Page 13 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
“Well, partly because if you sleep with a girl too often, she tends to get the wrong idea. And I can’t afford to piss off any top models in this industry. Plus, I have an early flight out tomorrow to Seattle. I’m heading home, going to take a few weeks off to regroup.”
“Can I have her number?” He snickers.
“Sure, if you ask her for it and she gives it to you.”
He rolls his eyes at me.
“Hey, good luck at college in the fall,” I say.
“Thanks, man. I learned a lot today, hope to work with you again.”
I nod in response, then get in my car and take off. I’m looking forward to room service, scotch, and a big bed all to myself.
Once at the hotel, I carefully remove my disguise. The mustache wreaks havoc on my upper lip. Then I take a long, hot shower, throw on a clean pair of sweat pants, grab a scotch from the mini-bar and pour it over ice, and switch on the news while I wait for my dinner to be delivered.
“And for our top story in entertainment news, actress Tabatha Seton has announced her engagement to millionaire tech genius, Hunter Simpcox. Seton was married for a short time to award-winning photographer, Pax Baldwin, before splitting for good ten years ago. Let’s hope she can make this one last a bit longer, am I right? No word yet on when the nuptials will take place or where. And in other news . . .”
I stop my glass halfway to my mouth. They’ve got a picture of Tabs with the tech genius up on the screen. My Tabs. Rather, my ex-wife, Tabs. The guy looks exactly like one of those nouveau riche douchebags who just got a bunch of money and wants to make sure everyone knows it. My heart sinks.
Tabatha’s getting married. To a tech genius douchebag.
Well, good for her.
I guess.
I tell myself it doesn’t bother me, except it might. I also tell myself I’m over her, but that’s probably not entirely true either. She was my first big love. But we were too young, too stupid, and way too stubborn.
I finish my first drink and pour another. Then call down to room service and ask them to bring a big bottle with my dinner.
I’m going to need it.
* * *
My flight to Seattle lands on time, and thanks to being in first class, I’m one of the first out the door. I moved back to Seattle after Tabatha and I divorced and eventually bought a place on Puget Sound. It’s still home to me over anywhere else, especially Los Angeles.
I take my phone off airplane mode and head through the jetway to the gate, my camera and laptop bags banging against my back and butt as I go. My cell starts beeping almost immediately with voicemail alerts.
I punch the button to hear the first message as I jog down the escalator to the subway/tram that will take me to baggage claim and the taxi stations. Sea-Tac is about an hour from my place in Port Orchard, which is just outside Seattle. Depending on the ferry schedule, I might not make it home for two hours.
My first message is from my business manager. She heard about Tabatha’s engagement and wants to make sure I’m okay.
Short of a massive hangover, I’m fine. More power to her and her douchey fiancé.
Second message is from my best friend, Gregor. Same sentiment.
What the fuck? Why do they think I’m going to have an issue with this? It’s been ten years since we were together. It’s not like I haven’t seen other people. I’ve had plenty of sex, plenty of dates, plenty of action. It’s possible that none of them measured up.
It’s not for lack of trying on my part. I am very active in my attempts to get over my ex.
I call Gregor back first. “Dude,” he answers. “Where you at?”
“I just landed at Sea-Tac. I’m heading home.”
“I’m twenty minutes from there, heading north. Want a ride and we can go grab a beer?”
Gregor’s twenty minutes ends up being thirty. But it gives me a chance to text my manager and tell her not to worry, and then to check email.
I’m about halfway through all my email, deleting nonsense messages and answering legit ones, when Gregor pulls up, some kind of 70s playlist blaring from the speakers in his Expedition. He’s a very large man, offensive tackle for the Seabirds. Six feet five inches, three hundred pounds of solid muscle, big hair, long red beard and mustache. He could easily pass for a Viking—the seafaring kind, not the Minnesota kind. We’ve known each other since we were kids. In my early days as a photographer he tried to help me get into sports photography, but it didn’t pan out.
