The Double Contract Girlfriend

RILEY Rain tapped softly against the windowpane, a rhythmic lull that matched the quiet ache in my chest. The city was washed in gray, and inside my small apartment, the world felt paused, like a painting stuck in an unfinished frame. I sat cross-legged on my worn-out couch, surrounded by tons unopened mail and half-done sketches. My fingers were smudged with charcoal, but the drawing on my lap; a portrait of no one in particular, refused to come alive. The kettle whistled from the kitchen. That wasn't enough to get me up. As my eyes drifted, it fell on the mantle, where a faded photograph of my mom stood framed in silver. She was in the photo smiling at something just out of frame, her expression open and warm. I stared at it for a moment longer, then sighed and pushed the sketchpad aside. It had been a year since the funeral. A year of drifting. Of taking temp jobs I hated and declining gallery invites I didn't feel worthy of. I hadn't painted anything real in months. My mom had always pushed me to pursue my art, but now that voice was gone... and with it, her direction. The door had buzzed. Expectant of no one, it took me by surprise. Padded barefoot to the door to find a mailman, well, a man, holding a sleek black envelope. No branding. No package. "Miss Hart?" he asked. "Uh... yeah?" He handed it to me with a curt nod and turned away. I wondered if there's more, but watching him march farther away from me suggested there wasn't. So this is either his first day as a mailman, or a threat from a certain mafia my mom owed money, or perhaps she was the mafia herself and she has left me a shitload of inheritance. Whatever it was, it must be important, for the sender to ensure it was precisely delivered in my hands, even though their messenger is returning to them without my signature to confirm that. The paper was thick and smooth, sealed with an old-fashioned wax crest, sitting proudly in deep emerald green. The initials embossed into it made my chest tighten; S.W. I needed to free myself of the anxiety and curiosity, so I grabbed it off the counter where I had dropped it while getting some spearmint tea to ease my anxiety, and pounced back to the living room. I sat on the couch, carefully broke the seal and inside was a letter written in elegant, looping script. Dearest Riley, It's been far too long. I've thought of you often, especially in the quiet moments when memories of your mother return to me. She and I shared a great many dreams, some of which were left unrealized. I would love the chance to see you soon, perhaps over tea? My treat. Warmly, Sloane Winthrop I stared at the signature, the name swishing across the bottom of the page like a royal decree. Sloane Winthrop; my mom's glamorous, impossibly poised best friend. A woman I hadn't seen since I was sixteen, at a holiday party where Sloane had swept in like she belonged in a movie. Even then, I could tell she was different. Elegant. Rich. Unreachable. And now she wanted to meet? I wonder why I glanced back at the photo. Mom and Sloane had been inseparable once. Talked on the phone for hours, took trips together before life got too busy. But something had happened—I never knew what. Just that after I turned seventeen, Sloane stopped visiting, and mom never mentioned why. Were they lovers? Ok I really have to drop this constant yearning for a crazy plot twist about my mother's life. The letter trembled slightly in her fingers. I stood and paced the living room, rereading the note. Trying to understand why she chose to reach out after fifteen years, why after mom's death? Was this pity? A wealthy woman trying to soothe her guilt by playing fairy godmother? Or was there something more? Maybe she just wanted to talk. Maybe she missed mom too. Whatever her reasons might be I just hope she's able to get me out of this shithole I'm in, I need a way out of this dead-end. In need of a second opinion, I grabbed my phone and called the only person who would give me a straight answer, and a push... my best friend, Tara. "Girl, she's loaded, right?" Tara said immediately after hearing the story. "Go. Get your ass to that tea party." "It's not a tea party," I muttered. "Whatever it is, rich people don't send wax-sealed invitations unless they're up to something." "That's exactly what worries me." "So what if she wants to help you? Maybe she owes your mom. Take the help. You're not selling your soul." I hesitated. "I don't know. It just feels... weird. Like something out of a novel." Tara snorted. "Then turn the page. Go. The worse that could happen is they attempt to use you as a sacrifice to honor their god." "Thanks Tara, that was very helpful. Now you've given my anxiety something else to hold on to" I could hear her laugh heartily before saying "If you're that scared, I can come with you." " Oh no, that would be too much" The idea of going with Tara made me feel like a scared child, who can't do things on her own. I appreciate the support but I think I can do this alone. I hope. "Fine! But you must go, if it sucks you leave early" "Sure, I'll keep you posted" I hung up. I picked up the envelope once more. Sloane Winthrop. It was impossible not to be curious. What if mom had told her something? What if there were stories I'd never heard—things I didn't know? Deep down, maybe part of me just wanted someone to remember her with. Someone who loved her, too. I sat on the edge of the couch, letter on my lap, and looked out the window again. Rain drizzled. The apartment felt small. And outside, thunder rolled low in the sky, maybe I was being delusional, but that sealed my decision as I whispered, to the quiet, to the rain, maybe even to the photo on the mantel, "Okay, Mom. I'll go." SLOANE I still remember the day I met Emily. She was barely twenty-one, a shy young woman with a quiet dignity and eyes that could cut straight through insincerity. My husband had hired her as a personal assistant, but I knew from the start she was far more than that. When she passed away, I told myself I'd stay connected to her little girl. And yet life has a cruel way of sweeping away promises. Until last month, when I saw Riley's name in a local charity program. She'd organized an entire youth outreach event on a shoestring budget. There was her photograph, smiling, tired, and so very much like her mother it made my chest ache. I decided then I would not let more years slip through my fingers. And yes, perhaps I had my own reasons for inviting her. My son, Chandler had closed himself off from the idea of a relationship for far too long. What he needed was someone real. Someone unafraid of him. I doubted he'd agree, of course. But that was the beauty of possibility, sometimes it didn't require permission to set the wheels in motion.