The day before our engagement party, my rich-kid boyfriend, Owen Mason, seemed a million miles away while we were out shopping.
I bought a five-dollar fried chicken sandwich from a street vendor and offered him a bite. He smacked it out of my hand and onto the ground, his face contorted with rage.
“Linda, the Masons need a matriarch who can hold her own in high society! Buying this cheap crap just embarrasses me. How do you expect my parents to ever accept you?”
I awkwardly picked up the sandwich and threw it in the trash. For the sake of our four years of college together, I just nodded.
“You’re right.
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