Alexa Martin

“For the first three years, it’s fun being a pro football player’s girlfriend.

  “Marlee, let me see your hand! Did Chris propose yet?” Amber asks.

  I’m in year ten.

  “Still naked.” I wiggle my fingers in front of her the same way I did last week and the week before that . . . and the week before that. #HeDidntPutARingOnIt

  Sometimes, I like to hashtag my life. #CheaperThanTherapy

  I sip my margarita. “When it happens, I promise to let you know.” Or, you know, keep asking every time you see me.

  “Marlee.” Courtney sighs. She stands at the head of the table clutching a glitter-coated gavel. “We made exceptions for you to join the Lady Mustangs. Try to acknowledge that and save your little side conversation until we’ve finished.”

  “Sorry, Court.” Every time I call her Court, she strains her Botoxed forehead and glares in my direction, so obviously, it’s the only thing I call her. Well, sometimes I call her bitch, but she doesn’t know about that.

  “As I was saying, the annual Lady Mustangs Fashion Show is in three weeks. Everyone must attend the next meeting so we can discuss the outfits for you and your husbands.”

  I catch her eye again. She raises her chin, and her fat-injected lips form an actual smile.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. In your case, Marlee, you and your boyfriend.”

  See? What a bitch.

  “Thanks for the clarification, Court, but I understood.”
― Alexa Martin, Intercepted