Chapter 1: The Coffee Shop Proposition
I never felt pressured to get married. No one rushed me, no ticking clock, no anxious thoughts about having kids—if I ever did marry, it would be because I genuinely wanted to, not because anyone expected it.
Marriage, to me, is just two people sharing a life. When one of us goes first, the other handles the arrangements. That's all. No grand romance, just practical partnership.
It all began on an ordinary afternoon. I sat in a cozy coffee shop in Maple Heights, the rich aroma of roasted beans swirling around me, lost in my own musings. Suddenly, the conversation between a man and woman at the next table floated into my ears, pulling me out of my reverie.
"Are you looking for a house in a good school district?"
"No."
"Thinking about getting a car anytime soon?"
"Not planning to."
"Any thoughts about kids? One or two?"
"No plans."
...
The woman’s tone grew sharp with frustration. "You haven’t thought about anything, so why are you here looking to get married?"
"My goal is marriage—a legally protected contract between two people, nothing more."
"Well, I hope you find someone willing to marry you soon."
She left in a huff, not once looking back. Suddenly, I was curious to see the man she’d left behind. Something about his bluntness resonated with me.
I stood up, pretending to adjust my bag, but my eyes, partly shielded by my hair, kept sneaking glances at him.
If he was handsome, I’d talk. If not, I’d just leave. I admit it—I’m a sucker for a good face.
He was undeniably attractive, and my heart began to race, palms growing clammy with social anxiety.
A subtle, nervous smile tugged at my lips as I took the seat directly across from him. He glanced at me, calm and unreadable, silently waiting for me to speak.
"Hi," I said, trying to sound casual. "Mind if we pick up where your last conversation left off?"
I managed to get his basic info. This candidate checked nearly all my boxes: solid family, good education, looks—almost perfect.
But those were just perks. What really caught my attention was his take on marriage: two people legally living together, nothing more. It was refreshingly narrow.
He slid a draft contract across the table—he’d clearly come prepared. Most people probably bailed before seeing the contract, scared off by his blunt words.
Article 1: Though we’re spouses by name, there’s no need to perform traditional spousal duties.
Article 2: Both parties must stick to basic moral standards and stay loyal to each other.
...
Article 51: When one works from home, the other should give them space.
Article 52: When dealing with family, relatives, or friends, the other should cooperate actively.
...
Article 99: The marriage lasts until one or both of us die.
The last article was bolded for emphasis.
"But," I said, handing the contract back, raising an eyebrow, "what if ‘true love’ shows up during all this?"
He paused, then replied calmly, "I haven’t thought about that. I don’t think it’s possible."
"Really?"
I echoed his words, tapping my index finger against the smooth wooden table. The black coffee in my porcelain cup had gone cold, and soft jazz floated through the air, soothing my nerves.
"Nothing’s impossible," I said. "Even if the odds are one in a million, what’s impossible now might not be tomorrow."
"Theoretically, sure. But emotions are subjective. I only plan to marry once, and I hope my partner will walk through life with me."
His level-headedness was exactly what convinced me. If you can control your emotions, life stays simple—inside and out.
After we verified our identities, the marriage license arrived in no time.
I smiled at him and said, "I’m counting on you, husband."
He looked momentarily stunned at the word "husband," but didn’t protest.
"Hmm."
Maple Heights real estate was within our reach. We split the cost and bought a house in the suburbs, handled the decorating and furniture all at once.
With the pandemic, a wedding was more hassle than it was worth. I didn’t mind—less fuss, just a quick online registration.
While the new house was being finished, we stayed at our own places, trading ideas over Facebook Messenger. He quickly grasped my tastes, and I took his opinions seriously.
We were both adjusting, testing each other’s boundaries, looking for balance—trying to make life comfortable.
I changed all his contact notes to "husband," making it official.
This husband was a dream: an ace in the kitchen, neat, low drama, good-looking, earns well, and—well, I hadn’t checked out his physique yet.
In short, I’d hit the jackpot.
But soon after moving in together, I discovered my treasure had one flaw: he was terrified of cockroaches.
I leaned against the door, stretching lazily, eyes drifting toward the living room.
With my three-diopter myopia, all I saw was a blurry man darting around, his outline trailing behind him. Squinting, I caught a flash of panic on his face.
"What’s wrong?"
I was genuinely confused—was he being chased by a ghost?
My imagination ran wild for a second, but his panicked stammer snapped me back—
"Cockroach cockroach cockroach cockroach cockroach cockroach cockroach cockroach!!!"
"!"
I jumped, instinctively retreating to my room. His voice trembled with pure despair.
Birds of a feather flock together, but when disaster strikes, everyone for themselves.
Was I really that type?
I grabbed my glasses from the bedside table, slipped them on, and dashed out, zeroing in on the cockroach’s hiding spot. I trapped it under a paper cup with precision.
When Michael’s eyes landed on my hand, he shivered, looking at me like I’d just performed a magic trick.
"So, what’s your plan, sir?"
He gulped. "Can you... throw it far away?"
After I took care of it, he kept glancing nervously, double-checking that the cockroach was really gone before he’d meet my eyes.
We all have our fears. I wasn’t about to tease him for his.
I whipped up a simple breakfast for two. After we ate quietly, he headed to work—my diligent treasure.
I rubbed my belly, missing his cooking already, and called out with a grin, "Honey, come back soon!"
I saw him freeze at the door for a couple seconds, and my smile faded, too.
Oops. I’d said it out loud.
I pretended nothing happened, fired up my laptop, and waited until the door closed before letting out a relieved sigh and getting down to work.
I’m a full-time writer. After clawing my way through the hustle, I finally reached financial freedom. As I always say, money is the foundation for everything else.
Feeling restless, I scrolled through Instagram and liked a travel post my dad had just shared.
I’d convinced my parents to take a trip. I figured my sudden marriage news might be a lot for them, so a little buffer time seemed wise.
When I first told them I might not get married, I prepared them mentally. They’re pretty open-minded—just told me to do what makes me happy, as long as I don’t end up on the streets.
But every time, I caught a look in my mom’s eyes that said, "You’re still too young," and she’d quote Shaw—
"Those who want to marry, marry; those who want to stay single, stay single. In the end, you’ll all regret it."
Just kidding—me, Lillian Hayes, I don’t do regret.
Right now, I get the best of both worlds: single and married.
Guess I’m just a clever fox.