Page 11 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

FIVE

FRANKIE

Well, look at that. We’re practically right on time .

Not that Morgan’s body language seemed to agree.

On the way up to the farm, Morgan had remained almost totally silent, swiping manically on her phone and glancing at her watch no less than three billion times.

If that didn’t give me some serious relationship PTSD, I don’t know what did.

During our relationship, Morgan had never trusted me with anything—not buying our prom corsages, or making date-night plans, or filling up my truck with gas ( it only ran out once and she acted like it happened daily ).

Nothing. Sure, was it nice sometimes? Yeah.

My brain was like a ping-pong machine, and details and me were not friends.

But did it also feel demeaning and frustrating? Yeah.

Morgan was almost as fidgety as me, which was not a good sign for someone normally borderline robotic.

Thank God I’d run back to switch my motorcycle for the truck because when I got to Peaches’s place, I realized I forgot to take my ADHD medication that morning.

The beauty and curse of those meds—they kicked in right away.

But then left my system just as quickly.

Seemed like an invitation for disaster for someone like me—who was constantly forgetting tasks or procrastinating—to remember to take it when I was unmedicated.

I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until I was twenty-one, when finally some of my doomscrolling on social media one day paid off, and I was inundated with “is this you?” type content.

I saw myself in all of those ads and knew I had to make a change.

As a kid I could never stay in my seat, often got in trouble for interrupting people or blurting out answers in class or constantly forgot lunch bags or backpacks at home.

But as I entered into the professional world, the inability to complete tasks and forgetting things was no longer acceptable, and I was fired from my first few jobs after high school.

I knew if I was serious about my photography career—which I was—I had to get some help.

The truck tires bumped over a gravel road, and I gripped the wheel.

There was something so comforting about being behind the wheel in Peaches’s truck—the same vehicle my grandma taught me to drive in at twelve.

Yeah, country roads or not, there was nothing legal about me driving that young.

But neither was my grandma refusing to wear her seatbelt and taking small sips of strawberry schnapps from a flask.

“It’s not even real alcohol,” Peaches used to say while smacking her bright-pink-lipsticked lips and checking her reflection in the vanity mirror.

Thinking back on it now, everything about that sounded unethical and dangerous. But that was just who Peaches was.

I’d started sifting through all the things in Peaches’s house, but I’d barely made a dent.

I had been prepared for Peaches’s death.

Ready, even. And yet, two days ago I bawled in the kitchen over a stack of old Good Housekeeping magazines.

Every item replayed a memory. The bags of scraps used for quilts, the clunky wooden sewing machine and drawers of threads, plastic Cool Whip containers used for Tupperware.

Tucked away in a mothball-smelling closet were a million knitted blankets, sheets, and pillows, like an army of children might arrive and need to take a nap on her green shag carpet.

But selling this truck was going to break my heart.

I ran my hands across the steering wheel, the familiar ridges massaging my palm.

Every time I was in town, I slipped into the truck like a bath.

The torn seat, the smell of the years imbedded into the fake leather, the clunky shifting gear, was like home.

The truck itself carried memories, and I glanced at Morgan more than once to see if a flicker of those flashed through her during the drive.

For all I knew, Morgan didn’t remember the truck at all.

But surely, she remembered a truck, right?

Sophomore year, during the fall, crisp orange and brown leaves passing by as we drove up the hill in Duluth for the million-dollar view of Lake Superior.

Unhinging the tailgate, gathering blankets and candy.

Staring at the water until the sky turned dark, then lying back on the truck bed and gazing at the stars.

We held hands and talked about our dreams, and whatever cliché existed about the first time in the back of the vehicle didn’t apply.

It was magical. Trembling hands, nervous fingers, the chill in the air matching the goosebumps on skin.

The stars and moonlight providing just enough light for two self-conscious girls exploring bodies for the first time.

So yes, I would sell this truck last and only to the right person.

Branches tapped on the window as I navigated down a road. A hand-painted wooden sign and an arrow said: Greenburg Farms—This Way .

“Almost there,” I said as I swerved around potholes.

“I saw the sign.”

God, that tight tone was ear-scratch-inducing. My jaw clenched. After ten minutes of one- or two-word answers, to a full-on dead stop, I was over the attitude. “What’s your problem? Are you pissed that I asked you to come along?”

Morgan pulled her lips into her mouth. “I’m not pissed . ”

I tossed a “bullshit” side-eye.

Morgan exhaled through her nostrils. “Look, I hate being late. Hate it. If we’re…if I’m… late, it’s rude, shows the other person that their time is not as valuable as mine, and throws us off schedule. When that happens, it’s hard for me to get back into a rhythm.”

Ah. That old bitter anxiety bug was clearly gnawing on Morgan’s nerves, and although I didn’t fully understand, I wasn’t a totally un-empathetic human being.

Sure, I might fret a bit at situational things…

like if the magazine would offer me a job.

But as long as I had food in my belly and a roof over my head, I wasn’t anxious.

But I definitely remembered this from our childhood—Morgan completely freaking out waiting for test scores, asking me if she sounded stupid when she did the dreaded class presentation, biting her nails as she waited for the college admissions response even though she was a straight-A student.

The closest I ever came to that was junior year when my team was one game away from going to state in basketball, and we were down by twelve with four minutes left.

A few wild turkeys waddled across the road, and I skidded to a stop. Freaking wild turkeys? How did I forget they just roamed free like this? “We’re like two minutes late.”

“Five,” Morgan snapped. “They may be your friends, but they’re not mine and it’s totally unprofessional. I’m going to be mortified when they’re standing there waiting for us.”

Jesus Christ, this one. Morgan may as well take a bullhorn and announce to the townsfolk that she thought I was an irresponsible failure.

“They’re not standing there waiting for us.

What do you take me for? I wouldn’t actually be late to a meeting with a client, friends or not.

” I gripped the shifter and jammed it into first gear.

“I wanted to get here at one thirty, to scope out the place and bring in my equipment. Olivia and Tommy won’t be here until two. ”

A silent Oh left Morgan’s mouth in what I could only assume was an apology.

At the end of the path, I navigated the truck through an open rusted metal gate that looked like it was two seconds from falling over. Down the drive in front of a gray barn, I pulled over and killed the engine.

“Wow.” Morgan slammed the truck door closed and stood, hands on her hips.

Uff-fucking-da. “Wow” was right. This place had gone downhill in a hurry.

Granted, nearly twenty years had passed since I’d last stepped foot onto Pete and Patty’s property, but I remembered it being filled with life.

Back in the day, it was the land of strung holiday lights, music, and kids climbing on bales of hay.

The once sturdy barn which doubled as a small gift shop was faded and cracked with years of rain, snow, and hail.

Broken chairs and tools scattering the lawn made the space look like a junkyard.

Weeds twisted up the five-foot tall wheels of a tractor to the left, the formerly pristine trimmed bushes were overgrown, and dozens of dead hanging plants littered the fractured patio area. Yikes.

The maple trees sagged, low and sad, like they carried the memories of the joy-filled days of being tapped for syrup but crumpled under the weight of abandonment.

I squinted against the sun and surveyed the rest of the property.

Thankfully, the pines were still beautiful. But everything else was a disaster.

“I remember coming here.” Pebbles crunched under Morgan’s feet as she moved toward the barn. “It’s, uh, changed. A lot.”

Must’ve been during sophomore or junior year when I brought Morgan out here during the holiday season. Layered up like the abominable snowman with scarves and hats, we strolled hand in hand, drank hot chocolate with marshmallows, and waited for our turn to hop on a hayride driven by my uncle .

Morgan tapped the railing on the side of the barn. “It’s still beautiful, though.”

Um, what? “Beautiful?” No way did I just hear Morgan, who was literally wearing a white peacoat and some sort of sparkly pendant, call this place beautiful.

Sure, my job was capturing the beauty in traditionally unbeautiful spaces, but this was on an entirely different level. “Are you being sarcastic?”

Morgan stuffed her hands into her jacket. “Not at all.”

“This place looks like it’s verging on being condemned by the authorities.”

Morgan arched a brow. “And people think I’m the dramatic one. Have you never heard of rustic chic?”