Page 37 of Sunny Side Up

Brooke’s was certainly the more proactive of the two responses.

But Noor’s was an awful lot easier to metabolize.

Plus, I was so busy. And so happy! Lbr was steady.

SONNY was moving along. Sunny Side Up was blowing up in the press, with my candor about body acceptance taking center stage—which was especially validating.

That the dating stuff wasn’t front and center was also a relief: Even though my dating content was now behind a paywall, I’d developed a light level of paranoia that if Ted’s internet assistant, James, had a paid subscription to SSU , he might figure out who the Silver Fox was.

Still, it felt like a major long shot given how vague I was about Silver Fox’s job and how I had never once mentioned our business connection.

Dennis, meanwhile, had no idea what Substack was.

He also told me the other day that reading on computers gave him migraines.

“I’m singlehandedly keeping the New York Post print division alive,” he’d bragged.

There was the matter of television, but again: Most of it revolved around body talk stuff.

The other thing the morning shows loved was all the fashion fodder that came with embracing personal style.

It seemed like every major morning talk show had referenced Sunny Side Up at least once.

Drew Barrymore was a fan. She read aloud from one of my posts about how to stop shit-talking yourself.

And Noor had recently been a guest chef on one of OWN TV’s cooking shows, where, through some TV-gossip grapevine, she learned that Theee Oprah Winfrey had read my second viral SSU post, about why I preferred body neutrality (“Yes I have cellulite, okay—moving on”) to body positivity (“I love my cellulite! It’s so special!

”). The latter was asking a lot of us, I’d explained, and it still centered our bodies, whereas taking a neutral stance gave us back the mental space to think about, like, literally anything else.

Although, worrying about new expanses of body fat was starting to sound like a mental vacation compared to my endless vacillating between Dennis and Ted.

Ted or Dennis? Dennis or Ted? Especially when my conscience reared its nosy head: Ahem, Sunny, how would you feel if the situation were reversed? I was starting to annoying myself.

I reminded myself of Noor’s mantra: “No ring? Not a thing.”

Set expectations early, though , an echo of Brooke’s rational voice reminded me.

But then an ear-splitting buzzer reverberated throughout the endless enormity of Madison Square Garden, and Ted squeezed my hand, and I forgot to do anything except cheer.

When Ted had invited me to join him courtside at the Knicks game, I was so excited that I lost all pretense of acting coy. I think I’d just yelled back at him, “WHAT?!” This was a major New York bucket list moment of mine. Duh.

I’d picked out an outfit that said, Oh? This old thing?

No, this is what I always wear when I’m sitting courtside next to Spike Lee.

The same thigh-high leather boots I knew Ted was mildly obsessed with, a black suede miniskirt, a white vintage Knicks T-shirt, and a Knicks-blue sweater around my shoulders.

I’d booked an at-home Glamsquad blowout so that my thick blond mane had no chance to argue; I’d done this cheek-amplifying blush trick that Avery had shown me on TikTok; and I’d applied two perfectly even rows of fake eyelashes.

I get really, uh, involved during games, so worked up that I can’t help it, and I felt some trepidation at the thought of Ted seeing me that way.

I cheer for the players at the top of my lungs.

I holler every time my team scores a point.

I stand up when I’m nervous about what’s about to happen.

And I lose my mind when I feel that my team is the victim of a ref’s shitty call.

Zack used to get so embarrassed by me when we went to games together, but I couldn’t help it. I’m passionate! Sue me.

During halftime, we went for a walk to his box to refill our drinks and grab some snacks. We passed a merch store on the way, and he pulled me inside.

Picking up a pair of oversize Knicks sunglasses from the rack by the door, he placed them on the bridge of his nose.

He grinned at me, “What? Too on the nose?” I gave a polite fake laugh.

I couldn’t help the small wave of ick that arose every time Ted made a corny joke.

I liked him best when he was in his sexy, in-charge, no-bullshit Businessman mode.

Ted ditched the sunglasses and walked up to the counter. He leaned over and whispered to the man behind the cashier, who then handed Ted a gigantic blue-and-orange box.

“Open this,” Ted said, then leaned casually against the counter.

I gave him a skeptical look and slid open the top. It was a box within a box, revealing a Knicks jersey. It was folded carefully, and as I lifted it up, I saw the customized back: In that awesome white font above the number 23 (my lucky number) was my name, Sunny .

I died . No one had ever given me a custom anything before, let alone a Knicks jersey.

He must have thought so far ahead to get this done in time, which meant thinking about me so far ahead.

And as far as “moves” go, this one was c-l-a-s-s-y .

Ted seemed to move through the world with such confidence and masterful ease.

It was hard not to feel pulled in by it.

I threw it on and was thrilled to find that I was swimming in it—it was perfectly oversize.

“It’s amazing. Thank you,” I said, pecking Ted on the cheek.

When my face was still pressed against his, he lowered his voice and whispered into my ear. “Here’s hoping I’ll see it on your floor later tonight.”

I blushed at his corny line but didn’t deny the prospect. “We’ll also take two foam fingers,” Ted said, slapping his palm on the counter.

Back at our seats, we could barely keep our hands off each other, grabbing at each other’s arms and legs.

Ted took a picture of me (from the worst possible angle) and posted it on his Instagram story, which felt major, because like I said earlier: His account was practically frozen in time and almost exclusively pictures of golf courses.

I wonder if Zack will see that , I thought to myself.

I couldn’t shake their random social media connection.

I also loved the possibility of making Zack jealous.

With the sound of the final buzzer, the Knicks cemented their win against the Celtics, 120–113. The roar of the crowd always gave me goosebumps, the city feeling that much lighter and brighter.

“Now it’s my turn to score,” Ted whispered in my ear, hunger in his voice. “My place or yours?”

I grinned, giddily. I placed my palm on his chest and tilted my face toward his, kissing him on the mouth. But then, out of nowhere, Ted dimmed the moment by looking up over my shoulder, right past my ear, and smiling into the distance.

He removed his hand from where he’d not-so-subtly been grabbing my ass and waved to someone behind me.

I turned around, assuming he was preparing to introduce me to a business hotshot or model or maybe a famous rapper, but nothing could have prepared me for the face I saw instead.

Zack.

Zack was here.

My ex-husband’s face went white as I watched his gaze clock me. His eyes lingered on mine. I could feel the heat, the energy, from across the stands.

In slow motion, Zack waved back from where he was standing, halfway up the stairs and already headed to the exit line.

He was with another journalist and a photographer, all wearing press passes.

I knew Zack and Ted operated in the same circles.

I never expected to be standing right in the middle of them.

Ted called out first. “Helluva a game, right? Good to see you.” He wrapped his arm around my low back, and I felt a rush of simultaneous pride and fear, knowing Zack would have to watch me now, being held by a successful man, looking my best.

“Here we go, Knicks,” Zack called back over. Even from rows away, I could tell that his voice was too even, too tight. He was keeping his cool, his sports-guy composure, but I knew his ticks too well by now. His jaw was tight. He turned around before anyone could exchange additional words.

Holy hell.

I had run into Zack.

And was he… dare I imagine… jealous ?!

Had he seen our make-out session? Had he spotted us earlier in the game? Had he taken in my incredible custom jersey and how much more impressive it was than socks ?

If he knew Ted and I slept together, would he be jealous? Was revenge an awful reason to sleep with someone?

Was it revenge though? I wanted to sleep with Ted. I was attracted to him, to his energy, but I suddenly couldn’t separate thoughts of Ted from thoughts of Zack.

And suddenly, I went from feeling like I’d won to feeling a little sick.

“So, my place, was it?” Ted twirled me back around, pulling me closer, completely unfazed.

What have I gotten myself into? I thought to myself, anger building alongside nausea. Ted was successful, put together. He was a textbook catch. He wanted to go home with me! It was almost too good to be true. So why wasn’t I jumping in wholeheartedly?

Seeing Zack had rattled me. And I hated myself for it.

Watching Zack watch me. He was jealous, right? He had to be.

I looked good, though, and I knew it. New body and all.

He hadn’t even said hello.

“I’m so sorry, Ted, I just started feeling so nauseous,” I said, pushing my way to the exit, fake excuses already formed and falling off my tongue.

But then, I decided to try being honest. Until this point, I’d managed to avoid sharing the specifics of my ex with Ted, but I knew all about his.

It seemed only fair to tell him the truth now, too.

“Actually, sorry. Remember I said that my ex-husband worked in sports? Well, that was him. Zack Peterson. I haven’t seen him since we broke up… until now.”

Ted’s eyebrows instantly furrowed. “Oh, Sunny, I had no idea. God, I feel like an idiot.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said quickly. “How could you have known? I didn’t tell you. Plus, I should’ve expected he’d be here. He practically pays rent at MSG. But it was a lot to run into him and now, well, I guess it’s making me feel like I just want to go home.”

Ted frowned, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Want me to come with? Help take your mind off it?”

I gave him a weak smile. “Next time, I promise,” I said.

He took my hand and squeezed it. “I get it completely. Divorce, right?”

I was grateful for his no-more-questions-asked sympathy as he ushered me back through the box and out the exit. He put me in a cab and gave me a sweet kiss goodnight. I kept my eyes closed during the quick ride back to my apartment, grateful for the short trip home.

I expected to feel relief as I arrived, alone, back in my apartment, but I continued to spiral.

Zack’s eyes and voice and face infiltrated all my thoughts.

To distract myself, I started leafing through the mail, and that made me think of Dennis.

Sweet, kind, funny Dennis. But now, with Zack taking up residence in my mind, thoughts of Dennis were plagued by a fresh image of Zack, eye- rolling in the corner of my brain.

Really, Sunny? You want to fuck the mailman? That desperate?

PLEASE LEAVE MY brAIN!

I pushed Dennis, Ted, and Zack out of my mind, determinedly focusing on the mail on the counter.

But there, at the bottom of the stack, I saw thick cardstock that made my heart shoot up into my throat again.

Sunny Greene and Guest.

Michael’s wedding invitation.

A reminder of my ultimatum, not to mention of the fact that I still wasn’t closer to deciding who I would bring.

Later, I got a text from Zack, which didn’t surprise me, given that he had a near-psychic knack for stirring the pot when I was already spiraling. Still, it made my stomach drop:

Zack: Sorry I had to run off so quick back there—had to make it to the postgame press conference. Work has been crazy, but now I can’t get you out of my head. Can we meet up next week? I have something I need to talk to you about.

Can’t get you out of my head? What the actual fuck?