Back The Work Wife Save as PDF
Chapters (38)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Dedication
  5. Invitation
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. Acknowledgments
  38. Why I Wrote The Work Wife by Alison B. Hart

“If it was a perfect day, I’d probably want to do this,” Gaby said, planting kisses along the tendon in Zanne’s neck. “Only, like, somewhere completely beautiful. On a beach in Costa Rica, how about that? But if it was the end of the world, I’d probably just go home. Tell my mom I love her. Help my dad board up the windows and shit. What would you do if you had a billion dollars you couldn’t keep?” Gaby asked, pulling away.

“Easy,” Zanne said. “I’d pay someone to do all my shipping for me.”

“Wait, what?” Gaby said.

“Get someone else to stand in line for me at the post office,” Zanne went on. “Track my packages when they’re lost and scream at customer service.”

“You wouldn’t want to, I don’t know, get a private jet and see Lizzo every single night? Or retire all medical debt and reunite the families at the border?” Gaby asked.

“The just cause? Sure. We’ll bond out the asylum seekers and pay off all medical debts. All student loans, too. But what about the tedious life chores you don’t want to do? A billion dollars is a lot of money. Wouldn’t you like a little help with the stupid stuff?”

“I hate doing the laundry,” Gaby said.

“There you go. Now your assistant does it for you.”

“But I think folding my clothes is kind of good for me,” Gaby said. “Like, for my mental hygiene. So, no, I’ll just run for president with zero qualifications.”

Zanne laughed. God, she loved her. What she felt for Gaby was different than before. Deeper, steadier, the surprise of looking forward, not back. She’d told other women she loved them, of course. The first several times, it had been a requirement that she be drunk or high. More than once, those three little words had tumbled out during an argument, because I love you, you idiot! One time, during visiting day in rehab, both impulses had been combined. The thought of telling her now—of asking Gaby to move in with her, for good, into the little house in Mar Vista Zanne had her eye on—made her heart race, a little monkey banging its own drum.

“Come on,” Zanne said, pushing ahead with the tour.