, I’m not that fragile—"

I tried to protest, but the words got tangled up. Was he really that worried?

But Mason didn’t give me a chance to protest. He scooped me up over his shoulder and headed out.

I yelped, pounding on his back, but he just laughed, striding toward the door like he did this every day.

"My door—"

"Already called building management."

He sounded so smug, I almost forgot to be mad. Almost.

Mason dragged me to meet his coworkers. I said it was unnecessary.

I tried to wriggle free, but he just grinned. "You need real food and real people."

"Not hungry?"

"Starving!"

My stomach growled right on cue, betraying me.

"Not eating corndogs, beer, and wings?"

"Bring it on!"

I threw my arms up in surrender. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

So I tagged along happily.

I let myself get swept up in the chaos. Sometimes you just have to roll with it.

On a summer night at a picnic table outside a local bar, a bunch of twenty-somethings peeled spicy wings, clinked beer bottles, and cracked jokes about the world, loud and cheerful.

The neon sign flickered overhead, and the smell of fried food and laughter filled the air. I felt the tension in my shoulders start to ease.

I greeted everyone and squeezed into an empty seat, scooting over to make room for Mason, who rolled up his sleeves and sat down.

I could feel eyes on me—new face at the table. I flashed a quick smile, grabbing a cold beer from the center bucket.

I knew he was about to show off.

Mason always had to be the alpha, even at a picnic table. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his next move.

Mason demolished wings with surgical precision, even cleaning the bones perfectly.

He barely got any sauce on his fingers. Meanwhile, I was already reaching for my third napkin.

But he didn’t even like wings, so I ended up eating most of them.

He’d always pass me the best pieces, making sure my plate was piled high. I pretended not to notice, but I appreciated it.

After a while, I realized only the two of us were eating.

The conversation had died down. I glanced up, fingers sticky and lips tingling from the hot sauce, and realized everyone else was just watching us.

I looked up, confused, and saw everyone staring at me, jaws dropped.

I froze, a half-eaten wing in my hand. Was there something on my face?

Was my wing-eating technique that impressive? Maybe I should try to look more ladylike. I grabbed a napkin, wiped my hands, and gave them my most subtle smile, feeling very refined!

I sat up straighter, trying to channel "first date" vibes instead of "county fair eating contest." It probably didn’t help.

Mason slid a plate of peeled wing meat toward me. I shot him a look that said, "You’re not helping."

He just smirked, like he knew exactly what he was doing. I shot him a look that said, "You’re not helping."

Everyone watched us like they were at a sporting event.

It was like being on The Bachelor, but with hot sauce and less dignity.

Clearly, Mason never brought women around except for work.

I could feel the curiosity radiating off his coworkers. This was probably the most excitement they’d had in weeks.

"Didn’t think we’d ever see you bring someone, boss!" said a guy with thick glasses, who immediately got a smack from the buzz-cut guy next to him.

The thick-glasses guy grinned, rubbing his arm. "Just saying, never seen the boss like this before."

I was embarrassed and amused, explaining, "Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m just his friend."

I waved my hands, but it only made things worse. Why did I even bother?

"Yeah, girl, friend," a ponytailed woman chimed in, smirking.

She winked at me, like we were in on some secret. I shot her a look, trying not to laugh.

Whatever I said just made it worse... I stomped on Mason’s foot under the table, hoping he’d bail me out.

He barely flinched. I probably hurt myself more than him.

But he was busy peeling wings and ignored me. I gave up and went back to eating.

I shrugged, deciding not to let them get to me. If Mason wanted to play it cool, fine.