Page 7 of The Ex Effect
Morgan dug out keys from her purse. “Almost everything is dependent on the venue. I can’t book caterers, liquor, decorators, DJ, literally jack shit without knowing the date, and I can’t know the date until we book the venue.”
I grabbed my helmet off the bike handle and tucked it under my arm. “It’s gonna be fine. Something will work out.”
“Clearly, you have no idea what it takes to pull off a wedding, not to mention in three months.” Morgan’s fingers gripped the top of her door frame. “Olivia and Tommy haven’t even narrowed down the guest list or picked out colors so I can get even a semblance of a theme. I have to get invitation samples, flowers, guest gift ideas, the list is freakingendless.”
Christ, that tone. I was just trying to make Morgan feel better after this disastrous meeting. I tugged on the helmet with a smirk, refusing to give Morgan even a morsel of satisfaction that her snarkiness was getting to me. “Cool.”
“Cool?” Morgan glared. “You have no clue how complex planning a wedding is. You can’t just wing it like usual.”
Wing it. Well, it appeared Ms. Rose was, in fact, hanging on to some ancient bullshit. It had been a common theme in our previous relationship that I liked to “wing it.” I was the dreamer. Morgan was the planner. Which was cute, for a while. A little salt to the pepper, a yin to the yang, a balance during those chaotic teenage years. And it worked, until “wing it” morphed into “irresponsible” and “not to be trusted.”
And I wouldn’t point this out now, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. I had some idea of what it took to plan a wedding. “Fine, well, let me know when you find the next venue. You have my number.” God, that stupid, sweet face looked simultaneously tough, sharp, and verging on tears. I needed to just drive away, forget this happened, let her figure this out solo.Ughhhhh. Sometimes, I seriously hated myself. I choked on the olive branch I was about to purge. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”
“I absolutely donotneed your help.”
And I’m out. I kicked the side stand, pulled the clutch, and started the motorcycle. I revved it enough to be perfectly obnoxious, and sped out of the parking lot.
THREE
MORGAN
Why the hell did I say I didn’t need Frankie’s help? I blinked at the clock. It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. yet, and already the low but steady stress headache rumbled. By mid-day, it would most definitely rage against my skull—exactly what had been happening for the last three days since Frankie stomped her combat-boot-laden feet back into my world.
I eased myself up from the bed and checked my phone, hoping that a magical Google alert had popped up overnight, showing that a local-ishvenue had space for a wedding in roughly ninety days.
Nope. Nothing but a text message from my brother from ten minutes prior.
Sam:
Call me when you wake up.
I bolted upright. Ever since his wife, Lisa, got a devastating breast cancer diagnosis ten years ago, messages like this made me assume the worst. I slapped at my phone to dial.
The call picked up after one ring. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh yep. Just need a huge favor.” His annoyingly chipper voice rang through the phone.
“Don’t do that to me. Messages like that freak me the hell out.” I lowered myself down on my pillow. “God, it’s early. Don’t you sleep?”
“I have an infant, a toddler, and a first-grader. I never sleep.” A slurping noise sounded through the phone. “Can you swing by the bakery and pick up two dozen cupcakes? Long story short but the dog chewed Henry’s shin guards last night, we think the baby’s got an ear infection so wifey has to take her to urgent care, it’s Henry’s teammate’s birthday and our turn to bring treats, and I don’t think they’re going to get back from urgent care in time and?—”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?” I dug a knuckle into the corner of my eye.
“It’s a constant drip. I should IV it into my veins and save myself the trouble of brewing,” Sam said before yelling something inaudible to either a dog or a kid. “You didn’t forget the game today, did you?”
“I didn’t forget.”Unfortunately. I forgot nothing added to my beautifully organized, color-coded calendar, separated in categories of personal, professional, and family. But just because I had remembered it didn’t mean the highlight of my life was watching a bunch of seven- and eight-year-olds run around trying to kick a ball into a net.
I loved those kids to the deepest parts of my soul. Sometimes, when I thought about what would have happened if Lisa hadn’t survived her cancer and my nephews and niece would’ve never been born, an unbearable emptiness filled me. Every second not spent on my business, I spent with the kids, which was the only silver lining of my company’s downslide these last few years. Absorbing the growth milestones of the little ones was a gift. Last month, I even increased my Google Photos storage because Icouldn’t bear to delete any of the gazillion photos Sam sent of the kids every week. Even through their messes, boogers, and germs, I couldn’t get enough. However, I secretly looked forward to the time when they wanted to learn how to use a label maker, sort their clothes by color, or build a proper spreadsheet.
But watching them play sports was where if anyone questioned my love for them, I’d enter photos of me cheering from the sidelines as Exhibit A. Ihatesports.
“Cupcakes, you said?” I rested my forearm against my eyes to block the rising sun. “I wasn’t going into town today. You seriously owe me.”
“You got the looks and the brains in the family.” Sam chuckled. “The least you can do is pick up the cupcakes.”
“That’s true.” I grinned despite myself. “The grocery store or Zoey’s?”
“You think I want a mutiny on my hands? Zoey’s obviously.”
