Page 15 of The Ex Effect
So yes, I would sell this truck last and only to the right person.
Branches tapped on the window as I navigated down a road. A hand-painted wooden sign and an arrow said:Greenburg Farms—This Way.
“Almost there,” I said as I swerved around potholes.
“I saw the sign.”
God, that tight tone was ear-scratch-inducing. My jaw clenched. After ten minutes of one- or two-word answers, to a full-on dead stop, I was over the attitude. “What’s your problem? Are you pissed that I asked you to come along?”
Morgan pulled her lips into her mouth. “I’m notpissed.”
I tossed a “bullshit” side-eye.
Morgan exhaled through her nostrils. “Look, I hate being late.Hateit. If we’re…ifI’m…late, it’s rude, shows the other person that their time is not as valuable as mine, and throws us off schedule. When that happens, it’s hard for me to get back into a rhythm.”
Ah.That old bitter anxiety bug was clearly gnawing on Morgan’s nerves, and although I didn’t fully understand, I wasn’t a totally un-empathetic human being. Sure, I might fret a bit at situational things…like if the magazine would offer me a job. But as long as I had food in my belly and a roof over my head, I wasn’t anxious.
But I definitely remembered this from our childhood—Morgan completely freaking out waiting for test scores, asking me if she sounded stupid when she did the dreaded class presentation, biting her nails as she waited for the college admissions response even though she was a straight-A student. The closest I ever came to that was junior year when my team was one game away from going to state in basketball, and we were down by twelve with four minutes left.
A few wild turkeys waddled across the road, and I skidded to a stop. Freaking wild turkeys? How did I forget they just roamed free like this? “We’re like two minutes late.”
“Five,” Morgan snapped. “They may be your friends, but they’re not mine and it’s totally unprofessional. I’m going to be mortified when they’re standing there waiting for us.”
Jesus Christ, this one.Morgan may as well take a bullhorn and announce to the townsfolk that she thought I was an irresponsible failure. “They’re not standing there waiting for us. What do you take me for? I wouldn’t actually be late to a meeting with a client, friends or not.” I gripped the shifter and jammed it into first gear. “I wanted to get here at one thirty, to scope out the place and bring in my equipment. Olivia and Tommy won’t be here until two.”
A silentOhleft Morgan’s mouth in what I could only assume was an apology.
At the end of the path, I navigated the truck through an open rusted metal gate that looked like it was two seconds from falling over. Down the drive in front of a gray barn, I pulled over and killed the engine.
“Wow.” Morgan slammed the truck door closed and stood, hands on her hips.
Uff-fucking-da.“Wow” was right. This place had gone downhill in a hurry. Granted, nearly twenty years had passed since I’d last stepped foot onto Pete and Patty’s property, but I remembered it being filled with life. Back in the day, it was the land of strung holiday lights, music, and kids climbing on bales of hay.
The once sturdy barn which doubled as a small gift shop was faded and cracked with years of rain, snow, and hail. Broken chairs and tools scattering the lawn made the space look like a junkyard. Weeds twisted up the five-foot tall wheels of a tractor to the left, the formerly pristine trimmed bushes were overgrown, and dozens of dead hanging plants littered the fractured patio area.Yikes.
The maple trees sagged, low and sad, like they carried the memories of the joy-filled days of being tapped for syrup but crumpled under the weight of abandonment. I squinted against the sun and surveyed the rest of the property. Thankfully, the pines were still beautiful. But everything else was a disaster.
“I remember coming here.” Pebbles crunched under Morgan’s feet as she moved toward the barn. “It’s, uh, changed. A lot.”
Must’ve been during sophomore or junior year when I brought Morgan out here during the holiday season. Layered up like the abominable snowman with scarves and hats, we strolled hand in hand, drank hot chocolate with marshmallows, and waited for our turn to hop on a hayride driven by my uncle.
Morgan tapped the railing on the side of the barn. “It’s still beautiful, though.”
Um, what?“Beautiful?” No way did I just hear Morgan, who was literally wearing a white peacoat and some sort of sparkly pendant, call this place beautiful. Sure, my job was capturing the beauty in traditionally unbeautiful spaces, but this was on an entirely different level. “Are you being sarcastic?”
Morgan stuffed her hands into her jacket. “Not at all.”
“This place looks like it’s verging on being condemned by the authorities.”
Morgan arched a brow. “And people think I’m the dramatic one. Have you never heard of rustic chic?”
“Sure. Pretty sure they’re not talking about…this, though.” I waved my hand toward the barn. As if on cue, a gust of wind kicked up and blew a chunk of something—God knows what—off the roof and onto the mushy ground.
Morgan stepped closer to the opening. “Come on, let’s look inside.”
The splintered wood barn doors with deep gouges missing were cracked open. To avoid my palms getting stabbed by a million slivers, I tucked my hands into my jacket sleeve and pulled.
“Oof.” Morgan scrunched her nose. “It could use a little airing out.”
