Page 29 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

SIXTEEN

MORGAN

Frankie has a goddamn wife.

Each day, I thought I’d cool down. I mean, honestly, did I have a right to be this mad? But every day I got more upset. The guilt was thick, and I tried to review our every single interaction to see if I inappropriately flirted.

Where was the wife, anyway? She obviously didn’t come with Frankie to Minnesota.

But now I wanted to know why…why the wife wasn’t here, why Frankie never mentioned her, why Frankie grinned at me with those stupid dimples making me all gooey, why Frankie looked at me the way she did when we danced.

I didn’t imagine that. It was like I was being lust gaslit or something, and even though I sometimes read into things, I wasn’t reading into that look.

I deserved to know. Didn’t I? Wasn’t that something that should’ve come up while hauling wood piles or sifting through table settings?

Sure, I hadn’t asked, and Frankie hadn’t asked if I was in a relationship.

So really, maybe I misread this micro-lust bullshit happening in my body, and Christ , that was embarrassing.

But also, thank God Frankie was married because the last thing I needed was a summer fling with an old high school girlfriend.

Sure, I was in a different space from when I was eighteen.

But I could only imagine tripping over myself, falling back in love, and getting my heart broken, yet again, by the same woman.

So, no. I should be grateful Frankie was married. Damn near ecstatic, honestly. So why did it hurt so bad?

6:00 a.m. hit and I dragged myself into the shower. Just because I couldn’t sleep didn’t mean I didn’t have the urge to wiggle under the covers and eat Cheetos and watch terrible TV all day. This wedding was the only thing stopping me from sinking into a deep dark wallowing tub.

The water beat on me and I breathed through the vanilla steam.

At some point, I really did need to talk to Frankie.

But since the day at the campus, I ignored Frankie’s two phone calls and one I think we should talk text message.

Instead, I sent a text that later that evening, telling her I didn’t need help for a few days, to take some time off and ice her knee, and I had it all under control.

Which was both a truth and a lie. Of course I had things under control.

Controlling every detail of the wedding was the only thing giving me a reprieve.

But I was buried under an avalanche of renovation and wedding stuff.

Fortunately, the crew was ahead of schedule, and Olivia had picked out the invitations.

I spent four hours yesterday hand-addressing each one and bringing them to the post office while absolutely not imagining what Frankie’s wife looked like.

I stepped out of the shower and threw on the Love ’Em or Leave ’Em podcast as I dried my hair. The voicemail segment began, where Ruby replayed a message from a caller to her listeners. This was always gutsy—what if the other person involved in the relationship was listening?

“Hey, Ruby, here’s my question,” the caller started. “I’ve kept something from my partner, which I don’t think is that big of a deal. But the situation is snowballing and I don’t know how to fix it.”

I grabbed a round brush from the drawer and popped up the volume two notches.

“A few weeks ago, this cute guy at work flirted with me. At first, I thought he was just being nice. But it was a definite flirt, and I thought it was a one-time thing. However, he’s still doing it, and I’m feeling pretty guilty.

Anyway, I’ll never act on it, of course.

So, my question, do I need to tell my husband?

Is there truly an obligation to tell my spouse everything ?

It’s harmless and I’m not sure what good would come out of telling him. ”

Hmm, telling people the truth. What a novel effing idea . I shut the drier off and moved to the flat iron.

“Thanks to the listener for this question. I think I need to open up live calls one day because I have sooooo many questions,” Ruby said.

“So, the answer is tricky. Do I tell my wife, Amelia, everything? Of course not. It would take forever to give a play-by-play of our days. Not to mention I’d bore her to tears.

And sometimes I’ve withheld things. For instance, last year she tried what she called ‘strawberry blonde highlights.’ She came home from the hairdresser and asked…

Is this orange? Does it look terrible? And the truth was, yes, it was orange and yes, it looked terrible.

But did I withhold that? You bet your bottom dollar I did.

I haven’t stayed married for the last thirteen years by sharing everything . ”

I smoothed the iron through my hair waiting for Ruby’s response.

“But you’re asking if you have an obligation to tell your husband that this man flirted with you?

My question back to you is, why, on the first day that it happened, did you not run home and say, ‘You’ll never believe what so and so said,’ or ‘How do I handle this.’ Because quite often bodies don’t lie.

And you said you were feeling guilty, which leads me to believe you were not totally innocent yourself in the flirting.

Unless you’re in an unhealthy relationship with a jealous partner, I think you need to dig deep for the reason why you didn’t tell him in the first place. ”

Guilt. So I was feeling guilty, and according to Ruby Reanne—who clearly doesn’t know jack shit—that meant that my body was indicating there was something brewing inside, under the surface. And now…I was pissed again. I yanked my makeup drawer open and slapped the cosmetics on the counter.

I needed to take a break from everything.

Working thirty-plus days without a single day off was not doing me any favors.

So today, mostly , was for me. After getting a beautiful cup of coffee from Connie’s place, I’d run to Joe’s hardwood store to check if the wood planks for Tommy and Olivia’s personalized corn hole stand came in, stop at Julie’s glass shop to finalize the couple’s glassware, then meet Sam and the kids at the waterfront for the antique festival.

Two hours later, all errands done and belly full of caffeine, I found one of the last remaining parking spots near the waterfront and weaved through the crowd until I found Sam pushing a stroller near the food stands.

“Only the baby today?” I peeked over the stroller canopy at the sleeping, chunky baby. For a moment, I contemplated picking her up and giving her some auntie smooches, but decided the more responsible plan would be to let her sleep.

“Yeah. Lisa took the older ones to a birthday party.” He held out a cardboard container. “Cheese curd?”

I popped one into my mouth and chewed on the fried, salted dough. “God, these are so terrible and greasy.” I reached for another one. “I’ll take two, thanks.”

The festival had the best people watching, from farmers to college students to suburban moms carrying their LV bags, all peering over what seemed like miles-long tables with everything from pickling jars to old stereos to Elvis cookie tins.

The scents of hot dogs and mini-doughnuts swirled in the air like a hearty fog, the sounds of kids screaming and haggling of prices and conversation funneled around us.

As I strolled next to Sam, we talked about how our parents were trying to guilt us into going to a family reunion on my dad’s side with a hundred people we’d never met and frankly didn’t care about.

Soon, my shoulders relaxed. I picked up an etched drawing of Marilyn Monroe, trailed my fingers across a standing ashtray from the ’30s, and allowed Sam to drag me away from buying a bucket of old buttons ( Seriously, what are you going to do with those , he’d asked one too many times).

Sam slowed to look at baseball cards and peeked at me from the corner of his eye. “How are things going with Frankie?”

What a loaded question. Work-wise, Frankie was a rockstar. I didn’t even understand her stamina—working all day at the barn, then going back to Peaches’s house to pack up items. But everything else Frankie-wise made my stomach twist. “She’s married.”

“Huh.” Sam lowered the baseball card. “ That’s how she is to work with?”

I didn’t mean it to slip out quite like that, all wrapped up in a truly dejected tone that my brother was doing a terrible job of ignoring. “It just surprised me, that’s all. We’ve been working together all this time, and she never once mentioned a wife, you know?”

Sam tucked the card back in the box and pushed the stroller ahead to the next table. “So, you jealous or what? ”

“I’m not jealous .” Ugh, I think I’m jealous.

Dammit. I didn’t know what the hell I was, but knowing there was some spectacularly chic, ultra-hip, big-city-styled wife out there that Frankie shared her secrets with burrowed under my skin like a parasitic flea.

“I just…you know, whatever. Never mind. Anyway, it’s fine working with her. ”

The next table had boxes of brooches: turquoise, bronze, little birds, and butterflies with fake pearls in the middle. I sifted through those and avoided my brother’s laser beam gaze. He didn’t really want to hear these woes from me, and I didn’t have the energy to break it down for myself or him.

“Back then, I thought you and Frankie would be like Lisa and me. Lifers.” He pushed the stroller out of the way of a bystander marching their way toward us, juggling multiple canvas bags. “I thought you guys had a really cool connection. It always felt like she was part of the family.”

Sam wasn’t wrong. Back then, Frankie and I were tight.

Closer than girlfriends, different from a family.

We had this unbreakable, or what I thought was an unbreakable, bond.

I swore we knew what each other was thinking, could finish other’s sentences, knew every detail about what made the other happy or sad.

She was my other half, maybe even my better half.

Until she wasn’t. And losing someone so close had really hurt.

“I bet if you dig deep and put aside whatever is going on, you guys could probably be friends again.” Sam shrugged and set down his baseball card. “Might make you feel better.”

Well, Sam Rose. Who knew? Sometimes, although rarely, I had the urge to hug him. Right now was one of those times. I settled for resting my head on his chest for a quick moment. “You’re pretty okay, you know that?”

“I mean…” He laughed and waved to himself. “Besides, God knows you could use a friend. Since you hate cats, I’m wo rried that soon you’re going to be one of those women that talk to their plants and apologize to your couch when you bump into it because you’re not getting enough human interaction.”

I pinched his arm and refused to tell him I already spoke to my plants, but only because I read an article that it was good for them.

“How do you go from nice to dick in zero point five seconds?” I leaned in toward the baby, who was still sleeping, and grinned.

“Promise me you will grow up to be like your mom.”

The sun reflected off the brass and metal from the objects overflowing the tables.

We walked booth to booth and oooh… What’s that?

A steampunk-style clock sat on the edge of the table and it was beautiful.

The multiple gears and Roman numerals were detailed, intricate, and sturdy.

Maybe I should treat myself. I flipped the price tag…

and…maybe not. When I set it back down, a set of old-fashioned milk jugs resting inside a wooden crate caught my eye.

My finger grazed the glass and circled the top. Greenery… cedar… planks… barn. Flowers… glass… centerpieces. I waved to the vendor. “How many more bottles do you have?”

The man checked under the table. “I betcha about another three dozen or so.”

My pulse kicked up a notch, the familiar creative adrenaline sparking my cells. This could be perfect. I snapped my head to Sam. “What did you guys do with those extra pallets from the corner of the barn? Did you toss them?”

“No,” Sam said, glancing up from digging through a box of silverware. “We added it to the wood pile in the back of the barn. We were thinking about giving it away or burning it.”

“Perfect.” I dug into my purse and turned to the vendor. “I’ll take all the bottles you have.”

As the man gathered the items, I panicked at the amount of stuff I needed to carry. I glanced at the baby and back at my brother. “Don’t kill me. But I need your stroller. You can have the baby.”

“Wow, thanks.” He cocked his head. “What are you going to do?”

“I have an idea.” I slapped money on the table, my blood pumping with excitement.

First things first, though. I needed to call Frankie.