Page 14 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

SEVEN

FRANKIE

I walked past the crisp American flag next to the even crisper pride flag waving in front of Peaches’s house.

God bless my grandma, the first in the neighborhood to raise a pride flag outside her home the moment I came out at twelve.

I’ll never forget biking here after school one day and watching Peaches hoist that thing tall and proud, the rainbow waving majestically in the wind.

Throughout the years, as Peaches’s garden overgrew, her lime-green couch sunk, and the crank on her windows stopped working, she still replaced both those flags with new ones every two years.

I tossed my keys on the side table and looked around the space.

No matter how many times I entered the house, the smell covered me like a warm weighted blanket in the middle of a snowstorm.

The scent of my grandmother’s Elizabeth Taylor Passion signature perfume, cinnamon from decades of baking, old carpet, and dusty furniture imbedded into every fiber.

I wanted to capture it in one of the thousand mason jars Peaches had in the basement and bring it with me when I returned to New York.

After being back for over two weeks now, I thought I’d be further along with packing up Peaches’s house, but I swore it looked the same as when I started.

But every item held a memory, and every memory deserved to be honored.

For years, I smirked about Peaches being a hoarder and holding on to things like random container lids with no containers.

And here I was, looking at the same box of multi-colored crocheted granny squares that I’d been staring at all week, refusing to add them to the donation pile.

I flopped on the guest bed I’d been staying in since returning to Spring Harbors, and the bed springs croaked in response.

My parents had reluctantly offered me a room in their house, but I figured I’d be dragged into some MLM presentation with my mom or forced to join my dad at the pawn shop.

Renting my dad’s Harley for a hefty fee for the summer—even though he could no longer ride—was a favor enough.

Although Peaches’s ghost lingered the halls, sleeping at this house was a safer bet.

Last night, I got ahold of Pete and Patty and chatted with them about using their property for a wedding.

At first, it was a quick and resounding no.

To which I nearly said, “Oh, thank God,” and hung up.

But guilt gnawed at me. I could see the desperation in Morgan’s eyes, and only marginally cared to help her if I was being honest. Was there a little lingering bitterness between Morgan and I?

Obviously. And her lack of options wasn’t my problem.

I was hired to shoot the wedding and engagement photos, not make sure they had a venue.

But I’m also not an idiot. I’d seen Woodlands and could recognize that the likelihood of other options existing were minimal if nonexistent.

And Tommy’s mom had been solid to me growing up.

A neighborhood woman with a kind smile and a lush strawberry field who liked to bring buckets of the fruit to our house.

She was someone who’d often “pop by” when Quinn and I were little, probably noticing our parents were gone and we were too damn young to be alone.

And it didn’t sit right with me that she might not have a place to properly watch her son get married.

So, I pressed Pete and Patty some more, asked what Morgan could do to sweeten the pot.

Was it money? Making sure certain things weren’t touched?

Preserving the land? Finally, it boiled down to this: The amount of shit they accumulated over the years overwhelmed them, but they didn’t have the energy to sift through it all.

Some of the items were valuable, some had family history, and most was junk.

So, they’d agree to Morgan’s rental fee offer and remodeling idea on one condition: I had to be there every step of the way to oversee, to make sure that Morgan—a family outsider—didn’t throw anything meaningful and respected the property.

I shifted my focus back to everything I needed to do today, and grabbed my phone and called my sister.

“Hi, you’ve reached Quinn,” she said after two rings. “Sorry to have missed your call, but I am currently tits deep in a heaping pile of unread emails and Slack messages. I’ll call you back when I’m dead. Beep.”

Oh, Quinn. I missed the dramatics. “You know voicemails don’t actually beep anymore, right? Mom may still have her answering machine from the nineties, but we do not.”

“Whatever. You’ve abandoned me just like our childhood cat and the last delivery guy who promised to come back with the egg rolls he left at the restaurant. It’s been a week and I’m still waiting by the fire escape window to see if he’ll pull up.”

I stuffed a second pillow behind my head and tried to wiggle into a comfortable position. “First off, our cat was Mom’s cat and lived till he was nineteen. Second, when was the last time you had a homemade meal?”

“Hmmm,” Quinn said. “When did you leave? Then.”

“Yes, but I froze like ten fresh meals for you. Lasagna, soups, enchiladas?—”

“I know, and I love you for that. But for real, I’ve stayed in the office late every night this week and have already eaten when I get home. Don’t worry. I’ll gorge myself this weekend.”

The sound of slurping came through the phone and even though it was seven p.m. East Coast time, I’d bet good money it was an iced triple espresso.

“All right, scale of one to ten,” Quinn said. “How are things going with… ahem .”

That was a loaded question. Better than expected.

Worse than expected. Every moment was this weird mash-up clouded with a lifetime of memories while starting fresh ones with someone I didn’t know anymore.

Morgan was cranky, angry, stubborn, then had these flickers of sweetness, and none of this was doing anything positive for my insides.

“You can say her name, you know.” I put the phone on speaker and interlocked my fingers behind my head.

“Is it a real one to ten or can I include negative numbers?”

Quinn released a low whistle. “Shit. That bad, huh?”

Yes and no. Definitely and not at all . Seeing Morgan again was certainly stirring something, and I didn’t like it.

Memories suck. I wasn’t happy being smacked in the face daily with reminders of why I left this place.

Growing up, the only place I had felt confident was on the field or with Morgan.

It took years to shake that self-doubt and evolve into who I was today.

Back then, I hid my insecurities by being the loudest, holding my head high, and fighting with anyone who dared to talk shit.

More than once, I got a technical foul by ramming into a bully on the basketball court.

I specifically joined co-ed hockey because of the rush of hurling full speed ahead and body-checking a dickhead into the wall.

But with Morgan, this beautiful blonde, rigid angel, I was authentically myself. And I always thought I was enough.

But when Morgan wouldn’t come to New York, that fragile ego shattered with the realization that I wasn’t actually enough.

Finding my new identity in New York, moving from being Katey with the long hair and gym shorts and little direction, to Frankie Lee, an admired, respected, even successful photographer, helped assemble those shattered pieces.

I finally became the person I knew I was—someone who loved as hard as I hated, who cried as hard as I laughed.

“It’s not bad so much as it’s…a lot,” I finally said, tugging at the carnation comforter on the bed. “We had the photo shoot with Tommy and Olivia at Pete and Patty’s on Saturday.”

“Oh, you went there?” Quinn’s voice rose. “God, that place was magical. I loved it so much as a kid.”

“It was definitely something, but I wouldn’t call it magical.

” I rolled to my side on the thin mattress.

Ouch. The stupid spring dug into my hip.

I flipped over, gave up, and paced. “They’re clearly overwhelmed and haven’t kept up the place.

The barn is filled with so much crap I’m worried a dead body might be buried in there, and the yard is practically destroyed. ”

“Shut up. Do they still do the Christmas stuff?”

“Only the trees.” Maybe my memories were muted, but I swore as a kid they had endless rows of giant pines. But on Saturday, I only saw them if I stood at the top of the hill. “No gift shop, nothing. They have a little bit of new growth planted, but that’s it.”

Quinn paused. “Damn, that’s depressing. It’s like my one happy childhood memory.”

I dug my thumbnail at a tear in the wallpaper. “Pretty sure your happiest childhood memory is when you were the first one in your grade to wear a bra.”

“Really? That was the worst . And thanks for bringing up that lovely little morsel. I can practically feel the underwire dig into me.” Quinn groaned. “What sort of nefarious shit did we do in our past life to be all boobs and no ass?”

“Speak for yourself.” I laughed, but Quinn was spot-on.

I’d grown comfortable with my body over the years, appreciating the natural ability to maintain muscle.

But seeing people like Morgan, whose curves spanned from hell to heaven, sometimes that little insecurity bug nipped at me.

“Anyway, long story short, since Tommy and Olivia can’t wait to get married, but also have zero time, they’ve hired Morgan.

She’s scoped every place within two hours’ drive for a venue and there’s literally nothing available. ”

Another slurp sounded over the phone. “So, what are you guys going to do?”

In the kitchen, I slid out a stool from under the kitchen island. “Well…Morgan wants to fix up Pete and Patty’s barn and have the wedding there.”

“That’s a freaking huge undertaking,” Quinn said in between sips. “Why’s your voice all cranky?”