Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl by Stephanie McAfee Page A

to!”
    “Okay, I’ve got some stuff upstairs that I was going to bring down,” I say, glad to have some help but more excited about the company. “I thought it would be nice for the place to have a fresh look come Monday.”
    “I couldn’t possibly agree with you more,” she says.
    We haul paintings down the stairs and spend the remainder of the afternoon rearranging, hanging and rehanging dozens of portraits, leaving the main wall open for my mermaid. I ask Avery if she’d like to have an area to display her work and she tells me she’d love that but she needs a few weeks to “get a feel for the soul of the building.” That makes me think she might be a little more bizarre than I already thought she was, but that’s okay because I thought Chloe Stacks was bizarre at first and she turned out to be one of the best friends I’ve ever had.
    When we finish, Avery looks around, obviously pleased.
    “Can’t wait to get to work on Monday,” she says. I tell her I can’t wait for her to get to work on Monday, either. I’m looking forward to having someone to talk to.
    We walk out together and she hops in her shiny Audi, puts the top down, and drives away. I grab my OPEN fish, then step inside, pick up my purse, and head back out the door. I stop by the butcher shop, where I pick up two thick and what I know will be juicy, delicious steaks. I accept the man’s offer to preseason the meat, and he wraps the steaks in thick white paper before sticking them in a brown paper bag.
    “Thanks!” I say, thinking I can’t wait to smell these babies on the grill.
    Mason gets home at five thirty on the dot, and I whip up my special superfattening twice-baked potatoes while he fires up the coals. As Mason cooks, Buster Loo stays on full alert, circling the foot of the grill in hopeful anticipation of a stray morsel. We polish off several Coronas, and I’ve got a great buzz by the time we sit down to eat.
    “Tell me something I don’t know, baby,” Mason says, picking up his knife.
    I tell him about my day, omitting the part when I realized how bad I miss my old job and talking instead about rearranging the gallery. Mason looks about as interested in what I’m saying as I am in getting up from the table and jogging around the block. When I ask him about his day, he starts telling me all about strategic defaults, negative equity, and asset protection in the state of Florida, and I start thinking that sawing my own arm off might be more fun than listening to him talk about work.
    “This dinner was amazing,” he says, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his belly.
    “Wasn’t it?” I say, thankful that at least we’re not in the conference room at his office. “Must’ve been the potatoes.”
    “Yeah,” he says, jerking both his thumbs up to his chest, “or the man with the mad grill skills.”
    “Right,” I say, and we both start laughing even though nothing is really that funny. He doesn’t mention wedding plans, so I don’t, either.
    “Let’s deal with this tomorrow,” he says, looking around at the kitchen. “I’m ready to go upstairs.” I follow him upstairs, and he’s fast asleep by the time I finish taking off my makeup. I lie down beside him and start thinking about the Peanut Festival tomorrow. I’ve never heard of such, but I don’t even care what it is because I’m just looking forward to hanging out with Tia.

14

    M ason is still sleeping the next morning when I wake up, so I tiptoe down the stairs, start a pot of coffee, and quickly tidy up the kitchen. I take Buster Loo out for a walk and stop by the Donut Shop and get a bag of goodies because I woke up feeling bad for thinking I’d rather saw off my own arm than listen to Mason talk about his job. When I get home, Mason is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and pecking away at his laptop. His face brightens up when he sees the Donut Shop bag.
    “For me?” he says, like a child.
    “Caramel apple fritters,” I say,