Page 61 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
My chewing slows as James’s ex makes yet another appearance.
And another:
“Her tolerance was basically zero. If she had a sip of wine, I had to feed her. Probably why she thought everyone needed a snack with their drinks.” He plucks a crisp from the bowl. “There’s actually no cheese in ’em if you can believe it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, my ex was lactose intolerant—”
“Oh.”
“So I did a cashew cheese instead.”
I nod and drop the crisp back into the bowl, feeling like I’ve just been caught eating someone else’s food from the break room. I rinse the evidence from my mouth with a swig of the wine James’s ex didn’t care much for, as he continues.
“She used to—Riley. That’s her name. Feels like I’m sayingshe, she, she.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Riley used to come in and steal entire to-go boxes of these things.”
He’s smiling again, but it’s becoming painfully clear that his smiles, like his cheese crisps, belong toher.
“Well, they’re great,” I say, unhooking my purse from beneath the bar. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”
—
“Where. Is. Zola?”
James isn’t likely to hear me over the pots he’s banging around in the kitchen, but I still cup a hand around my mouth as I whisper-scream the question into the receiver. Squatting down into the small open space beside the toilet, for good measure.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, matching my volume. “Why are we whispering?”
“I’mwhispering, because your daughter set me up with a guy who’s very clearly in love with his ex-girlfriend—oh, I’m sorry. Riley. That’s her name, Mom. Why do I know her name?”
Mom’s shuffling around on the other end of the line but is quiet for a few beats until she sighs. “You’re making this call from a date you’re still on with a guy you’re still with?”
This is so not the energy I need right now. I need her to find Zola. I need a plan to get out of this. I need action.
In muted exasperation, I pull the phone from my ear to put some distance between myself and the woman I’m irrationally angry at. “He can’t hear me,” I whisper-bark this time.
I leave out the part about being curled into the fetal position inches from the toilet bowl brush.
“Where is he now?” she asks.
“Starting dinner.”
“Oh. So, he’s cooking for you? And you’re hiding. Talking to your mom. About his ex. You sure he’s the problem?” Before I can argue my point, she continues. “People have exes, Kai. I’d rather a guy who’s comfortable mentioning them respectfully than one who swears they’re all crazy.”
The banging in the kitchen has quieted.
I’m running out of time.
“I know people have exes,” I say in a rush. “But do they bring them along on first dates?”
“She’sthere?” Mom says, finally as horrified as I need her.
“Metaphorically.”
