The Ex Page 2

  She pulls a dog-eared paperback out of the box. Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier—one of her favorites. Yet the classics never sell. She’ll be lucky to get a dollar for this one. A dollar isn’t enough to keep a business going.

  “What’s going on back there, Cassie?”

  The voice of Cassie’s friend and business partner Zoe Malloy floats out from the front of the store. Zoe was Cassie’s college roommate, and when Bookland fell into Cassie’s hands, she decided to offer a share in the business to Zoe in order to get her help. Cassie’s accounting degree helps her in balancing the books (or trying), but it’s Zoe who knows about sales. It’s a fact that when Zoe is at the front of the store, they sell more books than they do when Cassie is there. Maybe it’s Zoe’s glowing personality. Maybe it’s her sales technique or her degree in Communication. Whatever it is, Zoe is a better saleswoman than Cassie will ever be.

  “Are you done yet?” Zoe yells. Bookland is absolutely tiny, yet you can somehow get lost inside it. Everywhere you turn, there are shelves filled with books—Grandma Bea managed to stuff a ridiculous number of bookcases in this small space, and sometimes Cassie worries they’ll all go tumbling down like dominos. “Cassie?”

  “Just another minute!” Cassie calls back as she shoves the last of the books on a shelf.

  Cassie wipes her hands on her skinny blue jeans as she walks back to the front desk where Zoe is sitting on one of the stools she set up in front of the cash register. Stools are not very comfortable, but the old chairs literally fell apart six months ago, and she found these two stools on the street in front of a brownstone downtown. Zoe helped her drag them to the store.

  Cassie hates to admit it, but Bookland is in a bit of financial trouble. She hasn’t managed to drag it out of the hole it was in when Grandma Bea died. But she will.

  One way or another.

  Zoe’s got a paperback cracked open in front of her. Zoe loves to read as much as Cassie does, but she likes the newer stuff. Her current cover features a picture of a woman with a drop of blood dripping from a fang jutting from her lips. Vampire novels are not Cassie’s thing, but Zoe devours them—and they sell much better than the classics. Zoe looks the part too, from her jet black hair cut in a bob around her face, dark red lipstick, powder-white skin, and black nails. Zoe is gorgeous and only slightly frightening.

  Zoe insists they’d sell more books if Cassie would let her do her makeup, but she’s resisted so far. All Cassie ever wears is a layer of lipstick if she remembers—and sometimes she doesn’t even remember that much. Today is one of those days she didn’t remember.

  It’s not just the makeup though. Zoe is simply friendlier than Cassie. Zoe knows how to chat up a customer like nobody’s business—everyone is her friend. She’s even befriended the homeless woman who occupies the empty gap between the book store and the drug store next to them. Apparently, her name is Maureen.

  “HD,” Zoe murmurs. “Three o’clock.”

  Sadly, Cassie knows exactly what this cryptic code means. HD stands for “Hot Doctor.” Bookland happens to be located a mere block away from a large teaching hospital, and tends to get its fair share of young physicians and medical students, looking for various medical textbooks. Unfortunately, Bookland doesn’t carry medical textbooks. So while Zoe enjoys this eye candy, Cassie mostly finds it frustrating.

  Still, she follows Zoe’s directions and looks in the direction of three o’clock, and… well, this guy is definitely an HD if there ever was one. The green scrubs give away the doctor bit. And the hot bit… yeah, that one isn’t up for debate. Thick, dark hair slightly tousled from the wind, eyes the color of the ocean, and a pretty nice build under those scrubs.

  “Dibs,” Zoe says. Even though she’s got a boyfriend.

  “Fine.”

  Zoe taps her shiny black fingernails. She has the longest fingernails Cassie had ever seen, although she claims they’re mostly for self-defense. New York is a dangerous city. She says the fingernails save her a bundle on mace. “You can have him if you really want him.”

  “I don’t want him.”

  “Why not? He’s gorgeous. And no ring.”

  “I don’t know.” Cassie glances at the guy in scrubs, who is flipping through a dog-eared copy of a graphic novel. “He’s too old.”

  “He’s too old?” Zoe’s dark red lips form an O. “How is he too old? He’s mid-thirties, at the latest.”

  Cassie turned twenty-six a couple of months ago. “Right. He’s like ten years older than me.”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s perfect. Men mature later than women, so you have to date men ten years older.”

  Cassie’s not sure she agrees. She can hardly manage men her own age, much less than older men.

  Zoe narrows her eyes. “When’s the last time you’ve been on a date, Cassie?”

  Cassie quickly makes herself busy organizing the bookmarks on the counter. Zoe made them and they bring in a little bit of revenue to supplement what they earn on books. Zoe is really talented—she could have been an artist if she wanted. “I’m not sure.”

  “So… what? You’re not interested in men anymore?”

  “I’m just… busy.”

  That is the truth. It is taking every ounce of Cassie’s energy and time to keep Bookland from closing its doors. She has been posting flyers all around the neighborhood, negotiating cheap advertising, and keeping the store open as many hours as she can stomach. She doesn’t have time for dating. Not now. Maybe someday.

  It doesn’t help that all of the dates she’s been on in the last several years have been a disappointment. And her last relationship was so unsatisfying, she couldn’t wait to be single again.

  Cassie fully expects Zoe to keep hassling her about her social life. But instead, Zoe sucks in a breath and nudges her hard. “Here comes HD. Look pretty.”

  Sure enough, the guy in scrubs is approaching the desk. Now that Cassie sees him close up, it’s clear he’s every bit the Hot Doctor. His blue eyes are so vivid and sexy that her resolve to keep out of the dating market wavers slightly. But only slightly.

  Usually a guy like that would make a beeline for Zoe, but instead, he approaches Cassie. He looks her in the eyes and offers an endearingly crooked grin. “Hi,” he says.

  She had irrationally hoped that when he spoke to her, he would have awful coffee breath or rotted yellow teeth or something that would make him less appealing, but no. He’s got perfect, white teeth and smells like a combination of aftershave and the outdoors.

  Zoe nudges her again. “Hi,” Cassie says.

  She waits for him to say the words every other guy in scrubs says when they come into Bookland. Can you help me find [fill in name of medical text]?

  But he doesn’t say that. A crease forms between his eyebrows and he says, “I’m looking for a copy of Wuthering Heights.”

  If Cassie had been drinking a beverage, she would have spit it out dramatically. This extremely attractive man in green scrubs wants a copy of the greatest love story of all time? “Wuthering Heights?”

  He nods. “Is that something you have?”

  “Of course.” And now her heart is racing in her chest. Not because this will be her first sale of the afternoon, but because a man who loves that book could be worth opening up her social calendar for. “Follow me, please.”

  She steps out from behind the desk, and he diligently follows her to the back of the store. She leads him to the four narrow shelves marked “Classics.” The books are coated in a fine layer of dust because nobody ever peruses this section, aside from the occasional teenager on a school assignment. The “Classics” sign is in Grandpa Marv’s handwriting—Bea never took down any of the signs her late husband wrote, even as the writing became faded. And now that both of them are gone, Cassie won’t touch them, even though the paper is starting to disintegrate.

  Cassie plucks one of their two copies from the shelf and blows dust off it as surreptitiously as she can. “Would you prefer hardcover or paperback?


  He chews on his lip. “Uh… which one is in better condition?”

  “They’re both in excellent condition,” Cassie says, trying not to sound indignant.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.” That crooked smile again. “See, the book isn’t for me. It’s for my mother. It’s her birthday.”

  “You’re buying your mother a used book for her birthday?”

  He ducks down his head. “It’s not what you think. My mother… she likes books to have a story. Like, she wants to imagine who owned it before and what journey it’s been on and…”

  She smiles. “That sounds like my grandmother.”

  Grandma Bea used to say things like that all the time. Every time she got a new shipment of books, she would lift up each volume, bring it to her nose, and inhale. She said different book brands had different smells—for example, Penguin books smell like vanilla. But then the journey the books would take would give it another unique odor on top of that. Cigarettes, she would say. Or maybe Chanel. She would come up with stories about who owned certain books. Cassie loved listening to those stories as much as she liked reading the books.

  Cassie replaces the paperback and plucks the hardcover volume off the shelf. The pages are so worn that they’ve turned yellow. “This book was given to us by a middle-aged woman,” she tells him. “She read it every day in the park while waiting for her married lover to appear. They stole one hour together every day, but he couldn’t leave his wife because she was ill and he was afraid the shock might kill her. He kept telling the woman it would just be a little longer, then they could be together. So the woman met him every day like that for one year… five years… twenty years, until…”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Until?”

  She smiles. “I don’t know. I just made it at all up. What do you think happens?”

  “I think they find a way to be together. A happy ending.”

  “But what about the wife? Doesn’t she deserve a happy ending?”

  He laughs. He has a nice laugh that shows off a row of white teeth. “This is too much philosophy for two in the afternoon.” He folds his arms across his chest, and she notices what are some very nice biceps protruding from his scrub top. “By the way, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is HD?”

  Cassie’s mouth drops open. He heard Zoe talking before. Wonderful. “HD?” she says weakly.

  “I heard your coworker say it.” His eyes twinkle. “When I was walking over to you. She said, ‘Here comes HD.’”

  She is going to kill Zoe. “Um, well… we weren’t talking about you or anything. It stands for… high… definition.”

  “High definition what?”

  “Television.” Cassie tries to shrug, but only one shoulder gets in on the action. “I was thinking about buying a high definition television. So.”

  “Right, of course.” He nods. “I got a high def TV a few years ago. It’s great. The picture is so clear.”

  Great, now he’s giving her advice about high definition televisions. As if she could afford that. She’s lucky they haven’t shut off her electricity. But anything is better than admitting they were ogling him from across the store.

  “So,” he says, “how much is the book?”

  Cassie flips over the hardcover in her hands and reveals the price on the back. Twenty dollars, which seems a bit steep for a used book—no wonder it’s never been sold. Grandma Bea must have priced it. She was very protective of her copies of Wuthering Heights, especially after Grandpa Marv died.

  She starts to tell him ten dollars, but before she can, he says, “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll go ring it up.”

  “Thanks…” He hesitates, one eyebrow raised.

  “Cassie,” she finishes for him.

  “Cassie,” he repeats. He sticks a thumb at his chest. “Joel.”

  She nods, not sure why they’re bothering to exchange names. He will purchase this book and she’ll never see him again. It’s not like he’s any great lover of literature who will be returning for many future purchases.

  Cassie rings up the book, trying not to think about the fact that this is the first time she’s opened the cash register this afternoon. How long can she keep this going?

  Joel pulls a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and holds it out to her. His thumb brushes slightly against her fingers as she takes it from him, and a tingle goes through her hand. A forgotten sensation, but not at all unwelcome. Maybe Zoe is right. Maybe she needs to reenter the dating world again.

  “I like these bookmarks,” Joel announces, breaking into her thoughts.

  She perks up, wondering if she might score another sale. Or at least keep this appealing man here just a little while longer. “They’re handmade.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You made them? They’re incredible. You’re really talented.”

  “I didn’t,” she admits regretfully. “Zoe made them.”

  Zoe lifts her eyes from her vampire novel. She looks between the two of them, shakes her head, and then sighs loudly. “Hot Doctor,” she announces.

  Cassie whips her head around to look at her coworker. Joel’s eyes have widened.

  “That’s what HD stands for,” Zoe clarifies as she lays her book flat on the table. “Hot Doctor. We saw you standing there and agreed you were a hot doctor, so… well, I think it’s self-explanatory at this point.” She taps on the desk with her long fingernail. “Aw, and now Hot Doctor is blushing.”

  Cassie had been averting her own eyes, but it turns out Zoe is right. Joel hasn’t turned red as a beet the way Cassie does when she’s embarrassed (as she surely is now), but his ears have flushed pink and he’s rubbing at the back of his neck.

  “You’re both blushing!” Zoe claps her hands together, like Christmas has come early. “That is so cute.” She focuses her gaze on Joel. “You should ask her out, HD. She’ll definitely say yes.”

  If Zoe weren’t her business partner, Cassie would fire her.

  “Uh…” He coughs. “Cassie, do you… I mean, would you be okay with me calling you sometime?”

  “Wow.” Zoe clasps her chest. “For a hot doctor, you are not smooth. Just ask her on a date. She’s free every night of the week.”

  For the love of God…

  He tugs at the V-neck of his scrubs. “What do you say, Cassie? Are you free on Friday night?”

  “Yes,” she admits. As well as Saturday, Sunday, Monday…

  A smile lights up his face. A guy that cute shouldn’t have been so nervous about asking out a random girl. It makes Cassie wonder if he’s been in the clutches of a long-term relationship and has only recently escaped, so his skills are rusty. She tries to put that thought out of her head.

  “That’s great,” he says. “Can I pick you up here?”

  She nods, finding that a smile is twitching at her own lips.

  Chapter 2: The Ex

  My most recent photograph on Facebook from last night featured yours truly in a short, slinky red dress, with four-inch black heels that, with the right camera angle, made my legs appear endless. I don’t want to admit how many shots it took to get the exact right camera angle.

  Okay, it was forty-three. Forty-three snapshots of me, taken with my iPhone in the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom door, to get that perfect shot. Which I then immediately posted on Facebook with the caption: “Ready for a night out on the town!”

  Sixty seconds after the post went live, I was stripping off my slinky red dress and my heels, washing off my makeup, and settling in for a marathon of Top Chef on my sofa. Alone.

  But it paid off. This morning when I woke up, there were twenty-seven “likes” of last night’s update and multiple comments. Yes, several of those comments were condescending remarks like, “Good for you, getting out there again!” I wasn’t concerned about that. The only thing I cared about was that one of those “likes” was from Joel Broder.

  In the five mont
hs since our breakup, Joel and I have not remained friends, but we are still Facebook friends. He is able to see my carefully orchestrated photographs and updates that show I’m having the time of my life without him. If he sees enough of these photographs, will he eventually start to feel regretful over what he gave up? And maybe decide he wants me back?

  It’s pathetic. I know. I need to stop. But until Joel changes his status to “in a relationship,” I keep trying. I can’t help myself.

  So when I walk into Starbucks and see Joel sitting at his usual table in the back, dressed in his usual scrubs, hunched over his Android with the fingers of his left hand wrapped around a Caffe Mocha, I don’t turn around and walk right out the door. Fortuitously, I’m dressed in my best pair of acid-washed skinny jeans paired with a top I got from the discount rack at Macy’s last week that shows the perfect amount of cleavage. My hair is gleaming from the highlights I put in last week—the salon is far too expensive but worth it. The box just isn’t the same.

  Okay, it’s not entirely fortuitous that I’m running into Joel while looking my best. The truth is, about two years ago, Joel got sick of me texting him whether he’d left the hospital yet, so he installed an app on my phone called WhereAmI. This app allowed me to locate him anywhere he goes via GPS with startling accuracy. If he goes into a Starbucks, it can even tell me which one.

  I had assumed when Joel broke up with me, he’d have turned off WhereAmI on his own phone. But he hasn’t. I can only assume he’s forgotten all about it, because I’m still receiving minute-to-minute updates about his whereabouts.

  I should delete the app. I definitely should. It’s not healthy to be tracking my ex-boyfriend around the city. I’m no psychologist, but I know that much.

  I’ll delete it. Soon.