Page 4 of The Ex Effect
Morgan glared at me, then finally sighed. “So did you move back to town or something?”
“Hell no.” I didn’t mean to say those wordssoharshly, but it was the truth. This town was great, beautiful, even. The full four seasons, Lake Superior, the endless lush greenery. The type of town where if your car broke down, the five people trailing you would help, no more than a three-degree separation existed from everyone, and full conversations took place in the grocery store line.
But this place also capped big dreams. Since I was little, I always knew I’d get out. It was more than escaping my toxic parents or giving the middle finger to teachers who said I was too obnoxious and couldn’t sit still. The town simply wasn’t big enough to hold me or my future. When I left right after graduation, I had one goal—move to New York and become a famous photographer. The desire for fame had dulled by my mid-twenties, and I settled for being lucky enough to pay for a halfway decent apartment I shared with my sister on my salary, while doing something I loved.
I took a sip of water. “I’m just back for a few months to takecare of some family things.” And the second I wrapped that up, I was hopping on a one-way flight, never to return.
Loud laughter from the table of women in the corner erupted. Morgan peeked over her shoulder, looked at her watch, and frowned. “You still in New York?”
I trailed a finger on the condensation on the glass. “Yep. Quinn and I have a place in Manhattan.”
A hint of a grin formed on Morgan’s face. “You’re living with your little sister, huh? What’s she doing out there?”
A better question would be what was Quinnnotdoing out there. Active social life, active work life, active everything. Ever since she was little, my younger sister seemed to be fueled by buckets of caffeine and a lithium battery. “She works on Wall Street if you can believe it.”
“No way. Huh,” she said. “Spunky little Quinn with her braces and freckles works on Wall Street? She’s forever stunted in my brain as a bratty fourteen-year-old. I can’t even picture her in a business suit.”
“Well, she technically works on Wall Street, but probably not the way you think. She’s the executive assistant of some bigwig. And she’s still annoying.” Quinn had both changed and not changed over all these years. Growing up, our grandma Peaches had called Quinn a jalapeño popper—crunchy, spicy, but inside she had some sweetness. Which was pretty much a perfect description. “What’s your brother up to these days?”
Morgan shrugged. “Sam’s the same. Works for Mom and Dad. Too many kids to count. Still arrogant, but I love him.” Morgan checked her watch again and sucked in her lips.
I finally peeked at my watch. We’d been waiting for well over ten minutes now, and Morgan’s face looked like it verged on blowing a gasket. She was gnawing away at the inside of her cheek, and I could hear her foot tapping under the table. Waiting like this was annoying, but what other option did we have? But red fanned from Morgan’s neck and up her cheeksand if I didn’t keep talking, I’d probably have to perform CPR. “So… wedding planning? How did you get into that?”
Morgan twisted the silver bangles on her wrist. “After college, I worked at a contracting firm in Duluth as a project coordinator. Since I had the lowest seniority, they’d put me in charge of coordinating office parties. I liked it, so they moved me to planning some community and client events. And then when Sam got married?—”
“Wait—Sam?” I lifted a brow. “Who did he marry?”
Morgan cocked her head. “Who do you think?”
No way.“Lisa? They’ve been together since like freshman year, right?”
“Seventh grade.”
I remembered Sam from when we were kids. He was a year younger and a nice-enough guy to banter with about the games. When Quinn and Morgan glazed over after two minutes of talking about anything with a ball, I usually defaulted to Sam. But it was hard for me to think of Sam as a married father, and not a backwards-baseball-hat-wearing, smart-mouthed jock.
Morgan finished the last of her water and wiped up the water mark on the table with a napkin. “They’re still nauseatingly happy, too. Got three blonde-haired, blue-eyed babies. They look like a freaking toothpaste commercial.”
I smiled and shifted in my seat. Sitting for any length of time always wreaked havoc on my system. Pretty soon, I’d need to burn the energy building in my limbs. “What about your parents? They still have the contracting company?”
“Yes, but it’s elevated a bit. Contracting, remodeling, landscaping, the whole thing. They have a full staff, an office downtown, everything.” Morgan peeled off her jacket and laid it in her lap. “They even bought Lutgen’s Nursery.”
“That place? Damn. They’d been in business forever.” Mr. and Mrs. Rose were some of the hardest-working people I’d ever seen. Sure, my parents were not exactly known for hard work—or stability, for that matter—but even so, Morgan’s folks were King and Queen Hustle. “Good for them.”
Morgan’s fingers tapped against the table, and she turned, presumably looking for the hostess, who was AWOL along with the owner. She leaned back against the pleather booth and crossed her arms. “So, you said you’re back home helping family?”
“Yeah, um.” I cleared my throat. “Peaches died, so I’m getting her place ready to sell.” Selling the place with so many good memories—warm cookies on Saturdays, chasing Quinn around the yard, watching goats eat mounds of grass—twisted my stomach.
Morgan inhaled a sharp breath. “Peaches? I’m… I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. It wasn’t the right movement to convey my feelings, but throwing myself into my ex-girlfriend’s arms so I could have a good solid sob wasn’t the right move, either. My grandma, “Peaches,” was a true force of nature. A five-foot-tall, strong, fiercely independent, and brutally honest German woman who took as much shit as she handed out. Peaches had loved hard, fought hard, and cussed so much, even I blushed. At ninety-two years old, it wasn’t shocking that she passed. But it still hurt like hell not having her in the world.
“She was an amazing woman,” Morgan said.
“Yeah, she was.” Peaches had always liked Morgan. She called her an old soul with a “firecracker spirit” and said Morgan reminded her of herself. I never knew if that was a compliment or insult, as Morgan’s stubbornness rivaled Peaches’s.
“If her house hasn’t changed, packing up is gonna take some time.”
“It’s evenworse.” I fiddled with the sugar packets on the table. “Do you remember the basement cellar with all the fruitshe canned in the eighties? Still there. Hundreds of jars of pickles, fruit, beans… sadly, no moonshine, though.”
