Page 3 of The Ex Effect
Yes, I knew Morgan was the wedding coordinator for the son of a family friend, Tommy, and his fiancée, Olivia. Was it a dick move to not give her any sort of heads-up on who I was on our text message exchanges? Probably. The situation was going to be awkward as hell, regardless. At least this way I could have some control, before I most likely lost it for the next few months. Besides, much as I’d suspected, it was delicious seeing Morgan’s surprised, then extremely irritated, face.
But,Christ, Morgan had aged well. She looked almost identical to when she was a senior, besides swapping the long, curly, blonde hair for a sleek, straight bob. I was taller, but now Morgan’s platforms made her nearly eye to eye with me. The crispness of her sharp, Caribbean-blue eyes somehow was deeper, more vibrant, more nuanced than I remembered, layered with specks of turquoise and cobalt.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” Morgan dropped her hands to her curvy, full hips.
One thing that clearly hadn’t changed—Morgan’s salty attitude.
“Pumpkin.” I grinned and shoved the motorcycle keys in my pocket. “Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
A heated, red flare shot straight to Morgan’s cheeks, which was the exact reaction I was hoping for. After how she treated me all those years ago, the last thing I needed to do was to make any of this easier on her.
“We arenotfriends,” Morgan hissed.
Damn.Wow. Ain’t no grudge like a Morgan Rose grudge. No matter, though. I was only here through the summer and not one moment longer. My life was back in New York, and my dream dangled so close I could smell it. I could handle Morgan’s bullshit until after Tommy was married, then go back to living my cozy life in lower Manhattan. “I thought Olivia sent you the info. I just assumed you knew I was Frankie.”
Morgan dug a heel into the ground. “How the hell could I have possibly assumed you wereFrankie? The last time we spoke, you were eighteen-year-old Katey Lee.”
Fair point.Not that I’d say that and give Morgan the satisfaction. Morgan had not earned the right to hear my story of how in my early twenties I went on a deep exploration to find my authentic self, which included shaving my head and changing my name.
The way Morgan left that night at graduation, breaking my heart and tossing me like I was trash, had scarred me. Sure, the scar had faded over the years, lightened with other loves and life experiences, but it never fully healed. In a moment, Morgan showed me she thought the same as everyone else—I was an unfocused fuckup.
Now, seeing Morgan’s face again, something tugged in my chest. Yeah, sure, I social media stalked her a little throughout the years. But the pictures Morgan posted were minimal, mostly of venues or updates on her business. No shots of her shooting tequila from a balcony. No fun beach photos. No spouse, partner, or significant other. Not that I cared.At all.
Morgan dropped her hands and waved to the door. “Well, we better get inside since you’re late.”
Just like old times.Cool.Morgan clearly still held that obsession for being early and loved to rub it in my face that my life didn’t revolve around clocks. I was surprised she hadn’t lightened up over the years, but her ultra-rigid spine was a dead giveaway.
I kicked a small rock out of the way with my riding boots and checked my watch. “I’m literally right on time.”
“Which is late.” Morgan spun on her heels and stomped to the door.
This should be fun. I held the door for her, and she breezed past without even a simple thank-you, trailed by a vanilla rose scent. Apparently, other things also did not change. That scent snapped me back fifteen years to the first time I was closest to that fragrance… shivering outside under the stars, not from the cold, but from doing things I’d only talked about. I quickly blinked away the memories. Nothing good could possibly come from reliving any of that time.
The venue was fine enough, I supposed, but it probably wouldn’t work. Over the years, I’d met Olivia only a handful of times, on the rare occasions when I succumbed to the time-honored Lee family tradition of piling on the guilt until I caved and flew into town for a holiday. During those times, I’d sneak away from the inevitable family drama and visit with Tommy’s mom, a neighbor, a woman who’d always treated me with more respect than my own mom. A few of those times Olivia had been there with expensive wine bottles and cashmere sweaters. All signs indicated her tastes were more extravagant than what this place could handle without a complete remodel.
Morgan marched up to the hostess stand. “Hi. Still waiting for the manager.”
Yikes.The words were friendly enough, but the delivery was like lemon juice on a stab wound. Thankfully, the hostesslooked more bored than offended. She shoved her phone in her back pocket and pointed to a table. “Just grab a table wherever. Want something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.” Morgan crossed the room to a corner booth without glancing back at me. She dropped her purse with a heavierthunkthan was needed and pulled out her phone.
Whatever. I wasn’t sure why I was slightly disappointed. Sure, it had been years since we’d seen each other, and yes, that last moment was pretty terrible, but I really thought Morgan would say something after the shock of seeing me wore off.
I slid into the booth and pulled out my phone but forced myself to not check emails. For the last two weeks, I’d been refreshing like a maniac, even though they told me no news would arrive for at least six to eight weeks.
But still… maybe one little refresh wouldn’t hurt.
As soon as I clicked it, the dopamine jolt flew up then plummeted with no new messages besides a notification for a health insurance auto-payment. I had to stop the obsessive clicking, but after landing an interview and a request for a portfolio submission fromBirch & Willowmagazine, I couldn’t stop.
Professional photographers had different dreams. Some wanted to work atVogue. Some,National Geographic. Some,Architectural Digest.Birch & Willowcombined all these worlds. A highly respected lifestyle magazine that was both gritty and bougie, focusing on uncovering the hidden beauty in America. Forgotten homes, a woman weaving a masterpiece blanket by hand with her homemade loom, abandoned lighthouses, historical grain belts, and remodeled buildings from the industrial revolution. This was what I was destined to do. Everything in my life—eating ramen noodles for a year, bulldozing past my parents’ “tough love” message that I’d never make it, taking every shit job available to afford rent and a decent camera in those early years—led to this moment.
I let my gaze flicker back to Morgan, who wastyping with her thumbs at a seriously impressive rate. Her pale skin was still lovely, one of those rarities who never broke out like the rest of the pimple-laden teen girls. Although the shape changed a bit, her face still held that round heart form and pouty mouth, making Morgan look younger than she was.
So many silent minutes later—minus the single table of cackling women in the corner—Morgan almost popped a neck tendon searching for the manager. She cocked her head at me. “Can youpleasestop bouncing your legs under the table.”
God, she’s the worst. I stopped, but not before I “accidentally” kicked the table hard enough to make the condiments rattle and some of Morgan’s water tip onto the surface.
“Such a child,” Morgan muttered and plucked a few napkins from the container.
