Page 30 of The Ex Effect
“Then what?” I asked, swallowing back the sandwich with a swig of water.
Morgan stopped the bottle mid-air before taking a drink. “What do you mean,then what?”
Whoa. Did her tone really change like that? The question still stood. This fascination/obsession with time and following certain archaic rules was so over the top. No wonder Morgan always looked stressed out. If she could lighten up just the tiniest, she’d probably be happier. “I mean…then what? Seriously. What happens if the invitations are sent at seven, or even four, weeks before the wedding?” I took another bite and shifted the food to the side of my cheek. “No one will die, you know? This isn’t life or death. It’s not like we’re pediatric surgeons or something.”
Morgan’s face flamed. She tossed her sandwich aside and jumped off the tailgate. “You literally have no respect for what I do.”
Was she actually serious? I had God knows what sort of rat-infused rust, glass shards, and splinters all over my clothes, my muscles were on fire, and not that I’d ever say anything, but I’d way overexerted myself these last six hours and tonight I’d have to ice my knee for an hour. And Morgan was saying I had no respect? Screw her. Seriously.
“What the hell do you mean, no respect?” I snapped. “I’ve busted my ass all day to helpyoumake this day great. It’s not like anyone from the wedding will say ‘great job, Frankie, you really cleaned the hell out of that place.’”
“That is not the goddamn point! You’re always late for everything, and you have this…attitude…this, ugh, all-encompassing…vibe…that you just don’t give a shit.” Morgan’s hands jutted with every sputtered word. “I can’t rely on you, and yet I need your help, and I’m totally trapped.”
Maybe “rely” was a bit of a trigger word after hearing that a million times over in my life, but I hopped off the truck, hard, and landedjust righton my bad knee. An electric white heat shot through my leg and I clamped my teeth together.
I never asked to be born with the brain I had, and no chance in hell would I admit to Morgan the shame I carried for years when I’d forget things, or not finish tasks, or get so focused on something that I lost track of time. It took years in therapy, reading every article I could on ADHD management, and a solid medication regimen, to let some of this go. And in a snap, Morgan threw it in my face. “You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that? People bend over backwards to do everything you want them to do. You just think because you’re beautiful, smart, organized, and have never made a mistake since you were ten that everyone needs to fall in line. News flash—this is not the military. I donothave to listen to your orders. I could walk away this second and not give you or this place another thought.”
Shit.That was too far, and definitely not true. But the fire was ignited, the words just exploded, and I was at the end of the goal line refusing to lose to my opponent.
Morgan stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “Well, at least I know some things never change.”
The words landed with the intended sucker punch, and my gut dropped. As Morgan stomped away, I flashed my gaze between Morgan, the barn, and the truck. It would beso easyto tear out of the driveway and go back to Peaches’s. But if I did that, I’d be no better than what Morgan said. Yet, the idea of continuing to work with Morgan for the rest of the summer constricted my chest so tight I needed to cough.
I kicked at a rock embedded in the tire. Right here, right now, was a fork-in-the-road decision. Stay or go.
And I had no idea what I was going to do.
TWELVE
MORGAN
My ears perked at the sound of Frankie’s truck firing up, its shoddy, rattling muffler echoing across the valley. But when the distinct crunch of gravel sounded, I peeked out of the barn door at the dust kicking up from the back tires as Frankie tore out of the property, and my heart sank.
She left.Again. Just like that. Yet again, I wasn’t worth helping, worth staying for. My lower lip trembled, but I sucked it into my mouth and bit it to make it stop. But…why did I say those things to Frankie? What was wrong with me? Frankie was a goddamn workhorse, lifting and moving as much as the crew. And instead of saying thank you and essentially paying her back with a turkey club, I railed into her about being late.
And Frankie wasn’t even late. Not technically, anyway. Ugh. I made Frankie feel like shit, and for what? Because the tension of executing on an impossible timeline was building, brimming, bubbling over, and I had to lash out at someone, something, and Frankie was an easy target? When did I become this person?
I tugged on my work gloves and returned to the barn.Am Ieven allowed in here without Frankie?I seriously hoped that Pete and Patty didn’t mean that Frankie had to literally watch over me—which was a joke anyway. Frankie was the least responsible person I knew. It’s like asking a toddler to babysit a college kid. She couldn’t even make it a full day without storming off like a child.
She’s coming back, though, right?Dammit. What would I do if she didn’t? Beg Pete and Patty to let me have the wedding here anyway, even though they explicitly said only if Frankie were involved? Work through some magical third party like Sam or Frankie’s sister, Quinn, who could negotiate a truce between Frankie and me, and she could come here after hours and sift through the items I wasn’t sure I should throw?
No, no. She’d come back. She had to. There was no way she’d do this to Tommy and Olivia.I think. I hope.But then again, she did it to me. All those years ago…
I kicked at a small piece of broken pallet and surveyed the area. Nothing good was going to come from me sitting here wallowing and wondering if Frankie was coming back. I needed to just plow through this and keep my fingers crossed we’d make this work.
Okay, okay.I can do this. The corner of the barn held dozens of boxes of old Christmas decorations. Some good, some broken, everything filled with years’ worth of grime. Inside one tote, I nearly gagged on the smell and made an executive decision to toss the entire thing. After lugging it to the dumpster, I prayed it didn’t contain some special family heirloom.
How did Sam do this type of work every day? I twisted my back until it popped like gunfire, then returned to the barn.
So many things to do. Tools, dirt, broken windows, junk pile, junk yard, trim trees, trim bushes… My chest squeezed. I scooped up broken glass and dumped it in the trash. Place settings, flowers, wedding cake, invitations, call the florist, find aDJ, arrange table and chair renting… My heartbeat quickened, throbbing in my throat. It was too much. I couldn’t handle this. I put a fist on top of the broom handle and leaned my forehead against the top.
“Dude, you workin’ or what?” Sam’s voice sounded behind me.
I breathed in a sharp breath and jabbed at a dirt pile with so much ferocity, I almost broke the handle in half. “That’s all I ever do. Work, work, work. There’s nothing else in my lifeexceptfor work. Sorry I had the audacity to take a two-minute effing break!”
“Whoa.” Sam gripped the handle, and when I yanked it away, he tugged tighter. “You’re not mad at the broom, so let’s go easy on it, okay? We already know you could totally take it on in a street fight.”
Even Sam couldn’t get me to crack a smile. Even though six of us worked for hours today, we didn’t even make a dent in the overflowing piles of shit.Why did I think this was a good idea? Why did I ever say yes to Olivia? God, maybe I should just quit and work for my parents.Sam seemed happy enough. I could give up my business and stop having the stress of doing everything alone, stop crumbling under the burden that every damn decision might make or break my business, stop shouldering the responsibility of people’s dreams.
