My Fake Poor Girlfriend

At one in the morning, I almost dropped my phone.

Could the “sugar mommy” mentioned in that giveaway livestream be Wren?

When I didn’t respond, Wren’s tone lifted slightly.

“Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you feeling unwell?”

My throat felt dry.

“Which barbecue place keeps you busy this late?”

“It’s… near the old part of town.” She spoke faster. “I’ll be home soon. I’ll transfer the money to you first.”

The call ended, and the livestream continued.

“My sugar mommy just sent me another million, told me to buy the latest watch.

“She has no sense of money. This watch is worth at most two hundred thousand… So annoying, now there’s another eight hundred thousand extra. I’ll just give it all to you guys.”

Huge cash giveaways came one after another. I felt numb, tapping to claim them one after another.

My balance went from five hundred to two thousand five hundred, then three thousand, then four thousand.

After meeting Wren, I saved all our salaries and side-job earnings. Every time I saved up two thousand, I would have her use it to pay off her debts, leaving only a little for food and rent.

Four thousand in spare money was a number I had never even dared to imagine.

My phone vibrated. Wren transferred two hundred and twelve dollars with a note that said dishwashing pay.

My hand shook, and I turned off the screen. Instantly, my pale face reflected back at me.

The faint brown mole under my right eye stood out sharply, like a stain of mosquito blood on a white wall.

Half an hour later, Wren came back.

She was still wearing the same service uniform from three days ago, the hems of her pants damp. From inside her clothes, she took out a bag.

“Aran, I saved eight dollars to buy you a baked potato. Eat it while it’s hot.”

I took it in silence. The warmth seeped through the bag into my palm.

She always said her debts had dragged me down, so every winter she would find ways to earn more money, just to buy my favorite baked potato.

I felt bad about the money, and for her, too. So we would share the potato while talking about finding better side jobs and which grocery stores were cheaper.

Baked potatoes were the one food in our hard life that made me feel at ease.

However, today, after I took a bite, it stuck in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it.

Was it Wren?

It had to be a coincidence. How could it be her?

“I wanted to buy it for you after I got back from my trip yesterday, but a friend said a 24-hour barbecue place needed dishwashers. I was in a hurry to make money, so I went to work.

“Tonight I got paid. I ran through several streets to find it. Luckily, the store closes late. The place you like was still open.”

What Wren said was reasonable and well-explained, even accounting for why she hadn’t come home for three days.

She leaned closer, smiling as she coaxed me to feed her.

But I didn’t move. Instead, I asked, “Is the barbecue place far? Next time, I’ll go with you.”

Her smile stopped abruptly. She turned and went to the bathroom.

“They’re not hiring for now. I’m going to shower first. I’m covered in sweat.”