Page 9 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

God, I missed hanging out with my brother.

Work always took more time than either of us had, but this little reprieve lifted my spirits.

Sitting here, listening to him cheer for the kiddos, I wondered what my twelve-year-old self would think of Sam and me now.

Growing up, we had as many screaming matches as we did hours of building forts in the living room.

He was one year younger, annoying, and loud, but deep down even as an angsty teen, I still loved him.

Sam was the only person who understood the pressure our parents put on us to succeed.

Working to the bone was godly. Something to be proud of, to brag about to the neighbors.

Our parents meant well, but growing up it seemed the vast majority of the family conversations surrounded praising someone who “never took a week off of work” to chastising the unfortunate souls who lost their business because “they must not have put in all the effort.”

If Olivia’s wedding didn’t work, and I lost my business, I could just see my parents reacting to the news.

They’d hug me, my mom would cry, and my dad would give me some awkward bro slap on the back and tell me to look on the bright side of things.

But deep down, I knew they’d think I didn’t put in enough effort, and that’d kill me.

Sam roared for Henry, then tapped his knee against me. “So, for real, who was the dude on the bike? You switchin’ teams now?”

“So much homophobia wrapped up in one little sentence. Truly remarkable.” Oh, how my brother loved to push my buttons even with his pure heart. “It was… Katey. Who goes by Frankie now. I’m trying to honor the name change, even though I’m still getting used to it.”

His jaw dropped. “Katey? You mean Katey Lee? Your ex-girlfriend from high school?” He leaned forward so quickly that his chair nearly tipped over. “Shut the fu?—”

“Language.” I shook my finger at him. “We’re at a kids’ game.”

“No way.” He leaned back, his eyes grazing the field. “What’s she doing back in town? Didn’t she move out east or something like a hundred years ago?”

She sure did. Discarded our plans to build a better life, to look for something more than me.

Frankie was always obsessed with photography.

When we were younger, she’d carry around a Polaroid and snap me doing random things.

The amount of ink wasted on scowls or open mouths of protests would worry me, but Frankie always convinced me it was never a waste.

Then she saved up for a Canon, and everything changed.

When other kids got digital cameras or were lucky enough to buy the newly invented smartphones, Frankie refused anything but film.

She had that thing strapped to her like an extra limb, filling it with yearbook photos, nature photos, sports photos.

If she wasn’t on the field herself, she was snapping photos of the field.

Back then, so many people told me it was young love, kid love, the kind of love that the moment I stepped into my freshman dorm room I’d forget. But I didn’t forget—not for years. Not ever, actually. Every woman I was with was tainted with the ghost of mine and Frankie’s relationship.

I avoided my brother’s gaze and instead watched the kids chase a ball. “Yes. New York.”

“Gross.”

I laughed. “Right?”

Of course, the city itself wasn’t gross.

Not that I’d been there, but I could understand the appeal.

But being raised in Spring Harbors, with enormous yards and minimal traffic and quiet summer nights where the frogs sang symphonies and people caught fireflies in mason jars, New York was a different world.

New Yorkers couldn’t possibly understand the joy of the local restaurants that carried the best cream pie, or the ability on a bad day to drive to the old Blatnik Bridge to watch boats and fishers hauling in pounds of walleye, or stopping at a flea market to eat the best cheese curds of your life.

Minneapolis was not nearly as busy as NYC, and after a weekend, I was exhausted and claustrophobic from the people, traffic, and tall buildings.

Sam cheered on the kids and settled back in the chair. “So why did you need a lift? Where’s your car?”

I tried not to let the harness inside my chest tighten, but anything car related restricted my breathing.

“Something’s wrong with it. I have to take it in, but it’s going to cost a gazillion dollars and take a week, and I don’t have that kind of time.

” Or money . But I left that part out to avoid any chivalrous acts from my brother, who’d most definitely want to slip me some cash.

“I’d say you can bring it by, but I’m as useless as you are with cars,” he said. “Ask Dad. He could probably help.”

Nope. I loved my parents. But my golden rule was never to ask my parents for anything.

Asking for help would lead into one of two things.

One, they’d ask for help back with something that took twice as long, or two, it’d lead into some tired and thinly veiled “we’re worried about you” or “you’re not getting any younger…

when are you going to settle down” type of conversations.

Right now, I couldn’t stomach either of those scenarios, even if it meant free car help.

I refocused on the game. “Come on, Henry!” I clapped as my nephew ran like a baby goat getting its walking legs, before he tripped and fell.

My shoulders tensed until he hopped right back up and gave me the two-thumbs-up sign.

I settled back into the chair and glanced at my brother.

“Ah, look at him. He takes right after you.”

“God, you’re an asshole.”

“Language.” I lifted my finger to my mouth with a smirk. “Mom and Dad coming?”

“Nah.” He clapped and hooted as some kid on the team kicked the ball farther than three feet. “Mom said they were gonna try, but you know them.”

He didn’t need to say more. Disappointment laced his voice, though he tried to sound nonchalant.

Being raised by two German Midwesterners, the pecking order was work first, then church, then family.

Watching a grandkid play soccer was considered a luxury, never to be indulged in until they completed all chores.

“They’re going to run themselves into the damn ground,” I said.

He nodded. “If you’d ever come project manage for them, they wouldn’t do this.”

“Oh, hell no. You’re not laying this guilt trip on me.

” Fourth in the family pecking order—frugality.

They could easily hire someone else to do the project management, but our parents lived by the motto of why pay someone for something when they could do it themselves.

Every day while our father was out with the crew, Mom stayed at the store, answering emails and coordinating contractors.

Even though Sam had worked there since he was a teenager, he had a very Superman-like ability to draw clear boundary lines.

When Lisa got her breast cancer diagnosis, and went through the radiation and double mastectomy surgery, everything changed.

His life was no longer about work and supporting our family business.

It was Lisa. Even after she went into remission, and by all accounts was fully recovered, he remained steadfast on his priorities.

Then when they had Henry, he told our parents his schedule was nine-to-five and no weekends, and they could take it or leave it.

They took it.

But I knew myself well enough to know I’d never draw that line. Once sucked into the family business, I’d never leave. Yes, my current schedule was punishing, but at least I was building and maintaining my business, my dream. Not theirs.

Sam cupped his mouth. “Yeah, Henry! Look tough out there!” He gripped the edge of his chair handles and swore under his breath at the referee. “So, what’s Katey doing here?”

“ Frankie ,” I said. “Her grandma passed, so she’s settling her estate.”

“That’s too bad.” The sun peeked through the clouds, and he tugged his hat lower. “Stuff like that’s a beast. Her parents aren’t doing it?”

I shook my head. When Frankie said her parents weren’t helping, it wasn’t a shock.

Sure, I hadn’t talked to them in fifteen years, but the town was small enough to hear through the grapevine if anything had changed—like consistent employment.

They were nice-enough people, but flaky as hell.

The type of parents with their lack of structure and rules that seemed cool growing up, but deep down I knew was a little icky.

They skipped town a lot, threw back one too many at the local watering hole, and gave Frankie and Quinn Pop-Tarts for dinner.

Seeing the kids run around the field was pretty entertaining, more fun than I thought it would be, and the spring sun warmed my skin.

During the winter, I dove full into hibernation mode, only poking my head out to hang out with Sam and the kids.

Being holed up in my small townhouse for the last six months wasn’t great for my soul.

I hated dating, but really hated it during the winter. The idea of getting all dolled up, then putting on scarves and hats and stepping into frozen tundra was terrible. And business was typically slow during that time, with only a handful of weddings around Christmas, New Year’s, or Valentine’s.

At halftime, as the kids sucked down orange slices, a blue pickup truck pulled into the parking lot and Frankie hopped out holding the cupcake boxes.

Whew . I scurried over to her, meeting her halfway.

“Thank you so much for doing this.” As I reached for the cupcakes, the relief flooding me was probably not rational.

Maybe unfair, and I didn’t know the “adult” Frankie much, but I’d assumed Frankie would’ve totally flaked out and not shown up on time. Or ever, honestly.