1. The Money Debacle

ONE

THE MONEY DEBACLE

BAILEY SCOTT

T here are plenty of things I could do with fifty thousand dollars. Pay off my bills. Put money down on a new condo with a view of the ocean. Decorate and refurnish my apartment. Or for more fun—take a lavish vacation and buy myself a new wardrobe. I stare at the bank statement on my computer screen and half groan, half sigh.

“Oh brother. What day is it?” My coworker, friend, and cubicle mate, Maggie, asks and defers to her Kitties and Puppies Calendar on her wall, pointing at a red X on today. “Yep. Every month, the same day like clockwork. Your bank statement arriving by email is as dependable as getting your monthly per?—”

“Don’t go there, please.” That’s Peter complaining, our other cubicle mate here at the Portland Daily Post. He takes up one third of our cramped space some might call an office, only the walls are movable and don’t reach as high as the ceiling, and everyone working around us can hear every word of our conversations.

The five-figure number staring back at me in my savings account shouldn’t bring me down like this, but every month it does. Because it’s an eternal reminder of the myth of journalistic integrity. I can’t even stand to think about what happened in the past at my last job, without still tearing up about it.

I’d been fired over a complicated situation, and the money was severance pay. A hefty sum, so much so, I’m fairly certain it was meant to shut me up, like a bribe. It worked because I haven’t told a soul a thing. And I can’t bring myself to spend the money, like doing so would mean I admit to my wrongdoings and shortcomings.

“I hate thinking about what this money represents,” I cry. The guilt and remorse of holding a secret so close to my heart eats me alive from the inside out. Adding to it, my heart is still trying to heal after my ex dumping me a year ago—only to watch him get engaged to my cousin. These two great wounds in my adult life fester and haven’t closed yet.

“You’ve had it sitting there in the bank for so long. Spend it, honey. Just get rid of it once and for all. I’ll be happy to help you shop,” Maggie offers, glancing over at my screen. She is only trying to be a good friend.

“No, because then everything I buy with it will represent the past. And every time I look at whatever I buy with it will bother me. I need a fresh start.”

“I hear you. When I broke up with my ex, after a respectable period of grieving time, I paid for dating apps and joined a premium millionaire matchmaker’s club for my fresh start. Maybe you could use the money to find your next man.” She and Peter are the only friends I’ve bothered to make since I moved back home to Portland. They know bits and pieces of my past, but not the full story.

“But you’re still single. Doesn’t seem like it’s gotten you anywhere.” I point out, unsure her investment in the dating world is worth it.

“It’s been a ton of fun, though.” Her blue eyes glow as she lowers her voice. “I’ve met some real hotties. Gone on fun dates. And I have a healthy list of tycoons I can call anytime I’m in the mood for a man to lick my?—”

“I’m right here, Mags. Too much information.” Peter grumbles, and since he’s outnumbered two females to one male, he doesn’t always get a say in things. We usually ignore him and keep talking, anyway. “Look, I’m under a deadline. Do you think you two can go chit-chat in the kitchen or somewhere else?”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Maggie whispers and dramatically flips her long red hair over her shoulder as if she’s flipping him off behind his back. But he is quite useful when we have problems.

“Peter, you’re a man—” I start.

“Last I checked. Lay it on me. What is your problem of the day, Bailey? And make it fast.” He shifts in his seat, swiveling around to peer straight at me, chewing the eraser end of a pencil in his mouth.

If I were into cute, ginger-haired men he’d totally do it for me by his bright blue eyes alone. He’s older than us by a few years, and already paid his dues in obituaries and entertainment, now researching and writing human interest pieces for the sports section of the Daily Post. The kind where the players and competitors achieve remarkable things against all odds. I’d kill to get his job if he ever gets promoted.

Feel-good news reporting like that is exactly what I want to do most, although I started out wanting to be a serious reporter. I say those two words in my head in a deep tone of voice, like my stern father’s.

Bailey Scott was supposed to be my byline that stood for something great, like reporting with truth and integrity. But I fell into entertainment news after college and it has been a source of contention between my father and me ever since.

After all, the Scott family law practice has been in Oregon since they settled here in the 1880s. My ancestors were the first to practice in Portland. Generations of Scotts, one after the other, produced fine lawyers, practically born and bred into their blood. My five older brothers and my parents are all lawyers. Then there’s me. I must have gotten the wrong blood.

“It’s been a few years since I got fired, and I haven’t spent a dime of the money. Instead, I wallow in self-pity. I pretend the money doesn’t exist, just like I ignore my ex’s occasional texts and voice mails asking how I’m doing.” And I’m great at stuffing down my jumbled up feelings about how everything ended between us, without dealing with it. But no more. “I’ve finally had it with this money. Guess I’ve reached the end of my grieving for a job and a relationship that was never meant to be. I don’t want to buy anything, so what do I do with it? What would a man do in this situation?”

I pause, and Maggie pats my arm, sharing soft and caring eyes with me.

“Easy. He’d throw a huge-ass party, invite everyone he knows, get really drunk, screw a girl, and move on,” Peter states.

We glare at him.

“Or he’d give it away. Donate it. Done.” Peter turns back around and resumes tackling his keyboard with a vengeance. I smirk. Isn’t it so like a man to make a fast decision and not assign any emotions to it whatsoever?

“Bailey, did you get my email?” Bart, our managing editor, appears with his round face above the wall of our cubbies, looking down his nose at us. I’m drawing a blank. He continues and fills in, “About the event this Friday?”

“Oh, sorry, no. I haven’t gone through emails yet. I’m putting finishing touches on the gardening club’s annual membership drive to make this evening’s deadline.” As jobs go, this one suits me for now, as the entertainment reporter for our small newspaper, both in print and online. It was recently rated the fifth top publication here in Portland—out of five total papers. It’s a slower pace around here compared to the job I held in Los Angeles.

How I’d love to be back there reporting for the Hollywood Buzz again—right in the heart of all the exciting goings-on in the lives of the rich and famous. Only I screwed that up when I got fired and no one else would hire me, as if I were blacklisted. Desperate for a job, I fled back home to Oregon thinking I could start over. Then I found William here, fell hard for him, and ended things with him, all in the same year. It’s safe to say my twenties have not been a roaring fun time.

“Read my email. Make plans to be at the event on Friday night. Full write up on my desk Monday. We’ll run the article Tuesday.” He moves to leave, but I stop him.

“Uh, Bart, I’m supposed to take off Friday afternoon, remember? I have that wedding up in Mt. Hood at the ski lodge that I have to attend.” Not that I want to. Maggie eyes me. She knows every detail of why I’ve been dreading this weekend for some time.

“Right. How could I forget the blessed union of two prominent Portland families, the Scotts and the Donaldsons? But it’s the Heart Association’s Annual Auction Friday and a major event this time of year. Plus, I told my wife you’d be there to cover it. Be sure you get her name in the article, by the way. Or do I need to have one of the interns have a shot at it?”

“No. No. I’ll rearrange my schedule. Not a problem.”

“That’s what I like to hear. You can do the fundraiser on Friday night, go up to cover the wedding Saturday. Both articles. My desk. Monday.” He raps on the top of the cubicle wall with his knuckles and stomps away, his brown leather shoes clicking as he crosses the vinyl floor.

I wouldn’t say I’m his favorite reporter here. It’s doubtful he cares about my career, but I need this job. At least until I find a better news organization to work for. Of course, I’d have to be actively seeking a new job to make that goal a reality. I’ve grown complacent.

It’s safe to say that over the past few years, I’ve had more than my fair share of problems to deal with. From my career to my love life, nothing has gone well.

I click a few buttons to bring up Bart’s email, and turn back to Maggie, who had agreed to be my plus one at the wedding. “Great, instead of Friday, now I have to drive up the mountain on Saturday in time for the wedding. Can you come with me to both events?”

She glances toward Peter and back at me with a sheepish look. “About that, I’ve been meaning to tell you. It turns out, a really great guy has asked me to go away this weekend. We’ve been texting nightly, and things have really heated between us. Being Valentine’s, I think it could be a very romantic weekend. But…I know how much you were hoping for support at the wedding, so I’ll tell him I can’t go.”

I sigh, my chest aching from this news. What kind of friend would I be if I kept Maggie from this chance at love on Valentine’s? “No, tell him you’ll go. At least one of us will have a good time. How about you, Peter? Any plans?” With half a hope, he might take Maggie’s place. A male friend by my side would work just as well to support me when I have to come face-to-face with the bride and groom.

“Uh, sorry Bailey, but I’m heading up the coast to visit a friend this weekend,” he says, without turning around.

“I might as well cancel the hotel reservation then. I can drive home after the reception, and it’ll give me an excuse to leave early.” If it wasn’t for Bart forcing me to attend and report on the wedding, and if it wasn’t for my family being one half of the of the guests in attendance with my father also pressuring me to make an appearance, I wouldn’t go at all to watch my ex and my cousin exchange vows. I cross my arms on my desktop and bury my head in them.

“Wait, Bailey, look at this.” Maggie has her eyes on the email from Bart on the screen. “It’s not just some auction of gift baskets full of junk. These travel packages look out of this world, but it’s also a bachelor auction.”

“A what? That’s a thing?”

“Apparently so. It says if you bid on and win a bachelor, you get an all expenses paid date to a local fancy restaurant together, all in the name of fun and giving for Valentine’s.” She points at the names of about half a dozen men to be auctioned off. “There’s a well-known CEO from downtown, the university football coach, a soccer player—oh, and Michael Webber, the star player from the Portland Glaciers hockey team. He’s a cutie. I met him once when one of my dates happened to be with his brother. Please tell me you’ll bid on him. I’d go with you. We could be a threesome.”

Peter clears his throat and coughs behind us.

I snort. “I cannot believe I have to do this event.”

“I think you’re looking at it all wrong. This is a perfect opportunity to give that money away,” Peter chimes in without turning around again, his fingers pausing on his computer keyboard.

I skim through the invitation for the auction in full and shrug. “I suppose the Heart Association is a worthy cause.”

“More than that. What if you bid and win a date with one of the bachelors?” Peter guffaws. “Now there’s a way to send a message to the universe. You win and go on a date, donate the money, get over everything in your past that keeps you stuck once and for all, and you reset your life back to normal.”

He does make an appealing case, and it would take care of the money, but I squeeze my eyes shut at the mere thought of having to go on a date. After William jilted me for my cousin, Vanessa, I haven’t been the same. I hardly even have the energy to date, much less a sex drive, like I’m stuck between gears and can’t operate properly.

Peter and Maggie are right, though. I can’t live like this anymore. I have to get rid of this money and it’s time to pick up the pieces of my heart and move on. Suddenly, the money becomes a symbol of all my life’s failings, as if keeping it any longer prevents good karma from coming my way.

“Fine. I’ll bet on a bachelor.”

“Yay,” Maggie claps. “If you win, take that date and get under him as fast as you can. Rebound sex is the best, honey.”

I cackle at her. “Or if I lose, I donate it anyway and be done with it.”

“Either way, you win at life.”

The timing is impeccable; it pleases me to no end to have the money given away to a worthy cause like this. Too bad I still have to attend the wedding alone. But today is suddenly looking up as the day I decide to turn my life around for good.