Page 7 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
“You’re not.”
I let out a breath and glance around the room.
“Okay,” I say, sitting up straighter, tossing my phone aside. “Hear me out.”
Ethan sighs, already wary. “God, what now?”
“If this week is basically a landmine field disguised as a wedding, don’t we need a better strategy than ‘keep Nick from combusting’?”
He sets his beer down with a soft clink, then steeples his fingers like he’s preparing for a board meeting or a TED Talk. “You have a better idea?”
“I’m just saying…” I stretch my arms overhead, feel my spine pop. “Maybe we don’t avoid the drama. Maybe we control it. Lean into it. Redirect it.”
“You want to, what, direct the chaos like a stage manager?”
“Exactly!” I grin and snap my fingers. “Look, we all know Nick’s going to crack. Maya might crack. Hell, Liam might emotionally short-circuit if this turns into a full-blown feelings-fest. But if we guide it—steer it—then maybe we make it through without anyone needing stitches or a restraining order.”
Ethan stares at me for a long beat. He’s wearing an guarded look and I can’t tell if he’s going to give me a lecture or laugh in my face.
Then he says, in a deadpan tone, “You want to emotionally manipulate the entire wedding party like some kind of social puppet master.”
“Wow.” I nod slowly. “That’s hurtful. I prefer ‘emotionally facilitate.’Or like… wedding week logistics coordinator, but for trauma.”
His mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile.
“You’re an agent of chaos.”
“No, no, no,” I say, pointing at him. “I’man agent of order…withinthe chaos. There’s a difference.”
Ethan finally smirks. “We could test it on Liam,” he says dryly.
Oh, I like that idea. “Start small. Subtle. See how long it takes him to notice we’ve made him team dad.”
“He already is,” he mutters, plucking one of the fancy coasters off the table and spinning it between my fingers.
“True. But what if heknewit?” I say, leaning forward. “Might finally get him to relax. Embrace his true form.”
“And what, put on a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ apron and start doing group check-ins over breakfast?”
I grin. “God, I’dpayto see that.”
We lapse into silence again. The film continues flickering on the TV—now some kind of moody black-and-white shot of two people arguing in French—and the room feels a little too calm. Like we’re waiting for something to explode.
I glance at the door, wondering when Nick will show up again. He’s gone out with Danielle to pick their mom from the airport.
“You think Nick’s still mad?” I ask.
Ethan doesn’t answer right away.
He’s staring out the window, watching the streetlights flicker on one by one as twilight deepens outside Danielle’s perfectly staged living room. The faint hum of a passing car and the soft clink of ice in his glass fill the silence between us.
“He’s not mad,” Ethan finally says, low and measured. “He’s hurt. And he doesn’t know where to put it.”
That’s the thing about Ethan. He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t dress up the truth in pretty wrapping paper. He drops it in your lap like a weight and leaves you to deal with it however you can.
“Cool, cool,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “So basically, we’re babysitting a bruised ego and trying not to ruin Danielle’s dream wedding.”
“Basically.”
