Never Get Attached

Chapter 1: The Gig Economy Is a Lie

I have a rule. One rule. The only rule that matters in my line of work.

Never get attached.

I wrote it on a sticky note and slapped it on my bathroom mirror. I repeated it before every job. I said it like a prayer, like a curse, like a mantra that would protect me from the one thing I could not afford to feel.

And then Elliot showed up at my office wearing a sweater with a hole in the elbow and carrying a folder full of funeral pamphlets, and my rule went straight out the window.

Not that I had a window. My office was a converted closet in the back of a laundromat. The rent was cheap. The smell of fabric softener was permanent. And the only natural light came from the flickering sign outside that said "WASH" with a broken S.

I called my business "Rent-A-Closure." It was a terrible name. I was proud of it.

My clients were people who needed a plus one for a wedding, a buffer for a family dinner, or someone to hold their hand while they told their parents they were dropping out of medical school to become a mime. I charged by the hour. I offered emotional support, witty banter, and the ability to cry on command. I did not offer genuine feelings. I did not offer my real name.

They called me Frankie. It was close enough to my actual name to feel natural, far enough to feel safe.

Elliot sat in the plastic chair across from my desk, which was really just a folding table I'd stolen from a church rummage sale. He had kind eyes. The kind of eyes that looked at you like you were the only person in the room, even when you were clearly just a woman in a laundromat closet with a questionable business card.

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair. It squeaked. Everything in my life squeaked. "You need a girlfriend for a funeral."

He nodded. His hands were shaking slightly. "My father's funeral."

"Condolences."

"Thank you."

"Were you close?"

He laughed. It was a sad laugh, the kind that knew it wasn't funny. "We hadn't spoken in seven years."

I wrote that down on my notepad. "Troubled relationship?"

"He joined a cult."

I stopped writing. "A cult."

"Technically, it was a spiritual wellness collective. But yeah. A cult. They lived in a compound three hours outside the city. He cut off contact. No phone calls. No letters. Nothing."

"And now he's dead."

"And now he's dead," Elliot repeated. He looked at his hands. "The funeral is Saturday. My mother organized it. My sister is flying in from Portland. My aunts and uncles and cousins are all going to be there, and they haven't seen me in years, and they're going to ask questions, and I just..."

"You just want someone to stand next to you while you pretend everything is fine."

He looked up. "Yes. Exactly."

I tapped my pen against the notepad. This was my favorite part of the job. The moment where I got to decide whether to take a case based on how much emotional damage I was willing to absorb.

"So you want me to play the supportive girlfriend. Attend the funeral. Cry on cue. Deflect awkward questions about your personal life."

"That's the basic outline."

"Basic outline," I repeated. "This is going to be a disaster."

He smiled for the first time. It was a good smile. Lopsided and genuine and completely out of place in his stressed-out face.

"That's what I'm paying you for," he said.

I took the case.

Of course I took the case. I never turned down work. My rent was due. My car was making a noise that sounded expensive. And the last job I'd done—a wedding where I had to pretend to be a bride's long-lost cousin from Argentina—had paid enough to cover my grocery bill for three weeks.

But there was something about Elliot that nagged at me. Something that made my skin prickle with warning.

He was too sad. Too genuine. Too easy to like.

And I was too good at liking people I shouldn't.

I went home that night to my studio apartment, which was exactly as depressing as it sounds. A bed that doubled as a couch. A kitchen that was really just a hot plate and a mini-fridge. A wall of sticky notes containing every rule I'd ever made for myself.

Rule one was the biggest. The most important. The one I'd circled in red.

NEVER GET ATTACHED.

I stared at it for a long time. Then I took it down and crumpled it into a ball.

Rules were made to be broken. That was the other rule I lived by. The one I didn't write down because it was too convenient.