Chapter 2: Reality Show Wife

Before Marcus Young became the brooding big shot everyone gossiped about, he was just a broke guy in a busted pickup, working overtime to keep a roof over our heads and dealing with a wife who could win awards for drama.

His truck rattled louder than half the city buses, his hands always marked with engine grease and the faint scent of spearmint gum. Around here, nobody gave him a second glance—unless he was late with the rent.

And I’d landed in this body like a contestant on a reality show who didn’t get the script. Waking up to faded floral wallpaper and the chill of a basement apartment, I blinked, realizing I wasn’t living my own life anymore. It was as if the universe had decided to cast me in its most melodramatic reality show.

A few days ago, the "me" everyone knew had been caught flirting with some pretty boy, gotten embarrassed and furious, and kicked Marcus out. The guy was more Instagram than real life, but the neighbors definitely noticed when Marcus tossed his keys on the Formica table, the clatter echoing like a courtroom verdict.

The next day, Marcus came back with a six-pack of off-brand root beer and greasy takeout tacos, standing in the doorway like a high school kid on prom night. Taco wrappers piled up in silent apology on the counter.

Now, the story demanded I push my luck—make Marcus move us, or else. Somewhere above us, a neighbor’s TV blasted a rerun of Judge Judy, like even the universe was judging me. I eyed the shiny new iPhone he’d just bought me, guilt prickling as I set it carefully on the chipped linoleum.

[Isn’t this going a bit too far?]

Just as I sighed, a cockroach burst from the shadows, its wings buzzing like an ancient fan. All my dignity went out the window. On pure panic, I grabbed the nearest thing—a picture frame—and hurled it across the room.

The frame shattered against the door, glass raining down. For a split second, everything stopped—the wedding photo, with our forced smiles, stared up from the shards. The cockroach, of course, was totally fine and scuttled away, leaving my nerves shot.

I slid down the cabinet, tears stinging my eyes, knees pulled up as I tried not to sob.

Marcus opened the door, boots crunching on glass. He hesitated, just for a second, his eyes darting to the broken glass before he masked it with that tired scowl. The photo in his hand, his bangs shadowing his face, made him unreadable.

He pressed his lips together. "Still throwing a tantrum?"

"No..."

A cosmic error flashed in my brain, like a pop-up ad warning me to stay in character. My throat locked up, the words dying on my tongue.

I forced a little "Hmph," hugging my knees tighter.

Marcus’s jaw worked. "You cheat and then trash the place—seriously? You want to break everything just to feel better?"

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, refusing to meet his eyes. "It’s not all my fault. Why are you being so mean to me?"

He drew in a slow breath, each word like a gavel: "Then tell me, whose fault is it besides yours?"

I stammered, "He clearly seduced me first."

Marcus froze, then let out a breath, tension running through him. "You’re at fault too."

I pressed on, flicking my hair, trying to channel a Real Housewives star: "You married such a pretty wife like me, but you’re never home. Of course your wife’s the one who’s going to get tempted."

He snorted. "You really have a way with words."

His eyes softened for a flash, then hardened. "If I catch you seeing him again, you won’t be going anywhere. Tonight, stay home and behave. Don’t go running around."

I shook my head, hair flopping into my face, the thought of another night with those bugs making my skin crawl. Silver Hollow was infamous for vermin—landlords ignored it, pest control was a pipe dream.

Marcus’s suspicion flared. "You just want to go see him, don’t you?"

But before I could fire back, another cockroach scuttled by. I yelped and hid behind Marcus, voice shaking. "Don’t go, I’m scared."

He seemed surprised, his tough act slipping. "It’s just a cockroach. Just chase it away."

I stood my ground. "Move us to a new place."

He slumped, silent, weighed down by reality. Rent in Silver Hollow was a joke nobody laughed at.

I tried again, voice sweet: "Hey, babe, can we move somewhere else?"

He stared like I’d grown a second head. Desperate, I blurted, "Or else, I swear, I’m filing for divorce tomorrow."

His eyes narrowed. "You’d better think carefully before you say that."

I shrank, tugging his sleeve. "Sorry, babe."

He sighed, resigned. "Tomorrow I—"

I cut him off with a glare and a stomp. "No. Right now."

He muttered, "You’re just like a cat."

I tilted my head. He just clicked his tongue. "I really can’t do anything with you."