Page 38 of The Ex Effect
Once the shock of the ice-cold water prickling my skin wore off, I dug around for skippers. As I flung them, skimming them on the glass-like water, I tried reasoning the feelings. It was familiar, that’s all. Like going back home and overeating your mom’s legendary tater-tot hot dish, knowing it’s terrible for you, but the nostalgia felt too good in themoment. Maybe Morgan was simply the human equivalent of comfort food.
Dammit, though, she didn’t deserve how I reacted today. But having her close, smelling that vanilla rose on her neck, feeling that curvy waist as I dipped her, zinged through me. That plump bottom lip and her pouty mouth was just so there, so prominent, begging for a kiss. I wanted to know if they still tasted the way I remembered. So, when Savannah called, it was like being thrown into an ice bath after having warm feelings, and Morgan got the brunt of the shock. But at minimum, Morgan deserved an apology.
When my feet nearly turned numb and my rotator cuff ached from skipping rocks, I knew exactly what I had to do. I grabbed my phone and dialed Morgan.
The most hyper-responsive, efficient person I knew didn’t pick up.
SIXTEEN
MORGAN
Frankie has a goddamn wife.
I blinked at my bedroom clock, refusing to move my body until the time hit a respectable 6:00 a.m. Damn my brain, nudging me awake an hour ago and refusing to let me rest, swirling with the same thoughts since Frankie dropped the whole “I have a wife” bomb three days ago.
Each day, I thought I’d cool down. I mean, honestly, did I have a right to be this mad? But every day I got more upset. The guilt was thick, and I tried to review our every single interaction to see if I inappropriately flirted.
Where was the wife, anyway? She obviously didn’t come with Frankie to Minnesota. But now I wanted to know why…why the wife wasn’t here, why Frankie never mentioned her, why Frankie grinned at me with those stupid dimples making me all gooey, why Frankie looked at me the way she did when we danced. I didn’t imagine that. It was like I was being lust gaslit or something, and even though I sometimes read into things, I wasn’t reading into that look.
I deserved to know. Didn’t I? Wasn’t that something thatshould’ve come up while hauling wood piles or sifting through table settings? Sure, I hadn’t asked, and Frankie hadn’t asked if I was in a relationship. So really, maybe I misread this micro-lust bullshit happening in my body, andChrist, that was embarrassing.
But also, thank God Frankie was married because the last thing I needed was a summer fling with an old high school girlfriend. Sure, I was in a different space from when I was eighteen. But I could only imagine tripping over myself, falling back in love, and getting my heart broken, yet again, by the same woman.
So, no. I should be grateful Frankie was married. Damn near ecstatic, honestly. So why did it hurt so bad?
6:00 a.m. hit and I dragged myself into the shower. Just because I couldn’t sleep didn’t mean I didn’t have the urge to wiggle under the covers and eat Cheetos and watch terrible TV all day. This wedding was the only thing stopping me from sinking into a deep dark wallowing tub.
The water beat on me and I breathed through the vanilla steam. At some point, I really did need to talk to Frankie. But since the day at the campus, I ignored Frankie’s two phone calls and oneI think we should talktext message. Instead, I sent a text that later that evening, telling her I didn’t need help for a few days, to take some time off and ice her knee, and I had it all under control.
Which was both a truth and a lie.Of courseI had things under control. Controlling every detail of the wedding was the only thing giving me a reprieve. But I was buried under an avalanche of renovation and wedding stuff. Fortunately, the crew was ahead of schedule, and Olivia had picked out the invitations. I spent four hours yesterday hand-addressing each one and bringing them to the post office while absolutely not imagining what Frankie’s wife looked like.
I stepped out of the shower and threw on theLove ’Em orLeave ’Empodcast as I dried my hair. The voicemail segment began, where Ruby replayed a message from a caller to her listeners. This was always gutsy—what if the other person involved in the relationship was listening?
“Hey, Ruby, here’s my question,” the caller started. “I’ve kept something from my partner, which I don’t think is that big of a deal. But the situation is snowballing and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I grabbed a round brush from the drawer and popped up the volume two notches.
“A few weeks ago, this cute guy at work flirted with me. At first, I thought he was just being nice. But it was a definite flirt, and I thought it was a one-time thing. However, he’s still doing it, and I’m feeling pretty guilty. Anyway, I’ll never act on it, of course. So, my question, do I need to tell my husband? Is there truly an obligation to tell my spouseeverything? It’s harmless and I’m not sure what good would come out of telling him.”
Hmm, telling people the truth. What a novel effing idea. I shut the drier off and moved to the flat iron.
“Thanks to the listener for this question. I think I need to open up live calls one day because I havesooooomany questions,” Ruby said. “So, the answer is tricky. Do I tell my wife, Amelia, everything? Of course not. It would take forever to give a play-by-play of our days. Not to mention I’d bore her to tears. And sometimes I’ve withheld things. For instance, last year she tried what she called ‘strawberry blonde highlights.’ She came home from the hairdresser and asked…Is this orange? Does it look terrible?And the truth was, yes, it was orange and yes, it looked terrible. But did I withhold that? You bet your bottom dollar I did. I haven’t stayed married for the last thirteen years by sharingeverything.”
I smoothed the iron through my hair waiting for Ruby’s response.
“But you’re asking if you have an obligation to tell yourhusband that this man flirted with you? My question back to you is, why, on the first day that it happened, did you not run home and say, ‘You’ll never believe what so and so said,’ or ‘How do I handle this.’ Because quite often bodies don’t lie. And you said you were feeling guilty, which leads me to believe you were not totally innocent yourself in the flirting. Unless you’re in an unhealthy relationship with a jealous partner, I think you need to dig deep for the reason why you didn’t tell him in the first place.”
Guilt.So I was feeling guilty, and according to Ruby Reanne—who clearly doesn’t know jack shit—that meant that my body was indicating there was something brewing inside, under the surface. And now…I was pissed again. I yanked my makeup drawer open and slapped the cosmetics on the counter.
I needed to take a break from everything. Working thirty-plus days without a single day off was not doing me any favors. So today,mostly, was for me. After getting a beautiful cup of coffee from Connie’s place, I’d run to Joe’s hardwood store to check if the wood planks for Tommy and Olivia’s personalized corn hole stand came in, stop at Julie’s glass shop to finalize the couple’s glassware, then meet Sam and the kids at the waterfront for the antique festival.
Two hours later, all errands done and belly full of caffeine, I found one of the last remaining parking spots near the waterfront and weaved through the crowd until I found Sam pushing a stroller near the food stands.
“Only the baby today?” I peeked over the stroller canopy at the sleeping, chunky baby. For a moment, I contemplated picking her up and giving her some auntie smooches, but decided the more responsible plan would be to let her sleep.
“Yeah. Lisa took the older ones to a birthday party.” He held out a cardboard container. “Cheese curd?”
I popped one into my mouth and chewed on the fried,salted dough. “God, these are so terrible and greasy.” I reached for another one. “I’ll take two, thanks.”
