So, on Thursday, I went into Roastlandia, threw my apron down on the counter and quit. Ari cried as she hugged me goodbye.

Yesterday, Andrew and I spent five hours in line at the courthouse to apply for a marriage license, and I had a panic attack in a dimly lit hallway thinking about spending an entire week at a cabin with strangers. By last night, over fifty thousand people had liked the first episode of my new webcomic. I’d feel awful for vaguely exploiting Andrew’s life story if it weren’t for the fact that he says, “You’re not a serial killer, are you?” as he does a slow pivot around my studio apartment. He takes in the sight of the futon (which doubles as my bed), the desk (which doubles as my kitchen table), the shower rod in the corner of the room where I hang my clothes. “Because I’m getting distinct serial-killer vibes.”

“I’m just poor, you asshole,” I say as I sling my shoulder bag across my body and reach for my duffle. “Don’t criminalize poor people.”

He looks positively aghast. “I’m not! But Oliver, this is horrible. Quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen. And I once spent two weeks on a party boat sailing around the South Pacific with twenty guys from my frat, and the plumbing stopped working on day three.”

“Thanks for that comparison.”

Andrew looks truly stricken. “This is the apartment you never leave? This cannot be good for your mental health.”

“It’s not.” As much as I’m dreading the next week, I don’t want to spend another minute with Andrew in my apartment. “Can we go?”

“Wait, is that what you’re wearing?” he asks, one prim eyebrow arched in judgment.

I look down at my winter boots, my Old Navy jeans, my She-Ra T-shirt, and the gray cardigan I threw over the top. “Yep. This is what I’m wearing, and if this arrangement is going to work, you can’t micromanage my wardrobe, and you definitely don’t get to dress me up to make me look more respectable for your family. I’m not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

Andrew fights off a smile as he reaches out to take my duffle. “We’ll add it to the napkin. No Pretty Woman–ing you.”

Add it to the napkin was his response every time I texted him with a new stipulation to our agreement over the past couple of days. Well, and one time he responded, I don’t know any notary publics who work at one in the morning, but I promise to have my lawyer draw something up.

I wasn’t going to marry a man—wasn’t going to spend Christmas at his parents’ cabin—without a guarantee that I’d get my two hundred thousand dollars when this was over.

“Should we work on our flash cards?”