Are you fucking kidding me?
I held out my hand. “Oliver Harris the twelfth,” I said, since two could play that game. “Congrats on the wedding.”
“Yes. I particularly love the favors. I’d been hoping for a pen with your photo on it,” Summer put in.
“Thanks. They’re great for signing things,” Drew said, completely missing the point.
“As pens are,” I added, affixing a most serious look to my face. “Do they also work for taking notes?”
“Yeah,” he said, giving me a confused look. Drew scrubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced from Summer to me and back. “Have you two been together long?”
I looped my arm around her waist. “No, but when something is right, it’s just right, isn’t it?”
And since I had no more interest in him than I did in his bride-and-groom photo pens, I took Summer to the dance floor and twirled her around.
“Did you know you can also use a pen as a whistle?”
“Did you know you can use a pen to poke your brother or your cousin?” she tossed back.
“Some pens double as back scratchers,” I said.
“And don’t forget—nearly all can be used to hit that hard-to-reach reset button on modems.”
I spun her around, and when she made a full circle, I added, “And this concludes our discussion of other uses for pens. By the way, Drew the third, dullest man in existence, is not only a douche but a total douche.”
Her blonde hair spilled behind her, and she smiled. “Was it the third or the personalized pens that sealed the deal?”
I shook my head, tugging her up. “No, it’s that he’s holding a wedding on a Sunday. Who does that?”
“What’s wrong with Sunday? Don’t tell me you hate Sundays.”
“It’s too close to Monday.”
“Aww, poor Oliver hates Monday,” she said, patting my chest as we danced. “Ollie and Garfield.”
“Don’t call me Ollie,” I growled.
“But comparing you to a cartoon cat is okay?”
“It’s better than being called Ollie.”
“You know why I call you Ollie,” she said, a hint of seriousness in her tone.
“I know,” I replied, partially serious too.
“And I think you like it, even though you pretend not to.”
“Try me, woman.”
Her lips curved into a fantastic grin as she taunted, “Ollie, Ollie, Ollie.”
Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t entirely mind it from her. Still, I wasn’t a man for diminutives, so I clasped her tighter.
“Now I must punish you.” I dipped her precariously far. But Summer was the girl who liked to cliff jump into the ocean. She was the daredevil who’d skateboarded down the hilly street we lived on as teens. She had a lion-tamer’s ferocity and a fearless heart.
“That’s your punishment for Ollie?” she fired back.
“Watch it, or spankings come next.”
“Ooh, is that included on the fake boyfriend menu?”
I brought her back up again, flush against my chest, and for a flash of a moment, I had an image of where dancing might lead.
A dangerous image that would require use of the dark corners of my mind, so I stepped away from talk of spanking.
Lest it lead to something just like that.
Instead, I cleared my throat and answered her earlier question. “Holding a wedding on a Sunday is throwing in the towel. It says you’re going to bed early. It says you’re waking up and heading to the gym the next morning. It says you aren’t committed to lasting all night long.”
“What’s wrong with going to the gym in the morning?”
“Nothing, as long as it’s not the morning after your wedding night.”
“How do you know they aren’t staying up all night long?”
“Because it’s Sunday.”
“So are you telling me that you’ve never stayed up all night long on a Sunday?”
“I have, but I doubt Drew the third has my stamina,” I said, as I made sure our bodies didn’t sway too closely. I didn’t need another brazen image of her lodging itself where it didn’t belong.
“You are so cocky.”
“But it’s not cocky if it’s true.”
She tapped my shoulder. “Just because you and your cousin have this saying doesn’t make it right.”
“But you know what is true and right?” I asked, spinning her and enjoying the way it made her laugh.
“What?”
“Me stepping in as the future Douchey Ex Number Four. Because now you’re not thinking about your Douchey Ex Number Three breaking the rules of common decency by inviting you to his wedding, are you?”
Her smile lit up the entire dance floor. It was all the twinkling lights in the reception hall. It was the stars in the night sky. “Not at all.” She took a beat, as if stripping away the sass and teasing that were the hallmarks of our friendship. “Thank you, Oliver.”
“It was my pleasure, Summer.” And it was. The night had been fantastic. “Just like it was with the guy from the bar. Remember that night at the Lucky Spot?”
“I do. You pulled me onto your lap and played with my hair, really selling it to the jury.”
“It worked. He sulked off,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking of the ex. I was thinking of her hair, grateful she wore it up tonight, so I wouldn’t be tempted.
Summer glanced around, as if surveying the success of the wedding ruse. “And on that note, has anyone told you you’re the best fake boyfriend around?”
“Why, yes. It’s going on my business card.”
“Oh, good. Now I feel special.”
“You should always feel special,” I said, conveying that in my tone. I wanted her to know that. Wanted her to feel it. Because her role in my life and the immeasurable levels of special she brought to it were the reasons I didn’t want to get any closer to her.
“I should?” Her question came out a little tentative, a little surprised.
I met her gaze, making sure she saw that I was being honest. “You are special, Summer.”
She’d been one of my closest friends since I was old enough to need someone to turn to.
She’d been there for me the entire time my sister was sick when I was in high school, and when Phoebe died, she’d been there for me too.
Always.
And I always wanted her in my life, and to be in hers, not on a list of mistakes.
That was why I laughed it off when Jason or Logan hinted about us becoming more than friends.
We were an us because we didn’t ever let us become anything else.
10
Summer
Present day
Stella answers on the first ring. “Let me guess. You’re in jail, and you need me to bail you out.”
“As if I’d call you first,” I say indignantly.
“Who would you call?”
I consider this from bed, staring at the ceiling. “Logan probably. He can talk his way out of anything.”
“Sweetie, it’s money you need for bail. Not talk.”
“But maybe he could talk his way out of the bail,” I suggest.
Stella yawns so savagely you could drive a semitruck through it. “Anyway, why are you calling at ten at night if you’re not in jail?”
“How old are you? Ten is not late.”
“Two years older than you, which means I need my sleep.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Sort of. Anyway, I’m calling because I wrote the letter, and I’m about to hit submit. But want to hear it first?”
“Oooh! I am wide awake and ready.”
I clear my throat and read the letter out loud.
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend,
I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.
Exes are exes for a reason.
But not always for a bad reason.
Usually, they’re in the past because you didn’t see eye to eye.
Or because you didn’t love each other eno
ugh.
Or maybe circumstances pulled you apart.
That happens, and it’s just part of life, part of learning.
Sometimes, though, an ex is history because one of you, or both of you, are absolute douches.
After all, exes can be jerks. They can wander into bars, saunter over to you when you’re with your friends, and act like nothing happened.
Or invite you to their wedding when you have zero interest in their nuptials and even less in their swaggy wedding favors. (Seriously. Commemorative pens? Pens with your face on them?)
But I’ve never believed that all the ex-boyfriends are the worst.
I don’t believe that about you.
You stepped in when I needed you the most, with your charm, and your wit, and your “I’ve got this” spirit.
You lifted me up when I needed you to. And you saved me when I needed saving. I saved you too.
And I know you—from the way you look when you get out of the pool to the way you like your English breakfast tea (not at all, thank you very much).
But in spite of this knowledge, you told me that someday I’d call you a douchey ex too.
And you’d deserve it, you said.
You’d deserve it because we don’t always see eye to eye. Because we don’t agree on everything. Because we see the world differently.
But you know what? I’ve learned something about who I am from you.
Just like our choice of a last meal is insight into the life we led, right? Exes say something about a person. When I look back on mine, they tell the story of my heart and my goals and my dreams. They say I’m not ready yet to give my all to a relationship. I’m not ready to move into that phase of my life.
There is a world out there and so much to see in it. I couldn’t travel the way I wanted to if my exes had been the kind to stick around.
The kind I wanted to stick around.
And especially if you’d been the kind of guy who wanted more.
That was never in the cards for us.
So I say, if you want to be Douchey Ex Number Four, I welcome that. I’ve got labels printed out. You can wear a sandwich board stating that you’re Douchey Ex Number Four—and proud of it.
We’d grab a pint someday and probably even laugh about it, except we both prefer martinis.
Because you and me? We know what we are to each other. We know that the world needs more sexy ex-boyfriends so we can achieve our dreams.
May we learn lessons from all kinds of exes—from the jerks, from the timid, from the crazy, from the ones we just didn’t love enough, and from the ones who didn’t love us enough.
They teach us about ourselves.
And I’m still trying to achieve all my dreams.
So I say thank you, Douchey Ex Number Four, for being the sexiest ex-boyfriend of all.
My best,
Summer
I finish, feeling naked, exposed, but hopeful that it says everything I want to say, and that Stella will like it.
Hopeful that The Dating Pool will love it, because winning this could tip me over the edge with my new venture.
“It’s . . .” Stella begins, but doesn’t finish.
“It’s terrible? That’s what you were going to say? Or it’s a brilliant scheme and a terrific chance to nab some extra money if I win. And if I win, I would use it to add a self-defense class to the roster, and that’s precisely what my gym needs.” My words are like froyo spilling out too fast and overflowing from the sample cup.
She laughs sweetly. “I was going to say I think it’s a brilliant scheme and a lovely letter. And I actually think I get it now.”
My brow knits. “Get what?”
“You and Oliver. Your connection. I think I understand it in a whole new way.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. I kind of get why you’re not interested in testing my theory. I understand now why you always say nothing will happen.”
“Thank you,” I say, warmth and happiness bubbling up in me. “It’s so easy to think because we’re good friends that a romance is inevitable. But that’s not in the cards.”
“Yeah, I see that now,” she says, sounding introspective. “I guess it’s human nature to want to ship two pretty people who spend so much time together.”
“And now you understand why there is no Sumiver Ship or Olimer Ship.”
“More proof you’re right. Your names are horribly un-shippable.”
“There you go.” I smile, thanking her, then hit submit.
Even though, I suppose, a small part of me still wonders about the accuracy of her theories.
But just a small part, I swear.
11
Summer
On Monday, I watch as Loan Officer Electra nods thoughtfully, takes a beat, then smiles. “You present a very compelling argument. And honestly, I’m counting the days till your gym opens.”
Must not crawl across the desk and tackle-hug the world’s coolest loan officer.
Instead, I sit ramrod straight on the edge of the leather seat, beaming. “I’m so glad you feel that way. I’ve lined up my final teachers too, to make the classes amazing. Seniors have different needs than other age groups and want a gym where they feel comfortable and welcome. Providing that can increase health in the golden years. I found a Zumba teacher who specializes in catering to seniors. I have a spin-class instructor who’s the best in the biz. I even found someone to teach kickboxing to older adults.”
I’m giddy, but professionally giddy. That’s a thing. “This is going to be so good for health and fitness and longevity. In time, we can reduce medical costs and reduce insurance needs. It’s going to be great,” I say, unable to stop giving my pitch to her on why fitness for life matters.
But the curly-haired woman with the hawklike nose seems to need little convincing. “I know! I can’t wait to sign up my dad. He is going to love it. He’s jonesing to do kickboxing.”
Just like Stella’s grandpa. Yes! This gym is filling an unserved need. And I am going to call my instructors the second the ink dries. They are going to flip.
“Thank you, Electra. I’m glad you feel that way. I can’t wait to let my instructors know it’s a go,” I say, nerves winging through my body as I adjust the pencil skirt that feels like a costume, since I don’t usually wear navy skirts and silk blouses.
Except when begging for money.
But that ends today.
Humming, Electra drums her fingers on her oak desk, flashing a cheery smile in my direction. “They are going to be ecstatic. And we simply can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
I blink. What? She can’t wait to hear how it goes? “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do keep in touch. And best of luck, Summer.”
Ohhhhhhhhhh.
My shoulders slide toward the floor in the slumpiest slump of all time. “You’re not granting the loan?” I ask in a dead tone.
She shakes her head, still grinning, which seems kind of cruel. “No, but you’re one of our most regular and valuable customers, and we so appreciate you saving all that money with us.”
“But I need more.” My voice cracks, and I swallow that awful splintering sound. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe she’s just messing around. “I’ve been a good customer for ten years, and now I need a loan to make this gym the best it can be. To be competitive.”
Electra pumps a fist. “And we are fired up to see how it goes with all that you have saved here. You go get ’em, girl.”
Girl.
She just you go, girled me.
She hasn’t even uttered any of the warning words that come before crushing your hopes and dreams. Words like however, but, with that said, or unfortunately.
She’s turned me down with pep and vigor.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“The risk is just too great.”
With a deep sigh, I gather my purse, say a wooden thanks, and leave.
A deep sadness cloaks me as I walk across the stone
floor of the bank toward the ominous exit.
Maybe I didn’t present a compelling enough pitch. Maybe I asked for too much. Maybe I asked for too little. But I need that extra money. Need it to get me over the hump. Need it to show I can do this on my own.
All I’ve ever wanted is to do this on my own.
And now I don’t have enough to open the doors.
Now I’ll have to table my dreams for months while I save up the rest.
As I trudge to the street, my phone rings—my mom is calling. I answer it half-heartedly, wishing I could muster my normal pep.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound cheery, trying to focus on her. “How’s everything going with you? Is it Book Club Monday? Do you have everyone hooked on the newest Nora Roberts?”
“Of course I do. I’m a master at picking books. I should be running book clubs all over town. But that’s not why I’m calling. How did it go?” She sounds like she’s been holding her breath with anticipation.
“Oh, you know. It went . . .” But I can’t even spin a tale. “They turned me down.” My throat catches.
“Sweetie, let us help you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend Page 6
