The Ex (The Boss 4)

“I…did not know that.” In terms of coming out, I was a little disappointed that mine wasn’t a bigger deal. Maybe it was because Mom figured that since I was with a guy now, it didn’t matter if I was attracted to girls? Was I supposed to be relieved or insulted?

“Just do me a favor,” Mom said, still radiating concern. “Don’t get swept up in Neil’s dramas to the point that you’re not taking care of what you need for yourself.”

“He doesn’t have that much drama,” I protested, but Mom was already pursing her lips with a knowing nod.

“Let’s see, there’s the adult daughter, the ex-girlfriend, the ex-lover who writes tell-all books, the cancer,” she ticked these off on her fingers dramatically, “the alcoholism, the sweatpants—”

“Oh my god, Mom, he doesn’t even wear sweatpants that often!” I picked up my wine. Rolling the glass between my palms, I thought about all the things I’d learned about Neil in the past seven months. Not a damn one of them had convinced me to not marry him. “He’s had more time than I’ve had to rack up the baggage. And I don’t think I will. Every really hard thing I’ve been through in my life, I’ve been through with him, and he, like, protected me. I think he was spending so much time trying to protect me, he ended up hiding a lot of stuff.”

“Hey. You’re my daughter. You’re not supposed to say smart things,” she said, throwing my words back at me. Her smile was small and sad. “You know you can come to me with anything. We both know that I don’t care for Neil, and he doesn’t like me, either. But I love you, and if he’s going through something, you are, too. I’m not going to judge him. Unless he’s treating you like shit. And I don’t think he’d ever do that.”

Even though our talk made me feel a little better, I didn’t want to go back to the house. We watched a couple of episodes of Cheers on Netflix. I laid my head in her lap, like I’d done when I was a kid, and she played with my hair, braiding and unbraiding little bits absently.

“Mom?” I asked, drowsy. I’d have to go soon, or I would fall asleep. I shouldn’t have left Neil alone for as long as I had. He was the one who’d had the traumatizing day, and I should have been with him, just in case he woke up and needed me. But a little decompression time had gone a long way.

“Hmm?” she asked, her attention still divided between me and the TV.

“Don’t go back to Michigan.”

Her hand paused. Then, brightly, as though the thought had never occurred to her, she said, “You know. I think I’ll stay. You need a support system, and Holli is two hours away. I needed a change of pace, anyway. Maybe I’ll meet a guy or something.”

I sat up. “Wow, Mom, look at you.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve already been here for half the year, anyway. And I was going to be stuck in that town forever. Who was I going to meet? I’m tired of being a spinster.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to mention it until I got a job. I hate sponging off you.”

“You’re not sponging. And, even if you were, it’s not like I can’t afford you. I’m paying you back for college and all my magazine subscriptions in high school,” I pointed out.

“Well, I don’t care. Let me live here rent-free, and maybe in a couple of decades, you’ll have dug me out of the hole your tuition made.” She motioned to the door. “Are you staying or going? Because I’m going to bed.”

&nb

sp; She wasn’t. Years of weird hours at the hospital meant that Mom didn’t really sleep much. She was just giving me an out to run back to Neil.

I got my shoes on and headed back to the main house, after I promised Mom that I would look out for crazies. Even with full-time on-site security, she didn’t trust that we weren’t going to get murdered because “we live too close to New York”.

Mom drove me absolutely batshit sometimes. Most of the time. But I’d forgotten what it was like to need her. I’d missed eight years of momly advice because I’d been so insistent on independence.

I slipped back into the house and found Neil still snoring away in bed. I had to laugh; I hadn’t heard him sleep this hard since he’d stopped drinking.

I stripped down and curved my body around his back. Emma always talked about how important it was for a baby to have skin-to-skin contact. Beyond various medical benefits, it apparently soothed them and made them feel more loved. I wondered if it could work on fractured adults.

I held Neil and stroked his hair and willed him to feel every bit of the limitless love I had for him. I’d once thought we were so connected that his hurts were mine. Now, I knew that wasn’t so. I couldn’t try to heal for him anymore. I had to trust that he was fully capable of doing it on his own.

I nuzzled his shoulder and inhaled against his neck. This man, this exciting, impossible man, was a part of my heart, and he’d taken me as a part of his. Though we couldn’t do everything, be everything for each other, we damn sure wouldn’t be alone.

EPILOGUE

By the end of August, I was back in my life groove. The magazine was doing better than ever; Deja and I were seriously considering an offer from a major media corporation who wanted to buy it. I’d made an effort to reduce my number of hours in the city by hiring a few staff members locally, effectively opening a second office right out of our house, so I could telecommute as much as possible. In fact, we worked out of the expansive room that had, at one time, been our bar. Neil didn’t need it anymore, and the service entrance at the end of the hallway made it an ideal location. The remodel had taken longer than I would have liked, so our contributions to the October issue had been crafted mostly around the kitchen table.

Neil had surprised me by complaining about the arrangement, at first. It had only taken him a few weeks before he’d become a near constant figure in the home office, leaning over my shoulder and making suggestions until I would politely tell him to fuck off. He liked having me at home, but it was clear that he was itching to work.

“Why don’t you try to funnel some of this control freak energy into something more positive?” I suggested during my lunch break one day. I leaned over to take the bite of broccoli he offered me on the end of his fork. I made a disappointed mewl as I chewed. “You’re right. It does get better overnight. I shouldn’t have let you take that.”

He looked at the leftovers I’d claimed, tortellini from our dinner out the night before, and sighed. “I suppose if I suggested a trade…”

“Oh, no. You have the broccoli. I can’t possibly let you give it to me,” I demurred as I took the bowl from him and slid my plate across the table. I should have known better. In a contest between restaurant food and home-cooked Neil food, Neil food always won.

“So,” he said, picking up his fork and digging it into the tortellini. “You want me to find something to keep me out of your hair while you work? Because there is the new Lambo I’ve been eyeing—”