Page 28 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

FIFTEEN

FRANKIE

Five miles outside of the campus was as far as I could go before I knew I needed to pull over and get off the bike.

I pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and killed the engine.

Distracted motorcycle driving was dangerous as hell, and no matter how shitty I felt, I didn’t want to die on the road.

The blinking, cheery Freshly Made Pie! sign was in direct contrast to my insides.

I bit my trembling lip, fighting back tears.

A while back when I made the fork-in-the-road decision with Morgan, I knew that I first had to take care of something back home.

And now I needed to finish this, for good.

I exhaled a shaky breath and called back.

The phone call lasted less than two minutes, and none of it was a shock.

I knew the divorce was coming. I was the one who asked for it and finally called the lawyer during the “fork-in-the-road decision night,” letting him know that I’d sign the papers that evening.

But hearing my wife…my ex-wife …now, on the phone letting me know she signed as well and the divorce was final, was a nail in the coffin.

It had been a long time coming. Savannah and I had been separated for over a year when my ex, ripping the silent but weighty Band-Aid off, moved out of our apartment.

But our relationship had quietly died a couple of years prior.

There was no dramatic breakup, no scandal, no cheating.

Just people evolving and lives changing, where we didn’t fit together anymore.

The only reason our divorce dragged on was because the breakup mirrored our relationship—neither one of us wanted to hurt the other and both avoided confrontation like the plague.

Finally, before coming to Minnesota, I’d filed the inevitable.

I needed to get out of here. In a convenience store next door, I stopped for a few bottles of water and snacks, strapped the backpack to the seat, and flew up Highway 61.

The warm wind hit my arms and chest, giving me space to calm down.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the road, I weaved between the lines.

I needed to feel the pull of the machine below me, needed to be able to control it.

Oh, the scenery, though. Beautiful . The winding roads, the forested hillsides, Lake Superior as large as an ocean.

There was a stillness to the area, so much different than the hustle of New York.

Yes, I loved that within walking distance of my apartment I could get groceries, a bowl of pho, and pick up a prescription.

Everything was available in the micro-community nested inside the massive metropolis.

But here, the land was expansive, lush. Quiet .

Minnesota allowed my brain the freedom and space to just let go.

An hour later, I pulled into Black Beach.

Definitely not the quietest place in the world as locals and tourists alike loved the dark, volcanic rock- and mineral-crusted sand, nested along massive rock formations and rustic driftwood.

I maneuvered the bike into a spot and grabbed my bag.

I hiked up a small, rocky path, and ducked under low-hanging branches until I settled myself on a large rock.

The serene water below was so calm, so clean, it looked like a photo.

“ Fuck ,” I whispered into the wind. I pushed my thumbs into my temples until the pounding released, then picked up my phone.

“Oh no.” Quinn answered on the second ring, with the sound of a clicking keyboard in the background. “Calling without sending a text first. You okay?”

“The divorce is final.”

“Ah.” The clicking stopped. “How do you feel?”

I picked up a stick and drew a circle in the ground.

“Mostly relief.” I could officially move on with nothing hanging over my head.

Besides these last couple weeks when I spoke to my ex-wife about legalities, I hadn’t even talked to her since last Christmas, when we exchanged an obligatory Merry Christmas text.

Sure, having everything finalized felt good, but there was nothing joyous or celebratory about the occasion.

A few years ago, Quinn and I went to a divorce party in Queens.

The entire evening was reminiscent of a bachelorette party.

The ex-bride sported a sash with Divorcee splashed across it, we downed tequila shots, and at the end of the night the group gathered by a fireplace on top of a swanky rooftop bar and burned a copy of the marriage certificate.

At the time, I’d thought, Now that’s how I’d do it if something happened with me and Savannah . Ring in my new life.

Now, though, the idea of celebrating this felt awful.

“Besides relief, what’s the other emotion?” Quinn asked.

I flicked a rock into a branch and sighed. “Failure. None of this feels good.”

And that was the truth. Ultimately, I was glad the marriage was over, as sad as it was.

I’d fallen out of love long before we’d even separated, which was unfair to us both.

At the end, it wasn’t even like we were friends.

No fighting, just avoidance. Long days of making excuses for not being together.

I stayed at hotels near where I was shooting, even though I could have easily made it home on the train.

Savannah crashed at friends’ houses or slid quietly out of bed before I woke up in the morning.

So many nights of us going to bed back-to-back with pajamas, when we used to be pressed together naked.

But should I have tried harder? The love was gone, but maybe I could’ve been a companion, worked on making Savannah happier?

As soon as those thoughts drifted in, I stopped them. Savannah deserved to be loved, really loved, by someone. And honestly, so did I.

“Listen to me.” Quinn paused. “ You didn’t fail. The marriage didn’t work out. It wasn’t a failure. It was a good relationship for you, at the time, and now…you’re both in different stages of life. Right?”

I shrugged, even though Quinn couldn’t see me.

“Besides, to be totally honest, I never really saw you and Savannah growing old together. I just didn’t think of her as the one for you, you know? She was wonderful, of course, but I’m not convinced she was ever really your person.”

The reality in those words hit hard. I met Savannah after I’d been living in New York for five years.

The short, hot-pink pixie cut had caught my attention.

Savannah smiled with her eyes, was filled with a joy that intoxicated me.

And, Christ, we laughed a lot, at least in the beginning, and usually at the dumbest shit, like movie one-liners we’d work into conversations.

When I met her, for the first time since leaving Minnesota, the hurt and heartache I’d been lugging around from my breakup with Morgan dissipated in her presence.

But then, as quickly as it ignited, the magic changed. The friendship stalled, and we both spent too much time pretending everything was okay.

“Did you tell Morgan?” Quinn asked. “Maybe you could take the day off from wedding stuff and just wallow?”

“Yeah, I told her today.” Sort of. Kind of.

Not really. God, sometimes I really hated myself.

Why did I act that way? What a shit thing to say: You never asked if I was married .

Did Morgan deserve to know? Maybe, maybe not, but either way my shitty response wasn’t kind.

I really needed to process what possessed me to lash out like that.

Look at me, processing my feelings. My therapist would be so proud .

“Hey, I think I need quiet time,” I said. “I’m going to find some skippers and go to town on Lake Superior.”

“Skippers! God, the north shore has the best rocks. Okay, make it a good one. Love you.”

I hung up and tossed a rock into the lake, watching the ripples interrupt the smooth water.

Dammit, I really didn’t want to think about my snap reaction to Morgan.

If I buried my head under the black lava sand and just listened to the water, I could also not think about the way Morgan felt in my arms.

Morgan. Why didn’t I tell her about Savannah before today?

Sure, she’d never asked, but usually people offered up that information.

She probably had a right to know. Maybe.

Right? God! Why was I overthinking this?

If I bumped into a high school friend today, would I tell them that I’d separated from my wife and had filed divorce papers? Probably not.

But Morgan was more than a high school friend, and I damn well knew that. And we’d spent all this time together this summer. And…no matter how much I was running from it, the dormant spark had re-lit, and all the denying in the world wasn’t going to change that.

Not doing this . I gripped the stepping rocks with my feet as I slowly made my way to the beach. At the bottom, I slipped off my boots, rolled up my jeans, and dipped my toes in the water. “ Shit, that’s freezing .”

Once the shock of the ice-cold water prickling my skin wore off, I dug around for skippers.

As I flung them, skimming them on the glass-like water, I tried reasoning the feelings.

It was familiar, that’s all. Like going back home and overeating your mom’s legendary tater-tot hot dish, knowing it’s terrible for you, but the nostalgia felt too good in the moment.

Maybe Morgan was simply the human equivalent of comfort food.

Dammit, though, she didn’t deserve how I reacted today.

But having her close, smelling that vanilla rose on her neck, feeling that curvy waist as I dipped her, zinged through me.

That plump bottom lip and her pouty mouth was just so there, so prominent, begging for a kiss.

I wanted to know if they still tasted the way I remembered.

So, when Savannah called, it was like being thrown into an ice bath after having warm feelings, and Morgan got the brunt of the shock.

But at minimum, Morgan deserved an apology.

When my feet nearly turned numb and my rotator cuff ached from skipping rocks, I knew exactly what I had to do. I grabbed my phone and dialed Morgan.

The most hyper-responsive, efficient person I knew didn’t pick up.