Page 79 of A Really Bad Idea

“Who’s Brock?” Angela asks.

“My ex-husband.”

She shoots back at me with a surprised squeal, “You have an ex-husband?”

I nod toward him as he steps up to the register to order. I know from years of living with him that he’s asking for a venti iced coffee with milk and three pumps of vanilla.

Angela turns around and lowers her chin to get a good look over the top of her sunglasses. “You mean, the pale Jason Momoa over there is your ex?”

“Yes.” I try to turn away, but it’s no use.

For all the times I’ve avoided the television when a game is on or looked away when I saw a sports article, I seem to be making up for lost time with the way I’m taking him in. He’s still as large and empowering as ever with his thick neck and wide back. His chestnut-colored beard is long yet trimmed, as it is this time of year. It hides his mouth, which is a shame because he has a really nice smile. Those dark eyes I used to stare at every day are winking at the girl taking his order.

“He looks familiar,” Angela says.

“He plays for the Islanders.”

“I’m all about basketball, but hockey just might become my next favorite sport. Why did you break up?”

“He cheated on me.”

“With her?” Angela’s tone of admiration has changed into a girl who looks like she’s about to cut a bitch.

I grin at her turn of attitude. “No. I caught him with a ginger-haired Canadian. He gets around. I heard he’s dating a Victoria’s Secret model.”

“She’s definitely not a VS girl. I’d know,” she says. “Sorry you were married to a scoundrel. I had no idea.”

“Meadow. Venti caramel latte,” the barista shouts out.

I raise my hand to take my drink. It shouldn’t surprise me that, since I have a unique name, paired with the order I’ve had since I was twenty-five, the call gets Brock’s attention.

His eyes jump to me, and the smile he had a moment ago has now fallen. He doesn’t look sad or angry. Just shell-shocked, like a man who has seen a ghost.

Angela takes her drink, and I usher her to walk away before Brock can make it to us. There’s another entrance that will lead us to the side street, so we make our way for that one.

We’re not fast enough.

Brock’s hand is on my shoulder, his grip calling me back.

“Meadow,” he says.

I turn around. This is what I’ve been avoiding—looking at Brock. As much as I hate him for being a disgusting pig, I can’t help but feel that pang. It’s why I keep the albums in my nightstand. The memories of us are etched into the fiber of my being. I can’t erase Brock. Not with all the Johnnie in the world.

“How are you?” His interest keen.

“Good,” I answer. “You look good.”

Believe me when I say, out of all the times I envisioned seeing him again, my first words were not going to be, “You look good.”

“I was gonna say the same thing. About you. You look great.” His eyes roam over my face, probably taking in my hair that’s a little longer and lighter and my cheeks that are a bit thinner. “How are your parents?”

When we were together, family functions were the bane of his existence. Asking about their well-being wasn’t one of his good traits.

“They still hate you.”

He flinches. “And you?”

Me? What does one say to their ex-husband who they haven’t seen since signing the divorce papers a year ago? I still hate what he did. I hate how he took our vows and tore them into the bedsheets. I hate the fact that the life we planned is now not going to happen.