Chapter 32
THE EX AMBUSH
Ivy
October in San Francisco is one of the hottest months of the year, so here I go, in this sleeveless top. It’s the opposite of Simone’s retro rockabilly style. I’m very now, and I need this fashion armor as I meet her and my ex in a boba shop.
I’d rather not see either one of them, but I’m trying to approach this meeting as a reporter. She’s simply someone I’m covering, and so is he. I grab the door handle and prepare to meet the woman who used to be my mentor.
How did I miss all the signs that I couldn’t trust her? Or…the man by her side at the pristine white table in the corner of the shop?
Xander’s dressed in plaid pants and suspenders and wearing a fake-ass smile to go with his equally fake horn-rimmed glasses.
I stride over to their table, plastering on a faker smile. “Hi, Simone. Hello, Xander.”
“Hey, girl!” she says cheerily, waving her bejeweled hand at me, the engagement diamond sparkling like fire. It matches the silvery shade of her headband, holding back all those blond locks. He’s the Ken to her Barbie. Well, he’s a hipster Ken.
Xander clears his throat. “Hi, Ivy. You’re looking very professional.”
Can you say underhanded dig?
“Thanks,” I say evenly as my gaze strays to a…jar on the table that appears to be full of yeast and stuff. “You brought…your sourdough starter?”
He clutches the glass lovingly. “Salinger,” he says with obvious pride. There must be a warp in the time-space continuum. Did he actually name that thing he was growing when I was with him?
Xander confirms what I didn’t ask. “He needed a name.”
And a gender? “The sourdough starter is a he? And you carry him around?” I can’t not ask.
“It’s safer that way for Salinger,” Xander says, gripping the jar more tightly. “Simone’s cat likes to knock things over.”
My stomach twists. What did I ever see in him?
I can never date for real again until I diagnose the problem with my taste.
I put that on my mental to-do list as I go to the counter to order a brown sugar milk tea.
Once Simone and Xander’s drinks are ready, too, we sit back down, and I open up a notebook and uncap a pen.
“What do you want me to know about the wedding?” I ask, eager to get down to business.
“I’d love to do a preview for my…newsletter and my social.
” I don’t even want to tell them my handle.
They’d probably mock me for my paltry number of followers.
They’d break out their artisanal ice cubes, drop them in their small-batch cocktails garnished with edible flowers, and laugh at little me.
And yet, I swallow my pride, then add, “And for you, Simone.”
After all, a deal’s a deal.
Simone brightens. “Yes, let’s talk about the big day.” She chatters on about what she’ll be wearing, and when she’ll reveal it to her one million followers, and I take notes in the purple notebook my husband gave me.
That gives me a little zing.
When Simone’s done talking, I set down my pen. “That all sounds—”
Xander points at my left hand like I’m wearing a spider. “Your ring. What happened? How did that happen?”
Like me being married is differential calculus. And for a second, I hesitate to say anything. But Hayes is wearing his ring, his teammates know, and it’s only a matter of time before word gets out beyond the Avengers. It’ll happen soon enough at the upcoming golf event.
“Well, I met this guy—”
“I just can’t believe you’re married already.”
Ohhh. Right. He can move on while he’s with me, but I ought to mourn The Dapper Man till the end of time.
I square my shoulders. “Yes. Already. It was a whirlwind romance because when you know, you know, right? I’m married to Hayes Armstrong on the Avengers,” I say, sitting up straighter, owning it.
“My plus-one at your wedding, as a matter of fact. You might have heard of him. The hotshot new hockey star in town.”
Xander’s jaw drops.
Simone beams.
“You always talked about the importance of not settling, so I didn’t,” I add. Take that.
Xander’s eyes flash with clout. Yup, he’s imagining how it’d look to have a bona fide pro athlete at his wedding. Simone grins too. “How wonderful,” she says.
He turns to her, squeezes her hand. “So fantastic.” He clears his throat, then adds, “And did you know the team captain owns a restaurant?”
Um, yeah. But what does that have to do with anything? “I’m aware.”
“Stefan Christiansen,” he says—yes, he fucked me this morning to remind me you never deserved me—then turns to Simone. “We should invite him too.”
What a couple of star fuckers.
* * *
When I leave the shop, I steal a final glance over my shoulder at the pair as they walk into the San Francisco day, Xander clutching Salinger like it’s his baby.
Shaking my head, I return to my building, a cloud of dark thoughts chasing me as I click to my texts.
I’m desperate for a reality check, so I open the thread with Trina and Aubrey.
Ivy: Question: What did I ever see in Xander?
Aubrey’s three bubbles dance.
Aubrey: You liked that he wasn’t a tech bro.
Ivy: Wow. That’s so compelling.
Trina: And he liked to bake bread.
Ivy: I mean, I love bread, but was I THAT impressed with someone just…baking?
Aubrey: Also, he went thrifting with you. You liked that too.
I groan, remembering the things he would say as we shopped.
You can wear this dress when you hit your first 10K.
Then get this top for when you go viral.
Once, when I’d shared news of a writing job I’d been offered, he’d said, Take the assignment.
It’s going to open doors for you. It’s all so apparent in retrospect—he was trying to change me with his do this, do that encouragement.
When he gave it, I felt like he was doling out important advice.
Like he was a boyfriend who’d legit taken an interest in my career and my life.
But now, looking back, I can see that he was always trying to mold me.
I just wanted to write about something I loved.
I wasn’t trying to make gobs of money or rule the online world.
But I’d been fooled by his fake cheerleading as we hunted for secondhand clothes.
I suppose it’s no surprise I missed the signs.
When I was growing up, it’s not like I ever saw a man be truly good to a woman.
By the time I was eight or nine, I was looking out for my little sister, keeping her busy when my dad would yell, and then hoping every night and every morning that my mom would kick my dad out of the house.
Annoyed, I put my phone away and drag myself into my building, head upstairs, and shed my shoes as I greet Roxy, who jumps up when she sees me then barks until I give her a daily sock.
Placated, she snags it in her little teeth and scurries off, butt waggling, to deposit it in her secret sock collection in my bedroom.
Well, she thinks it’s secret. I’ve figured her out.
Seconds later, she returns to me, chattering in Dog that it’s time for a walk since it’s always time for a walk. I fasten on her burgers or bacon or bust bandana, then grab her harness and oblige, but I’m still feeling foolish as I go.
On the one hand, Hayes and Stefan aren’t anything at all like Xander. On the other hand, I did like Xander once upon a time.
What if I can’t pick men? What if my taste this time around turns out to be as off as my taste in Xander clearly was?
I sigh, disgruntled, until our walk brings Roxy and me to Better With Pockets.
Lately, she’s been making puppy-dog eyes with the owner’s dog.
When Beatrix’s greyhound mix, Karl, spots my girl from inside the boutique, he trots past the new frocks and out to the sidewalk, stretching his long, sleek frame into a most inviting downward dog.
Roxy sashays over to Karl, wagging her lush tail.
Karl is easily ten years younger, which puts Roxy squarely in the cougar camp, while Karl’s the pool boy.
I never heard back from my email to Beatrix with some ideas for her social, but that’s okay.
Everyone hates email and most people hate turning other people down.
As the dogs Lady and the Tramp over a bowl of H2O, Beatrix joins us on the street, snapping a pic of the pups.
Beatrix’s pixie cut is tousled and silvery today, a fun contrast to her olive complexion.
“Love the new hair color,” I say.
She touches her locks, as if just remembering the shade. “Thanks. I nearly forgot what color I did last night.” When the dogs stop lapping, she shows me the shot. “Shop Dog and The Flirt. I should post it on the store’s social…” She waves a hand. “If I remember.”
Hmm. She sounds beleaguered. “Roxy and I would be very honored,” I say, then I woman-up and remind her I can help. “And if I can help with your social media marketing, DM me.”
Her eyes brighten. “Actually, I keep meaning to follow up with you, but I hate email.”
Called it.
“I need some social media work. Someone to write about outfits of the day.”
Hello! That’s me! “I’d love to.”
“I’ll DM you later with details. Also, those pants are seriously cute.”
“Thanks. They’re Zoe Slades. Picked them up at Champagne Taste for seventy-five percent off.”
She whistles. “Can you please shop for me?”
“Anytime.”
“But you’ll only write about the outfits I have here,” she says.
I assure her I will and thank her again, then pop into a sock shop next door. Before I go home, I drop off three pairs of socks at Hayes’s door. One for him, one for Stefan, and one for Hayes’s terribly dressed, but not so terribly dressed anymore, grandad.
Back at my place, I text for a bit with my little sister about her semester abroad, and then I write and research fashion till it’s time to head to the arena that night.
* * *
Shortly before the game, I leave the equipment room that doubles as a mascot changing room, and head into the corridor. I’m walking toward the ice when Number Eighteen comes up behind me in his uniform, his eyes traveling up and down my new getup.
“Are you Blob take two?” Stefan asks, incredulous.
I gesture to my gray costume. Just gray. That’s all I am. A gray cloud. “I’m…wait for it…The San Francisco fog,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“Oh fuck, sweetheart. That’s terrible,” he says with sympathy. Stefan glances down the hall, then whispers. “I heard you were joining us briefly for a warm-up lap, but they didn’t tell us you’d be wearing…sadness.”
I pluck at the costume. “It is pretty much the fashion manifestation of tears.”
“Is there someone here that thinks this mascot costume is a good idea?”
I shrug helplessly. “They were trying to be good stewards of the city.”
Seconds later, Hayes joins us, cringing. “Sorry, baby.”
My costume is hideous, but I stifle a grin because they’re both using affectionate nicknames in public, and their pet names for me fit their personalities perfectly. I glance down at my garb. “I mean, wouldn’t a foghorn have been better?”
“Yes. Yes, it would,” Stefan says, running a hand over his purple uniform. “But does this mean we’ll have to wear sad gray fog uniforms? And will we be called The Fog?”
“Only if The Fog is more popular with fans than the next two,” I say, and I’m not revealing team secrets since the online voting should be underway any minute.
“It’s totally not voter fraud if we manipulate that poll, is it?” Hayes asks hopefully.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I say.
“We’ll keep your secret safe,” Stefan says, then a smile tips his lips as he whispers, “Thanks for the fox socks.”
“You kind of remind me of one,” I whisper playfully.
“I gathered as much.”
“I guess that means I remind you of a star,” Hayes says with a wink in his voice. “Thanks for the star and planet ones. The llamas too.”
Their soft expressions tell me just how much they liked the gifts—the same gift that I tailored for each guy. “Just don’t wear socks with nothing at all,” I tease.
“Noted,” Stefan says.
“I knew that,” Hayes seconds. He seems relaxed with all of us today.
It’s so good to see. It’s also good to see both of them at work.
Initially, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it, liking one guy I worked with, let alone two.
But turns out, it’s easy to interact with them here in the halls, maybe because that’s what we did before Vegas.
We talked on the rooftop, on the plane, and here in the halls.
“I got another gig today,” I say brightly, keen to share. “I’m doing social for a store.”
“I told you you’re brilliant,” Stefan says, his eyes shining with pride as he offers a fist for knocking and I knock back.
“That’s awesome,” Hayes says, then high-fives me.
Stefan gestures toward the arena. “We should go.”
But neither of them moves.
Briefly, doubt fuzzes my head. What strange habits are their biceps hiding? What emotional shortcomings do they possess under their steel bodies? Most of all, how could they hurt me?
My dad hid his anger well for a while, but by the time I was nine, he was getting drunk after work, then screwing other women, then hurling insults at our mom, then telling his daughters we could never trust a man, not even him.
It was emotional whiplash till my mom finally kicked him out, and my brother took on the protector role.
Some days, though, I still feel that whiplash in my heart, still hear the echo of his insults in my mind.
And I worry that every man I encounter might be like him eventually. I hate that I still think these things even after these guys have shown their support. Even after they’ve lifted me up, I still expect the worst.
I just don’t know how to shake my past with Xander or the way I grew up with my dad.
“Do either of you have a sourdough starter that you named after a writer?” I ask.
Stefan blinks, clearly perplexed. “This feels like a trick question,” he says warily, “but I’m going to answer anyway. No. Hayes?”
“I don’t even know how to turn on the oven, so that’s a big no.”
“Good,” I say, somewhat mollified. “And good luck tonight.”
Hayes gives a chin nod, but before he leaves, he says softly, “Also, I would never stage a blow job pic for a wedding invite. Or any other reason.”
Stefan catches on immediately. “And I would never fuck your boss. Your ex is an asshole who never deserved you. Remember that. But if you don’t, we’ll keep reminding you—you’re amazing in every way.”
Hayes nods to the ice. “Get out there and go show the city what the San Francisco Fog can do.”
“You guys are the best,” I say softly, then I head to the ice, fueled by their support.