1
SELENA
It is nine p.m. on a Friday night. By Iowa standards, the world is tucking itself in, but here in New York City, the evening has barely cleared its throat.
I arrived in the Big Apple exactly seventy-eight hours ago via an Amtrak journey that finally spit me out at Penn Station this morning. I brought two large suitcases, a backpack, and a makeup bag. The rest of my life—the furniture, the memories, the future—is currently in the custody of my ex-almost-husband.
Landon Emile Drake is now the proud owner of last year's boho-chic Pottery Barn collection, including the overstuffed couch, the farmhouse dining table, and the matching chairs. They were a pre-wedding gift from my sister, Celeste, who lives back in our hometown with her three beautiful children and a "mountain man" she calls Hubby. No one was more excited to see me married than Celeste. She described marriage with such breathless reverence that I felt guilty for struggling to wait for the big day. I wanted to match her energy; I really wanted to be the girl who wanted that life.
It was my understanding that most men considered marriage an unfortunate necessity, a trap to be avoided until the last possible second. My fiancé, Landon, was the exception. He was obsessed with locking me down. He didn’t care about the color of the floral arrangements or how many tiers were on the cake. All he wanted was to make me Mrs. Selena Leanne Drake.
In fact, three mornings ago—just before our wedding—that’s exactly how he addressed me.
“Morning, Mrs. Selena Leanne Drake. Get out of bed, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled my neck, his breath warm and familiar against my skin. “Are you ready for the big day?”
“Can I wear pajamas?” I offered a playful smile, burying my face in the pillow. I was exhausted and surprisingly nervous, secretly wishing I could just stay in bed and skip to the part where we were old and settled.
The idea of a wedding had been thrilling at first, but once the mothers and sisters mobilized, the event mutated. Everyone had a demand. I had to revise the guest list three times because my soon-to-be mother-in-law couldn't decide which bridge friends she currently hated. The florist lost the order; the caterer my sister insisted upon couldn’t guarantee the kitchen was gluten-free. It became a time-sucking, soul-crushing endeavor. By the end, I would have happily had the marriage license emailed to me so I could sign it from the comfort of my duvet.
“Nope. I want to see you in the dress,” Landon said, pulling the covers back. “By this time tomorrow morning, we’ll be waking up as husband and wife.”
He leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, reassuring kiss that made me believe the stress was worth it. He was worth it—or so I told myself.
We had planned a five o’clock ceremony at a local bee farm. The venue was his sister's idea, but I agreed because it was genuinely beautiful—deep in the country, with an upscale barn for the reception and a grassy plot overlooking the foothills for our vows. Everyone would get a jar of artisanal honey. I’d even leaned into a quirky bee theme, complete with sunflowers and marzipan bees bedazzled with edible glitter on a baby blue cake. It was weird, but I thought it wasus.
We met in college. He was a mechanical engineer; I was a budding lawyer. We had zero common interests, but we shared a love for the absurd. Our meet-cute involved me throwing up on his Air Force Ones at a frat party. He was a gentleman about it, letting me sleep off the cheap vodka in his room while he took the floor.
Back then, I was a shy, awkward freshman—too tall for my confidence level and far too thin. College eventually filled me out, and thanks to some fortunate genetics, I realized somewhere around junior year that I was actually a knockout.
Landon just grew taller. Lanky, with brown hair that curled uncontrollably at the tips, he left an impression. He had a long, birdlike nose, a chiseled jaw, and muddy brown eyes that were sensitive and thoughtful. He wasn't the most handsome man in the world, but he was definitely the most attentive.
My own father had been a dashing man, handsome and alluring, but he passed away when I was young, leaving me with only a few photographs that proved I had his eyes. My stepfather, Michael, is a thick, potbellied man with a booming voice. The primary difference between my elegant late father and my brutish stepfather is about a million dollars—a net worth Michael constantly brags about.
He squirrels his money away so that my mother, sister, and I will likely never see a penny. My mother, on the other hand, was the town beauty queen. She invested her pageant winnings into a nest egg that paid for our college. She was generous, though I would never say we were rich. Even in her late fifties, she is stunning.
I never understood why she married Michael, except perhaps for the stability. He was safe.
Maybe that’s why I latched onto Landon. He was my stable guy. He texted to make sure I got home safe after late classes; he brought me chicken soup when I was sick; he planned sensible, all-inclusive vacations so we could afford to get away without worry. Landon Emile Drake was one hell of a sensible choice.
“Do you ever wonder,” my sister asked me once, trying to be kind, “why he’s so good to you?”
At first, I bristled. It felt like an accusation, as if I didn’t deserve a good man. “He’s a nice guy, and I’m nice, too,” I defended.
“I know how great you are, Selena. But let’s be real—you’re a ten. He’s a six on a good day. He’s holding onto the best thing that ever happened to him with both hands.”
It was the only time she ever said it, but the thought had crossed my mind. I was prom queen material; he was the guy with the pocket protector. But I told myself I liked "ugly-chic." Looks didn't matter compared to devotion. I was proud of myself for not being shallow.
Plus, he was surprisingly talented in bed. Apart from a guy named Danny (whose last name I couldn’t remember) fingering me at prom, I’d only ever been with Landon. It was good. I orgasmed, he had a job, and he looked decent in a suit. I didn't need to ask for more than that, right?
Then came the wedding.
I stood in the holding area of the barn, clutching my bouquet of silk flowers and fuzzy bees. Landon was already at the altar in his baby blue tuxedo. My life was seconds away from changing forever.
The ambient music faded. It was time.
Suddenly, the barn door flew open. A woman rushed in wearing a tacky silver halter dress, tears streaming down her face. Her hair was a lopsided mess, pins hanging on for dear life. She looked like she’d either been hit by a car or recently... occupied.
It turned out to be the latter.
