Page 34 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

TWENTY-ONE

FRANKIE

Did I even fall asleep last night? I blinked at the ceiling, my eyes crusty and on fire. Yesterday, the blowup with Morgan was the very last thing I wanted, and I’d felt sick about it since.

With how heated both Morgan and I were yesterday, the timing was not right to explain the correlation between ADHD and lying.

For so many years, I had just thought I was a bad person.

I used to hate myself for lying, and every time it happened, a shame spiral sucked me in so deep, I could never dig myself out.

The compulsion to lie was still there, lingering beneath the surface.

I was just more medicated, mature, had gone through enough cognitive behavior sessions to learn how to control it.

Back then, when I lied, it was like a mosquito landed on my arm and I slapped it.

Quick, without thought, without regard. But then, to keep the itch away, I had to keep lying.

Even when I knew I was lying, I was so invested, like my brain and body were pedaling, pushing me downhill, and I couldn’t slow down.

As I moved into the kitchen, then crunched into my granola cereal, I remembered my therapist saying ADHD could be a gift.

I had thought, Yep, what a scam. This is exactly why I don’t do therapy.

But over the years, I understood. My body needed to move, and finding an art that I loved that allowed me to move provided more happiness than I could’ve dreamed.

I needed a job with bite-size pieces, but, man, when those periods of hyperfocus hit, I was invincible.

If the teachers back then would’ve listened instead of scolding me when I panicked that my limbs were locking up and I needed to get up and sharpen a pencil, go to the bathroom, or grab a Kleenex, who knows what would have happened? Maybe I’d rule the world by now.

But blaming this on Morgan last night? Unforgivable. The knee-jerk reaction was decades of built-up self-loathing, anger of a lifetime of not being listened to, and years of holding guilt that I never really, actually sat Morgan down properly and told her I was leaving for New York.

Sure, I said it a million different ways, a million different times. But did I ever, until graduation night, make Morgan listen? I should’ve tried harder. And the guilt of leaving Morgan sobbing in the parking lot, even knowing it was the best thing for my own life, prevented me from reaching out.

I drove down Main Street to the floral shop. Although Morgan and I basically avoided each other for the rest of the night, we did leave with a cordial enough “good night.” Hopefully today would be less awkward than last night. No matter how hard it was going to be, I had to apologize.

And maybe , perhaps, if the timing seemed right, tell Morgan the truth—that I was falling back in love with her, moment by moment, day by day. But leaving again would tear me apart, and I couldn’t do it to myself, or to her. So, I’d bury my feelings, to protect myself and protect her.

Morgan would never move to New York. I knew this was her home, Sam and his kids were her life, and I couldn’t ask her to give it up.

Even if I did ask her to give it up, she wouldn’t.

And if Birch & Willow didn’t offer the job, then maybe options were open.

But until that door officially closed, I had to assume I was returning to the city.

Inside the floral shop, a gorgeous gust of lilac-and-rose-filled air wafted to me. I inhaled. Mmmm . No one could possibly be sad in a flower shop. The beauty, the smells, the people popping in to grab something for their loved one—this place might be second best next to Zoey’s.

Delilah waved from behind the counter, as she stuffed long-stemmed pink and white roses into a vase. “Hey there, Frankie.”

“Wow, good memory.” Being on a first-name basis, even though I only stopped here a couple of times with Morgan, was something else. Did everyone in Spring Harbors have a photogenic memory? “Is Morgan in the back?”

“Nope, not here yet.” She propped bifocals on her head and continued clipping the bottoms of stems onto a newspaper. “I betcha she’s on the way, though. Make yourself at home. Coffee’s in the corner.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, I was fifteen minutes early, not ten, but ohhh , it was pretty delicious beating Morgan here. I might add this to my arsenal of things to give her shit about. I crossed the room to grab an idea book off the counter and flipped through the pages.

Olivia and Tommy had come back, finally, with flower color choices: sage and lavender.

Today, Morgan and I were going to finalize the arrangements so Delilah could prep everything.

The book had so many gorgeous ideas. The simplicity and beauty of calla lilies set next to lavender-colored roses would be beautiful.

Or maybe sage roses, and a couple of sprigs of purple eucalyptus?

Morgan really was the expert with these types of things.

Speaking of…I checked my watch. Eight minutes early, so two minutes late. I pulled out my phone. No new messages. I scratched the back of my neck and peeked out the window.

When the door rang, I looked up so fast that I nearly got dizzy. A solid moment passed as I stared at the nearly six-foot-tall woman who walked in. The woman’s eyes locked with me, and she cocked her head. No way . Parker Freaking Johnson.

Parker tucked a piece of her mom-bob haircut behind her ear. “Katey?”

“Parker?” I scooted over to Parker and pulled my former teammate in for a hug. “It’s been a million years. Look at you! It’s so good to see you. What are you doing these days?”

“You’ll probably never believe this,” Parker said with a grin. “I’m actually an eighth-grade teacher at our old middle school.”

Shut up. Ever since we were little, Parker went from being the kid who was always in the principal’s office, to the one who had the connections to show up at a party with a case of beer, to the one who snuck out by the dumpsters with her pack of smokes to light up during her sixth-period nic-fix. “No way? You look so…”

“I look like a mom.” She laughed and dug her wallet out from her cross-body bag. “Or a teacher. And both are true. I’ve got three little ones.”

When I left town, I left everyone behind, not just Morgan. The old teammates, classmates, people I hung with, were all stunted in my mind as seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. Seeing Parker messed with my head a little, but in the best way possible. Like nostalgia and curiosity combined.

We chatted for a bit as Delilah rung up Parker’s order. After we chatted about all the differences between eighth-graders then and now and laughed about how we would have possibly navigated social media back then, Parker checked her watch and frowned.

“Darn it. I’ve got to run to an anniversary party that I’m seriously late to.” She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed over her number. “We should grab coffee and catch up. Last I heard is that you were some big hotshot in New York.”

I grinned and said I’d reach out. In New York, encounters like this happened every so often.

I’d meet someone, run into an acquaintance, exchange numbers, and promise to catch up.

No one ever did, though. Or rarely. But here, it seemed like people genuinely would meet for a chat.

This authenticity felt pretty damn nice.

The clock on the wall showed three minutes after.

Morgan was officially late. I grabbed my phone and broke one of my cardinal rules by cold-calling Morgan.

The phone rang, but no answer. An uneasy, sticky sensation swirled in the pit of my belly.

Was this because of our talk yesterday? Yes, it was kind of icky, but we also hashed out a lot of things.

And we said goodbye at the end of the night.

Besides, Morgan was a consummate professional and would never not show up to an appointment because she was pissed at me.

“Hey, Delilah?” I approached the counter. “You haven’t heard from Morgan, have you?”

Delilah wiped up the clipped stems from the paper and shook her head. “No, dear. Sorry.”

Five more minutes passed, and I sent Morgan a text.

Then called again. At the ten-minutes-after mark, the pit in my belly roared.

Something was definitely off. I paced the floral shop.

It was pointless to stare at the arrangements without Morgan.

Should I call Sam and see if he heard from her?

It probably seemed alarmist, but now twelve minutes passed, so twenty-two minutes late by Morgan’s standards, and everything in the shop dimmed.

When the doorbell rang, a man with a scruffy white beard walked in with a cane. He nodded at me and shuffled to the counter.

“Well, hiya, there, Dave. It’s been too long. Getting something for your bride?”

The man leaned against the counter. “Sure am. Our fifty-second anniversary is tomorrow. Make it something real nice. I know Esther likes those purple things.”

“The purple carnations. I remember from last year.” Delilah grinned and reached for a vase. “Why don’t ya have yourself a seat over there, and I’ll whip up something Esther will love.”

The man, Dave, shuffled over to the seat and hung his cane from behind the chair. “I sure am running behind. Still need to swing by Zoey’s and grab a nice pie, then grab a card from the grocery store. I tell ya, there was a heck of an accident out on Superior Road.”

My ears turned hot. The road was near Morgan’s place.

“Oh ya?” Delilah said as she tore a long piece of flower paper off the roller and laid it across the counter. “That’s too bad. Anyone hurt?”

Dave shrugged. “I couldn’t tell ya, but I heard the sirens, so ya know that wasn’t good. Truck rolled over, a few other cars. I think I saw that Rose girl out there.”

My neck hair leaped straight up. “Did you say Rose ? As in Morgan Rose?” Please, please, say it was someone else.

Dave looked at me, surprised. I didn’t have time for introductions, but he probably didn’t even know I was here, lurking in the corner.

“Yeah, that might be her name,” Dave said. “Mike and Linda’s daughter, you know the ones that own the remodeling company? I only recognized her because she has that decal thingy in her window advertising her place and she helped with my son’s wedding a few years ago.”

My chest flamed. Oh my God, oh my God . Think, think. Was she hurt? If something happened to Morgan, and our last interaction was heated words and a fake goodbye, I would never forgive myself. “Did you say that Morgan was in the accident?”

“I didn’t look too close.” Dave tapped his ring finger against the table. “That was her car in the pileup, but I didn’t want to be too much of a lookie-loo. But gosh, lots of broken glass, smashed-up cars…I really hope no one was hurt.”

My heart leaped into my chest and I bolted to the door. “Where exactly did you say this was? ”

Dave barely finished giving me the approximate specs when I burst through the door, yelled an apology at Delilah, and revved my bike.

In an instant, my heartbeat pounded in my throat and I became the motorcycle driver that I despised—speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, gunning at the intersection right before the light turned red.

She had to be okay. She would be okay, right? Morgan was so stubborn that even if something happened, it probably bounced off her like nothing. She was fine, she was fine. She had to be fine.

Oh my God, she had to be fine.

I’d been holding back telling her so many things, scared, unsure of her reaction.

And now I may have missed the opportunity of a lifetime.

My knuckles turned white, cramping, as I seized the handlebar.

For the first time since I was a kid, I prayed.

I wasn’t even sure who to, but to any entity that would listen.

I got there in less than ten minutes. My mouth depleted of all moisture as the scene came into focus.

A tipped-over truck. Hay everywhere. An ambulance, two sheriffs’ cars, and a crunched-up truck.

My stomach coiled so hard I thought I might pass out.

I skidded to a stop and leaped off the bike, tossing my helmet to the ground.

Morgan was okay, right? She had to be okay.

I scoured the small crowd of onlookers until my breath stopped at what I saw.

Morgan, on the side of the road, in a state I could’ve never imagined.