I press my lips together and try to be brave, I do, it’s just . . . I make another leap for the Magic 8 ball, but he puts it once more out of my reach.
“All right,” he says slowly, searching my face. “You need someone to make this decision for you?”
I nod and hold out my hands for the ball with a smile.
In response, he tosses it backward into the hall, where it rolls and collides with the wall.
“Hey!” I try to go for it, but he wraps an arm around my waist, propelling me backward until my feet are off the ground and I land flat on my back on the bed with an oomf.
Mark follows me onto the bed, caging me in with his big body.
“Ask me,” he orders, pinning my wrists over my head with one hand.
“Ask you what?” I say, a little breathless.
“Ask me what you asked the damn ball.”
I swallow. “Should I sleep with Mark again?”
His smile is slow and confident as he slowly lowers his body to mine. “It is certain.”
December 21, Thursday Afternoon
I do a pretty good job of not sulking when Mark has to go to work later that afternoon.
It’s just as well. After three (yes, three) rounds of incredible sex, I need time to figure out what the heck is going on here, and how I feel about it.
As well as figure out what to do with the text message that just came through.
Hey, Kelly? Is this the right number? Jordan Van Doren told me that a friend of yours told her you were looking for me?
That’s right. The text message on my phone is from none other than Adam Bartley, one of my two missing ex-boyfriends.
I should be elated. It’s four days until Christmas, and here the opportunity to maybe connect with my potential soulmate is staring me in the face.
I pick up my phone to reply, to ask him how he’s been, where he’s been . . .
I can’t.
I set the phone back down and bite my lip.
Wine. That’ll help. I need wine.
But half a glass of Chardonnay later, Adam’s text is still unanswered.
Ironically, the very person whose opinion I want to ask on what to do is the very one who’s causing my indecision in the first place.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. What I have with Mark is just sex. It’s separate from my quest for my soulmate.
There. That’s a good pep talk, right?
It does the trick, because I pick up the phone and reply . . .
Hey! Yes, just was thinking about you lately. You know how I get around the holidays. Nostalgic and whatnot :)
I hit send and quickly exchange the phone for my wine. There. That wasn’t so bad. Now I just have to wait . . .
My iPhone buzzes. Damn it. What is with all my exes being so prompt?
Ha, yeah, I remember you did always get a little weepy this time of year.
I narrow my eyes. Did he and I even date over Christmas? I can’t remember. Truth be told, I can’t remember much about Adam at all. Light brown hair. Brown eyes. Blue eyes? He had a birthmark on his right shoulder, I know that, and . . .
Yeah, that’s about it as far as memories go.
So you’ve been good? Still in New York?
I bite my lip as I wait in agony for a little bit . . . as his typing turns into text.
His response makes my stomach drop out.
Yeah, but not the city. Got tired of the business, traded in my suit for jeans and bought a place upstate.
I close my eyes. Upstate.
Haven is upstate.
All this time I’ve been waiting for a sign that one of these guys is the one, and here one of them is practically next door . . .
But well now, wait a minute. Let’s not get hasty. Upstate New York applies to a huge region. For all I know, he could be four hours away and married.
You know Johnstown? About a three-hour train ride north. You grew up around there, right?
Shit. Shit shit shit. Johnstown is all of a thirty-minute drive from Haven, with traffic. And there’s never traffic.
My next move should be easy. Adam is right there. I should go grab a drink with him. If he’s available, it means . . . well, something. If he’s not, there we go. Not meant to be.
And if Mark’s face keeps popping into my head . . .
I blow out a breath. But Mark’s not here, sooooo . . .
I sprint up the stairs, then back down again, shaking the precious Magic 8 ball (it still works, despite Mark’s abuse).
It’s the perfect solution—the only solution. There’s only one way to figure out if I’m supposed to see this whole ex list business through. Either it’s fate or . . .
“Should I set up a date with Adam?” I ask as I drop back into the kitchen chair.
No no no no no, I will it desperately to reply, still shaking the ball.
Yes.
I drop my forehead to the wood table with a groan.
Two minutes later, Adam eagerly agrees to a drink. And he’s free tonight.
Thirty minutes later, I’m out the door, driving to Johnstown.
It’s not the first time my Magic 8 ball’s told me to do something I didn’t particularly want to do.
But it’s the first time I seriously considering telling the damn thing to go to hell.
Kelly Byrne’s Ex List—Version Seven
Jack Chance
Joey Russo
Chad Morrister
Doug Porter
Stephen Hill
Adam Bartley: Finally. A good ex. A great ex. We totally hit it off, talked for hours. Me. My ex. His new boyfriend . . .
Colin Austin
December 21, Thursday Evening
This was my plan: drinks with Adam at five, home by seven. At the latest.
Even with Mark’s unpredictable work schedule lately, I can’t imagine him leaving the restaurant during the dinner rush. I figured I’d beat him home, pour a glass of wine, and, depending how my meeting with Adam went, figure out what to tell him.
Now, if you’re thinking, That’s a horrible plan, you’d be right.
It wasn’t a great plan to start with, but I could have made it work if I’d stuck with it, which . . . I didn’t.
So now it’s ten o’clock, and despite the fact that I wished on every possible power in the universe on my drive home that Mark would still be at work when I pull up to my house, nobody was listening.
I do a casual drive-by around to the front of Mark’s house before pulling into my own garage, and his truck’s there.
Okay, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing. It’s not like I have any missed calls or texts from him. Maybe I wore him out from our sexcapades earlier, and he went straight to bed. Maybe . . .
I walk into my dark kitchen and let out a little squeak at the male figure leaning against my counter, drinking a glass of water.
“Creepy much?” I ask, putting a hand over my pounding heart as I drop my purse and flick on the lights.
Mark takes a sip of water, but says nothing. He looks me over, taking in my wedge boots, tight jeans, and going-out shirt.
His eyes flick up to mine. “Good night?”
I swallow. “It was interesting. How was work?”
I really want that wine, but instead I go to the cabinet and pull out a water glass, hoping the way I fill it from the pitcher in the fridge looks casual and not guilty.
“Adam or Colin?”
I fumble the pitcher. “Um.”
Mark sets his glass aside, lays the heels of his hands on the counter, and waits.