Page 6 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

THREE

MORGAN

I eased myself up from the bed and checked my phone, hoping that a magical Google alert had popped up overnight, showing that a local- ish venue had space for a wedding in roughly ninety days.

Nope. Nothing but a text message from my brother from ten minutes prior.

Sam:

Call me when you wake up.

I bolted upright. Ever since his wife, Lisa, got a devastating breast cancer diagnosis ten years ago, messages like this made me assume the worst. I slapped at my phone to dial.

The call picked up after one ring. “Is everything okay? ”

“Oh yep. Just need a huge favor.” His annoyingly chipper voice rang through the phone.

“Don’t do that to me. Messages like that freak me the hell out.” I lowered myself down on my pillow. “God, it’s early. Don’t you sleep?”

“I have an infant, a toddler, and a first-grader. I never sleep.” A slurping noise sounded through the phone.

“Can you swing by the bakery and pick up two dozen cupcakes? Long story short but the dog chewed Henry’s shin guards last night, we think the baby’s got an ear infection so wifey has to take her to urgent care, it’s Henry’s teammate’s birthday and our turn to bring treats, and I don’t think they’re going to get back from urgent care in time and?—”

“How many cups of coffee have you had?” I dug a knuckle into the corner of my eye.

“It’s a constant drip. I should IV it into my veins and save myself the trouble of brewing,” Sam said before yelling something inaudible to either a dog or a kid. “You didn’t forget the game today, did you?”

“I didn’t forget.” Unfortunately . I forgot nothing added to my beautifully organized, color-coded calendar, separated in categories of personal, professional, and family.

But just because I had remembered it didn’t mean the highlight of my life was watching a bunch of seven- and eight-year-olds run around trying to kick a ball into a net.

I loved those kids to the deepest parts of my soul.

Sometimes, when I thought about what would have happened if Lisa hadn’t survived her cancer and my nephews and niece would’ve never been born, an unbearable emptiness filled me.

Every second not spent on my business, I spent with the kids, which was the only silver lining of my company’s downslide these last few years.

Absorbing the growth milestones of the little ones was a gift.

Last month, I even increased my Google Photos storage because I couldn’t bear to delete any of the gazillion photos Sam sent of the kids every week.

Even through their messes, boogers, and germs, I couldn’t get enough.

However, I secretly looked forward to the time when they wanted to learn how to use a label maker, sort their clothes by color, or build a proper spreadsheet.

But watching them play sports was where if anyone questioned my love for them, I’d enter photos of me cheering from the sidelines as Exhibit A. I hate sports.

“Cupcakes, you said?” I rested my forearm against my eyes to block the rising sun. “I wasn’t going into town today. You seriously owe me.”

“You got the looks and the brains in the family.” Sam chuckled. “The least you can do is pick up the cupcakes.”

“That’s true.” I grinned despite myself. “The grocery store or Zoey’s?”

“You think I want a mutiny on my hands? Zoey’s obviously.”

Good choice. Not that the grocery store didn’t have some solid cupcakes in the bakery aisle, but Zoey’s Bakery was the best in the area. Besides, I always liked to support queer businesses when I could, and being from a small town, the options were limited.

“I’ve got to run,” Sam said. “You’re the best.”

“Yes, I know.” I hung up the phone and dragged myself into the shower.

As the steam filled the space, I tried to take the moment and relax, but my brain betrayed me as always and started whipping through a mental inventory.

Planning weddings was often stop-and-go, with me simply waiting for the couple to make decisions.

Thankfully, Olivia and Tommy were pretty quick.

In the past few days, Olivia narrowed the wedding invitations to three choices.

But last night, she’d texted me and said she wanted to add dried pressed flowers to the card.

Good idea. Great, even. If we had more time or Olivia wanted to do it herself. Neither of which were going to happen .

My heartbeat kicked up higher, and I exhaled. I got this, I got this . I’d keep repeating that to myself until my internal organs heard the message and responded accordingly.

I squeezed out a dollop of my favorite vanilla rose shower gel and scrubbed the loofah across my elbows. Dinner placements, DJs, wine glasses, appetizer, officiant … I shook my head. Why again did I turn down Frankie’s offer to help?

Oh yeah. Because Frankie sucks.

Was it immature to hold on to this resentment?

Most definitely. But I couldn’t shake it.

The burn in my belly after seeing Frankie was so deep that it far surpassed grudge and was swiftly heading down the pike to full-on loathing.

When Frankie left me, I cried almost every night for a full year.

And after the tears stopped, I still thought of her.

For years . And there were lots of reasons after that why I never had long-lasting, stable relationships—work, building up my business, helping my family—but if I dug deep, which was a very unpleasant thing to do, I knew it was because I didn’t think I could open myself up again for that potential pain.

And seeing Frankie again, so aloof, so distant, so uncaring , solidified everything I had feared back then—I was not worth staying for, and Frankie was not sorry.

I think I hated her.

After the least peaceful shower time in existence, I shagged a towel through my hair, then typed off an email.

Hi Olivia,

Hoping by the end of the week we can have the following:

1. A solid count on the guest list

2. Your color scheme

3. Confirmation on who will be in your wedding party

Thanks!

Morgan Rose, Rose Events

But really, what we needed was a goddamn venue.

Ninety minutes later, desperate for coffee made with an espresso machine and not my pot, I headed out of my place. The car took two tries to start, ugh , but once it choked to life, I tapped on my favorite podcast, Love ’Em or Leave ’Em , and flew down the road to get cupcakes.

“Okay, everyone, our next question comes from Trisha,” the podcast host, Ruby Reanne, said.

“Let me read the email I received. ‘Hi, Ruby. For the last few years into my eight-year marriage, my husband and I have gone from being nearly best friends to constant bickering. Although I’m not innocent in this matter, I feel like he picks fights, makes excuses to not be around me, never tells me I’m beautiful, the list goes on.

For the last year, he has almost completely stopped contributing to the household chores, choosing instead to spend his downtime gaming or going out with his friends.

About six months ago, a male co-worker and I started texting.

It really started as work-related and soon morphed into something deeper.

Although I have not, and will not, physically act on anything, I love these messages.

They are an amazing distraction, make me feel better, and honestly make me less angry at my husband, which I think is good.

Anyway, a friend told me I should tell my husband.

I don’t think I need to. I’m not doing anything wrong.

So, my question is: Am I under obligation to tell this to my husband? ’”

Ooh, this is a good one . I turned up the volume to hear Ruby’s response.

“First, thank you to Trisha for this message. I always like to put myself in my wife’s shoes—metaphorically speaking, of course, as she is tiny—or apply situations directly to me, to really understand how I might feel.

But we need to call this what it is—an emotional affair.

You are having an emotional affair on your husband.

Yes, he sounds pretty whiny and pretty ridiculous and really needs to step it up in the husband department.

For sure. But I will address the one question you asked: Are you under obligation to tell your husband.

And my response is, if you think you’re not doing anything wrong, why haven’t you said anything yet? ”

I pressed the pause button and parallel parked in front of the hardware store. I waved to Joe, the owner, who was setting out a display, and hurried into the coffee shop.

“Hey there, Morgan. Whatcha havin’ today?” the owner, Connie, asked while wiping her hands on a towel.

“Morning, Connie.” I dug out my credit card, smiling at Connie’s accent.

Minnesotans were known for their accents, but they were often exaggerated on TV and film.

But Connie sounded like she was in the movie Fargo , and I swear I could listen to her speak all day.

“Just a small Americano with cream please.”

“Sure is warming up outside. I betcha this summer’s gonna be a hot one.” Connie poised her marker over the cup and scribbled on the side. “How are ya folks doing?”

“Ah, you know them.” I waved the question away.

Everyone knew everyone in Spring Harbors, so the answer was irrelevant.

If something was going on with my parents, one of the locals would have said something on their morning coffee run, and the news would have traveled lightning speed to the rest of the town by noon.

“I heard you’re not doing the Summer Festival this year.

You’re going to have a lot of people missing your famous blackberry iced mocha. ”

“Oh, well, ya know. With my husband’s back surgery and the kids off to college, there just isn’t enough of me to go around.” She tugged at her polka-dot apron strings. “That’s all right, though. We’ll give the business to some of these younger guys.”

“That’s pretty generous of you,” I said as I shoved my wallet back in my purse.