The Ex Read online

  She snorts, although maybe it’s not so funny. Despite Joel’s insistence that he’s not thinking about marriage or kids this early in the relationship, he must be when all his friends are at that point. “We’ll see,” she says.

  They both get off on the fifth floor, and Cassie lets out the sigh of relief she always does when she steps out of the elevator. Mrs. Richards lives in the apartment two doors down from her, so they must both go by Cassie’s apartment. So Mrs. Richards is standing right next to her when they get an eyeful of what’s written on Cassie’s door in crimson paint:

  SLUT.

  Cassie stares at the word, her body frozen. Mrs. Richards clasps her hand over her mouth and murmurs, “Oh, dear.” Cassie knows she needs to do something or say something, but she’s not sure what. Someone called her a slut on her apartment door. Someone who knows who she is and where she lives and can get into her building.

  And the worst thing is, it’s the same color paint that was on the door to her store.

  “How horrible,” Mrs. Richards declares. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Cassie has no idea. Given that until last night, she hadn’t had sex in over two years, it’s laughable that someone would call her a slut. But there’s a part of her that wonders if the person who wrote this slur on her door knows exactly what she did last night. And isn’t happy about it. There’s only one person she can think of who might feel that way.

  Francesca.

  Francesca—the faceless but beautiful woman who occupied Joel’s heart before she did. Francesca, who is a great cook and clearly better liked by his friends. Francesca, who is perfect.

  Mrs. Richards is looking at her differently now, perhaps noticing for the first time that she’s dressed in clothes to go out for the night, even though it’s early in the morning. Mrs. Richards must realize she’s doing the Walk of Shame. And for the first time, Cassie feels ashamed.

  “You should call the police,” Mrs. Richards says.

  Cassie nods. She needs to call the police. Of course she does.

  Except if the police come, they’ll want to go into her apartment. They won’t just stand outside the door, will they? And if they come inside, they might find what Grandpa Marv left behind.

  And that would lead to questions Cassie can’t answer.

  Anyway, the police never figured out who threw that paint at the door to her store, so how likely are they to solve this crime? Really, Joel is the one she should call. Especially since she’s beginning to suspect Francesca could be the one behind all this.

  Cassie reaches into her purse for her phone, prepared to call Joel and tell him what she suspects. But before she puts through the call, she hesitates. She’s suddenly not so sure she wants to share her suspicions with him.

  Despite the fact that they’re broken up, Cassie knows that Francesca still occupies an important place in Joel’s heart. He’s oddly protective of her. That’s why whenever Cassie even hints about her, he quickly changes the subject. Not that it would be better if he trashed her—badmouthing the ex is a quality Cassie finds distasteful—but she doesn’t like the way his eyes soften when someone says her name. She would bet anything there’s a small part of him that misses her. She’s scared that if there’s any great love story here, it’s the one between Joel and Francesca.

  So Cassie puts her phone back in her purse. She doesn’t call the police. She doesn’t call Joel. She tells nobody.

  Chapter 18: The Ex

  I regret a lot about last night. I regret that after I left the café, I went to a bar. I regret the amount I had to drink.

  I don’t know quite how I ended up at Olive’s apartment. At one moment, I was chugging a shot of bourbon, and the next, I was standing outside her door. A voice in my head was telling me I ought to go home. Before I did one more thing I would regret.

  But a small part of me regrets nothing. I had a decision to make last night. Either to forget about Joel or try to get rid of Olive. And I made that decision.

  But I do regret the way my head ached when I woke up this morning. I’ve been hydrating all day, but when I leave work, the throbbing is still there in my right temple. I’m not twenty anymore—when I drink, I pay for it the next day. All I can think of is going straight home and running a nice, hot bath. Nonna won’t bother me.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sophia Loren…”

  I whirl around at the sound of the voice right behind me on the street. It sounds familiar but I don’t put it together until I see the face. It’s that guy, Dean, who I met in the park. The friend of Joel’s.

  He flashes a smile at me that makes his one dimple pop. “What are the chances, right?”

  “Right,” I mumble, thinking wistfully about the bath at home.

  He arches an eyebrow. “I think fate could be bringing us together.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  He takes a step toward me. He’s wearing a jacket, but underneath he’s got on a pair of slacks that look expensive. A tie peeks out from his collar. He doesn’t have on scrubs, that’s for sure. I wonder what he does for a living.

  “I have to be honest,” Dean says. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that day.”

  I laugh despite myself. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am.”

  “No.” He shakes his head sadly. “I think you should take pity on me. Let me take you out to dinner.”

  “I, uh…” I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry.”

  He winces. “All right. I had to try, right?”

  He’s staring directly into my eyes. His eyes are so dark and intense. In spite of the fact that I don’t want to go out with him, I respect his perseverance.

  “How about peanuts?” he says.

  I blink at him. “Peanuts?”

  He jerks his head at the cart a few feet away from us that’s roasting up some peanuts. “Let me buy you some peanuts. Not dinner—just peanuts.”

  I hesitate. They do smell really good. But they never taste quite as good as they smell.

  “Come on.” He seizes on my hesitation. “It’s not a big deal. It’s literally just peanuts.”

  “Okay,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  “Yeah?” He looks surprised I agreed. “Well, great. Let me get them before you change your mind.”

  So he buys one large greasy bag of peanuts, then we sit down on the steps of a nearby building to share them. The step feels very cold when I first settle down, but the peanuts are warm when I reach my hand into the bag.

  “See?” Dean says. “Isn’t this great?”

  “It’s not so bad,” I admit.

  I reach into the bag to take more peanuts, and this time Dean’s hand brushes against mine. I get a little tingle that goes through me, and when I raise my eyes, he’s grinning at me. He’s admittedly very cute.

  “How are the peanuts, Miss Loren?” he says.

  “Good,” I manage.

  “I don’t think there’s anything better than street peanuts,” he says.

  “What about street pretzels?”

  “Nah, street peanuts win. Street pretzels are too salty.”

  “I don’t think they’re too salty.”

  He laughs. “Really? You don’t?”

  “Not at all. They’re the perfect amount of salty.”

  “Geez, you have terrible taste then. I thought you’re supposed to be some kind of great chef.”

  My head jerks up. “What? Who told you that?”

  The smile vanishes from Dean’s face. “Uh…”

  I wipe the remains of the peanut dust on my slacks. “I’m going to go.”

  “No, wait!” He reaches out and puts his hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t go. I’ll explain.”

  The irritation I’m feeling is outweighed by my desire to hear this whole story. So I stay sitting on the steps and focus my eyes on him. “Fine. Explain.”

  “
After I saw you at the park the other day, I told Joel I met this great girl.” He tugs at his collar, giving me another glimpse of his tie. “And he saw you standing there and… well, he told me who you are.”

  Oh God. I can’t even imagine what Joel must have said about me.

  “He said good things,” Dean says quickly. “He said you were great, but just… not right for him. But he told me where you work, and he said I should…”

  I suck in a breath. “So this wasn’t a coincidental meeting?”

  He ducks his head down. “No. It wasn’t. I’ve been waiting here for like half-an-hour, hoping to see you.”

  “So basically, you decided to stalk me, lie to me, and trick me into having dinner with you?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “When you say it that way, it sounds really bad.” He sighs. “Look, I just really wanted to see you again. Is that so awful? I was going to tell you the truth over dinner. Then we were going to laugh about it.”

  I let out a sigh of my own. It’s hard to throw stones at Dean for plotting to meet me here. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, “you seem like a nice enough guy, but… I’m going through a lot right now. It’s… it’s not a good time in my life. I’m kind of a mess right now, to be honest.”

  Dean’s brow furrows. He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at me. “I could make you forget him.”

  I clear my throat. “What?”

  “If you gave me a chance,” he says. “I could make you forget all about Joel. Don’t get me wrong—he’s a great guy. But he’s wrong for a woman like you. He couldn’t have made you happy.” His dark eyes stare into mine. “I could. Give me one hour and I’ll have you saying, ‘Joel who?’”

  I snort. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. But as Dean stares into my eyes, a tiny part of me believes him.

  “Listen.” He reaches into his back pocket and yanks out his wallet. He pulls out a little white rectangle, and scribbles something on it with a pen from his coat. “Here’s my card, and I wrote my cell number on the back. I promise I won’t stalk you anymore, if you promise you won’t throw this away in the nearest trash can.”

  I can’t suppress a smile. “What if I throw it away at home?”

  “Well, that’s okay. Because it’ll be in your trash, and when you get the desperate urge to call me at two in the morning, it’ll still be retrievable.”

  I finger the card. The first thing I notice is his last name. Pourakis. He’s Greek, like I thought. And then I see the MD after his name.

  “You’re a doctor,” I note.

  He nods. “Joel and I were premed together in college. I just relocated here from Chicago. That’s why I don’t know what to pay for a hot dog. And I can’t even imagine what other ways street vendors are taking advantage of me without a beautiful native New Yorker by my side to save me.”

  I turn the card around and see the number scribbled on the back. I contemplate the digits. “So,” I say, “is that last number a five or a six?”

  His face lights up. “A six.”

  “Good to know,” I say. I stand up from the steps. “Nice running into you again, Dr. Pourakis.”

  He stands up too. He does a little bow with just his head. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Loren.”

  I put the card in the pocket of my coat. Dean Pourakis is a good guy—even though he deceived me, I can tell that much. If I called him, he really might help me to forget Joel. But as I’m walking away, I know I won’t call him.

  Chapter 19: The New Girl

  Three days after the word “SLUT” is painted over, Cassie passes Francesca’s restaurant on her way back from work. She pretends she’s taking the scenic route, but the fact that she has to take a different subway line and walk two miles to get back to her building belies the lie she’s told to herself. She’s here to catch a glimpse of Francesca.

  Angela’s Ristorante is a tiny, hole-in-the-wall sort of place. In a way, it reminds Cassie of Bookland, the way it’s shoved between two larger stores. The awning juts out a couple of feet, colored green, white, and red to celebrate the Italian flag. There’s a space outside which could accommodate a few tables in warmer weather, but now is bare.

  Cassie comes as close as she dares, peering through the glass windows. It’s as small as it looks on the outside—cozy and romantic and dark. There are plants on the windowsill, and the greenery nearly obscures her view of what’s inside. She squints, trying to make out a beautiful woman with long, dark hair.

  Of course, if Francesca were to materialize, what would Cassie do? Would she march up to her and demand she stop writing slurs on her door? Would she coolly inform Miss Francesca that Joel is her boyfriend now, and she needs to move on?

  It’s a moot point though. If Francesca is here, she’s out of sight. Probably in the kitchen.

  Cassie gives the restaurant (or ristorante) one last look, then turns on her heel and walks away. She shouldn’t have come in the first place—it was silly. She’s embarrassed, but the “SLUT” on her door had shaken her. Then again, she doesn’t know it was Francesca. Cassie knows all too well there are other people who have good reason to lash out at her.

  But as Cassie turns the corner of the block, she nearly collides into someone unexpected. Someone she never thought she’d run into here.

  It’s Joel.

  “Hi!” She feels suddenly breathless. “I… I didn’t…”

  He’s blinking his blue eyes at her, as if he thinks she could be a mirage. “Cassie?”

  She swallows. She doesn’t want him to know what she’s doing here. He can’t know she came here to spy on his ex-girlfriend. That’s not sane behavior. “Hi,” she finally says. “I was just… shopping.”

  He narrows his eyes at her. “Shopping?”

  He knows. Does he know? This certainly isn’t a shopping district. But it’s not out of the question. There are shops everywhere in the city—surely there are some here. “There’s this great shoe store…”

  Please don’t ask what the name of the store is.

  “Oh.” His face relaxes. “Okay.”

  She spends about five seconds being relieved, but then the thought occurs to her: what is he doing here? He doesn’t work anywhere near here. He doesn’t live anywhere near here. Yes, it’s suspicious she’s here. But it’s equally suspicious that he’s here.

  Is it possible he’s come here to see Francesca? And if so, why?

  Or maybe she doesn’t want to know the answer to that question.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks as casually as possible.

  His eyes widen. He rubs at his chin. “Also… shopping.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  Holy crap, he’s lying. He knows better than anyone where Francesca’s restaurant is, and it’s clear he’s come here to see her. But she can’t accuse him. Because if she did, he’d discover she knows where the restaurant is. And her cover would be blown as well. All she can do is try to stop it from happening.

  “Do you want to grab some dinner?” she asks him.

  Out of nowhere, a really sad look comes over his face. He lowers his eyes. “Okay.”

  “Do you…” She clears her throat. “Do you know of any good restaurants around here?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “No,” he says. “I don’t.”

  Cassie doesn’t know what to think. But if she ever had any suspicion that Joel still has feelings for Francesca, they’ve just been confirmed.

  Chapter 20: The Ex

  I’m always in a terrible mood when I talk on the phone with my mother.

  Nonna has been mostly supportive, but Ma has been the opposite. While I sit in the corner of Starbucks, we spend the first twenty minutes of the conversation talking about my sister, who has apparently decided to try for a baby. I’m happy for my sister, but at the same time, it’s depressing how far away I am from being settled down to the point where I might try for a child of my own.

  Joel wante
d children. He wanted three, but I only wanted two. It was a disagreement we sometimes had, although he never seemed as bothered as I was by the fact that we wanted different numbers of children. Maybe because he knew we wouldn’t be having them together.

  Eventually the topic of conversation with my mother settles on me. Namely, on my love life. Or lack thereof.

  “Nonna says you never go out on dates,” Ma says.

  Why can’t Nonna mind her own business? “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “Really? Like when?”

  Like never. Like in my dreams. No, not even then.

  “You’re not getting any younger,” Ma reminds me.

  “Really? I was under the impression I was aging in reverse.”

  “Don’t be smart. Do you want to end up alone?”

  I chew on my lip. “I’m okay, Ma.”

  “You need to get over Joel. It’s over. You need to move on.”

  She’s right. I need to move on. But I can’t. Why can’t I?

  But then again, Joel and I were together for so long. He was my life. I thought he would be my life. I can’t just forget the love we had for each other ever existed.

  “I’ve got to go,” I tell my mother.

  “Okay, but promise me next time we talk, you’ll have gone out on at least one date.”

  “I promise.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Ma! I gotta go.”

  “Fine. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up the phone, but I was also lying about having somewhere to go. I have nowhere to go.

  And then she walks in.

  Olive. In the flesh. Her cheeks are slightly tinged with pink from the cold and her dark hair is loose and beautiful. She’s like the movie star version of me. Like, if they were to make a movie about my life, she could play me.

  As she slides off her coat, several men in the room turn to look at her. Olive apparently has that effect on men. She seems oblivious to it, or maybe she’s just used to it. I watch her purchase a drink, then go back and sit in her seat, slinging her purse on the back of her chair.