“Appreciate you looking out for me though,” I say.
Monica and I met the first day of our freshman year at U of Maine. We had Econ 101 together and by the end of the first class, we were both completely lost and almost in tears. She asked if I wanted to study with her, which then led to dinner and drinks and parties and best friendship that spanned the following four years and the five years that have lapsed since.
“You going to be okay?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say.
No question that my ego is bruised, but bruises never last forever. Eventually their intense colors fade and with a little bit of time you never see them again.
“’Kay. Text me if you need anything,” she says before ending the call.
I’m about to sign off of Facebook when a thirteenth message dings my inbox, and a chat window pops up on the bottom part of the screen. The sender? My ex’s best friend—a man I haven’t seen, heard from, or thought about since college.
* * *
Jovie—
In no way does this mean my opinion of you has changed.
I’m reaching out because sometime in the middle of last night you tagged yourself in Jude and Stassi’s engagement photo.
I don’t care if you were drunk or it was unintentional. I suggest you remove it immediately since the wedding is in two months (which I’m sure you know since you were clearly FB stalking them). The damage is done, but no reason to make things more awkward.
You’re welcome.
Stone
* * *
Wow …
The little green icon next to his name tells me he’s still online, so without thinking twice, I fire back a response to the man who never made any bones about his abhorrence towards me the entire time Jude and I dated.
* * *
Stone—
Oh, my gosh! It’s so wonderful to hear from you after five years of dead silence. While I’m sure you took great pleasure in sending me such a delightfully condescending message via Facebook, I can assure you that by the time it was received, the tag was already removed.
Should your best friend inquire about the mishap, feel free to tell him it was an unfortunate accident involving an ill-fated amount of NyQuil.
Nothing more, nothing less.
I hope all is well with you, and that the Wizard of Oz finally gave you that heart you’d been missing.
Best,
Jovie
* * *
I hit ‘send’ before I have a chance to delete the last line.
I don’t make a habit out of being petty, but when it comes to Stone Atwood, I have no problem bending my own rules.
He was the worst.
And apparently, he still is.
Chapter Two
Stone
* * *
“The tag’s been removed,” I tell Jude over the phone. Standing in front of my office window, I stare toward the Portland coast, taking in the harbor horizon and watching the boats drift through the fog and into their ports. In the distance, a fog horn sounds, which always reminds me of summers at Jude’s dad’s lake house in northern Maine.
“Thank God,” he exhales through the phone. “Stassi’s convinced Jovie’s trying to sabotage the wedding.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding him that Jovie is a lot of things, but a saboteur isn’t one of them.
“She says she took some NyQuil or something …” I didn’t quite buy her excuse. I was too busy being impressed with her quick wit and ability to put me in my place—no easy feat.
“You talked to her?”
“We didn’t talk,” I say. “I messaged her online and told her to take the tag off … like you asked.”
Messaging someone on a social media site I haven’t used in years isn’t normally my style, but I’ve long since deleted Jovie’s number and it seemed like the most efficient way to reach out to her.
“Yeah, but did you ask her why she did that?” he asks. “How’d you know about the NyQuil?”
He’s coming across as far too curious for a man who’s about to get married in two months.
“I didn’t ask her,” I say. “She told me to tell you that it was—and I quote—an accident involving NyQuil, nothing more, nothing less.”
He’s quiet, as if he has to think about it for a second; wrap his head around it.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says.
“It makes sense if you’re not trying to make it make sense.” As a divorce lawyer for the past several years, I’ve witnessed the dissolution of enough relationships to learn firsthand that half the time people do things, they don’t know why they do them. Love, hatred, and everything in between makes people act in ways they normally wouldn’t dare.
“Is she … did she seem okay though?” he asks. “Do you think she’s upset that I’m getting married?”
Does he seriously think she’s been pining away for him for the past five years? Hoping he’d change his mind and come sprinting back to her? I hope for both of their sakes the answer is no. I’ve never understood why people would want to dig up bones they buried a lifetime ago.