him?”
Unfortunately, Dorrie is not only driven and really good at her job, but she knows me far too well.
“I have.”
Dorrie waits all of two seconds for me to follow that statement up before she asks her next question. “And what did he say?”
“Jesus, Dorrie. He was surprised, okay? And he’s feeling a little cranky about the whole thing. He said his taxes are gonna be all messed up.”
There’s a surprised beat of silence on the other end. Yes, my not-ex is more concerned about his relationship with the IRS than with me. I don’t need Dorrie to point out that this is slightly unexpected. But he’s moved on with his life, right? I’m just a technicality now, an unfiled piece of paperwork that slipped through the cracks.
“He sicced his dog on me,” I tell her, only slightly exaggerating. I mean, I definitely hit the sand and had doggie paw prints on my back. That counts. “Lilah filmed the whole thing.”
Dorrie hums. You can always tell what she’s thinking by her choice of tunes. Today’s selection is Flight of the Valkyries . “Are you hurt? Dog bite? Bruises?”
See? She does care about me. That, or she doesn’t want her star, money-making player hurt. If Hindi sits out a season on the bench, no one on Team Hindi will be making bank.
“Hindi? Did the dog eat your tongue? Did the big, nasty SEAL?”
“What? No. Ro would never hurt me. He didn’t even realize who I was.”
Which still stings, if I’m being honest.
Dorrie gives a bark of laughter. “I can’t wait to see the tape.”
I flip her the bird, even though she can’t see me. “You’ll have to wait for the next one—my ex got his hands on Lilah’s camera and deleted it.”
Dorrie runs through my schedule for the next two months and mentions a couple of promotional ideas she’s pitching to a national retailer. It’s all exciting and still slightly surreal. Yes, I fucking love the idea of middle America doing their weekend stuff in my underwear. Wait. That sounds downright filthy, but you get the idea. I made it. You wear it because you want to. Not because we’re related or we’re friends. You can’t put a price tag on that.
After I end the call, Lilah gives me a look from her upside-down position on the couch. “You think he’ll come around?”
He’ll come—it’s going to drive him crazy, this not-divorced mess. Ro’s never met a problem he wouldn’t try to fix.
“Wait for it,” I advise her. “He’ll be here. I’ve made a mess and he’s gonna want to clean it up.”
Lilah raises her eyebrows. “So now he’s Mr. Clean too?”
I give my attention to my mood board. “He likes his shit orderly.”
There’s one of those speaking pauses as Lilah digests that. Then she turns her head and looks around my messy bungalow.
“Wow,” she says dryly. “That explains the love at first sight thing. He hadn’t had a chance to see the Hindi Effect up close and personal.”
So I’m not the neatest person on the planet. Possibly, I’m the messiest. We can’t all be perfect like my ex-SEAL, and frankly, I’m not interested in trying. There are all sorts of possibilities in chaos. For instance, when I shift, the squares of fabric jumble together and I start to see how they can work for my next season. That pink and that yellow don’t belong together, but now that they’re cohabiting in my lap, they look right together. Kind of like Ro and I did.
When there’s a firm knock on the door thirty minutes later, I force myself not to bolt up. Lilah slides me a laughing look. Yowly shoots off the back step, damn it. Clearly, the cat likes to stick to a schedule and unexpected not-quite-ex visits (because yeah, my happy nipples are like Ro radar) are not part of the cat’s list of approved activities.
Lilah sets her tablet down. “Your swain?”
“Come in,” I bellow, ignoring her. The door swings open and yes, both Lilah and I just sit and stare for a minute. I have a whole new appreciation for our
Unfortunately, Dorrie is not only driven and really good at her job, but she knows me far too well.
“I have.”
Dorrie waits all of two seconds for me to follow that statement up before she asks her next question. “And what did he say?”
“Jesus, Dorrie. He was surprised, okay? And he’s feeling a little cranky about the whole thing. He said his taxes are gonna be all messed up.”
There’s a surprised beat of silence on the other end. Yes, my not-ex is more concerned about his relationship with the IRS than with me. I don’t need Dorrie to point out that this is slightly unexpected. But he’s moved on with his life, right? I’m just a technicality now, an unfiled piece of paperwork that slipped through the cracks.
“He sicced his dog on me,” I tell her, only slightly exaggerating. I mean, I definitely hit the sand and had doggie paw prints on my back. That counts. “Lilah filmed the whole thing.”
Dorrie hums. You can always tell what she’s thinking by her choice of tunes. Today’s selection is Flight of the Valkyries . “Are you hurt? Dog bite? Bruises?”
See? She does care about me. That, or she doesn’t want her star, money-making player hurt. If Hindi sits out a season on the bench, no one on Team Hindi will be making bank.
“Hindi? Did the dog eat your tongue? Did the big, nasty SEAL?”
“What? No. Ro would never hurt me. He didn’t even realize who I was.”
Which still stings, if I’m being honest.
Dorrie gives a bark of laughter. “I can’t wait to see the tape.”
I flip her the bird, even though she can’t see me. “You’ll have to wait for the next one—my ex got his hands on Lilah’s camera and deleted it.”
Dorrie runs through my schedule for the next two months and mentions a couple of promotional ideas she’s pitching to a national retailer. It’s all exciting and still slightly surreal. Yes, I fucking love the idea of middle America doing their weekend stuff in my underwear. Wait. That sounds downright filthy, but you get the idea. I made it. You wear it because you want to. Not because we’re related or we’re friends. You can’t put a price tag on that.
After I end the call, Lilah gives me a look from her upside-down position on the couch. “You think he’ll come around?”
He’ll come—it’s going to drive him crazy, this not-divorced mess. Ro’s never met a problem he wouldn’t try to fix.
“Wait for it,” I advise her. “He’ll be here. I’ve made a mess and he’s gonna want to clean it up.”
Lilah raises her eyebrows. “So now he’s Mr. Clean too?”
I give my attention to my mood board. “He likes his shit orderly.”
There’s one of those speaking pauses as Lilah digests that. Then she turns her head and looks around my messy bungalow.
“Wow,” she says dryly. “That explains the love at first sight thing. He hadn’t had a chance to see the Hindi Effect up close and personal.”
So I’m not the neatest person on the planet. Possibly, I’m the messiest. We can’t all be perfect like my ex-SEAL, and frankly, I’m not interested in trying. There are all sorts of possibilities in chaos. For instance, when I shift, the squares of fabric jumble together and I start to see how they can work for my next season. That pink and that yellow don’t belong together, but now that they’re cohabiting in my lap, they look right together. Kind of like Ro and I did.
When there’s a firm knock on the door thirty minutes later, I force myself not to bolt up. Lilah slides me a laughing look. Yowly shoots off the back step, damn it. Clearly, the cat likes to stick to a schedule and unexpected not-quite-ex visits (because yeah, my happy nipples are like Ro radar) are not part of the cat’s list of approved activities.
Lilah sets her tablet down. “Your swain?”
“Come in,” I bellow, ignoring her. The door swings open and yes, both Lilah and I just sit and stare for a minute. I have a whole new appreciation for our
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