Ex for You (Fated To Love You)

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s the question I expect. The one I think I’ve prepared for over the past five years. It’s not said with force but asked nicely, with a wounded sort of edge that he tries and fails to keep from his voice.

I clear my throat and make eye contact. I use my best impression of his deep voice, which probably sounds like a frog talking out of his rear. “Oh, hi. I’m Toren Cromwell, and I don’t see this working out for reasons that are inexplicable and too complicated for your tiny pea brain to comprehend. What I really want to say is I’m bailing because I don’t want to work hard at anything. Life shouldn’t ever get messy when you have so much money. I’m going to blame everything on my father and make the excuse of being far too damaged to deal with my emotions, which I’m scared of because I’m a chicken shit. I’d rather panic and take the easy way out. And uh, by the way, we want different things. You want kids, but I don’t. I have a solid business plan. You’re just a muddled-up mess with a muddled-up plan that you think will work, but it won’t because no one wants to buy old junk or the things you make. You’re not that talented, and you need to get real like I’m getting real. Oh, and by the way, move your crap out. Here’s ten grand of guilt money. Bye.”

I feel like the entire restaurant and around at least eight lobsters are staring at us, and I realize I just spouted all of that with not only a deep-ass croaky voice but very, very loudly. I hunch down in my seat. I make eye contact with a server behind the counter, and she scuttles the other way.

Good thing I didn’t have a craving for all-you-can-eat lobster today. Or for anything at all. No one is going to touch this table with a ten-foot pole now. God, I can practically feel the burning stares from all around the place. And even from those eight lobsters.

When I pull my eyes back to Toren, I realize his eyes are now bugging out of his head. He’s scarlet, which says a lot because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that shade of red before. I clear my throat, and this time, I speak in my normal voice, which still sounds raspy and rough from forcing out the croaky frog voice that was supposed to be Toren’s voice for my extended monologue of a beat down.

“Does any of that possibly ring a bell?”

He puts his hand on the table, dangerously close to mine, and I withdraw fast, tucking both my hands safely on either side of my legs. My palms are so wet that they stick to the seat of my chair, and it’s fabric, so that’s saying a lot. Look at the lobsters. Don’t look at his hand, and especially don’t think about his hand. Or hands. Those hands are connected to the past, and the past is a horrible place to be. Think about lobsters. Lobsters, I said, damn it.

“Jesus, Lu, I know you’re mad, but…but really? How could you not tell me something like that?”

“Uh, are you dense? You said you didn’t want kids. If I have to spell it out for you, that’s d—i—d—n—”

“I get it. I know what I said, but how could you possibly think that—”

“Because you paid me to get the hell out of your house and also out of your life. We were doing fine, and then one day, you sat me down, and instead of asking me to marry you like I thought you were going to do, you told me we were done, out of nowhere. You took every bit of goodness in me and snapped it like a bloody twig. You said you didn’t want a future, kids, me. And you meant it. So, I made sure you didn’t get it. I wasn’t going to come back begging. I was tough, and I supported myself. I had help from people who weren’t you.”

“But that’s just…that’s insane!”

I barely control the anger crawling like a fast crab up my throat. Or maybe more like a jittery lobster trying to escape the pot in the back kitchen. Remember, this place is family-friendly. If you wanted to have a blow-out fight, you could have taken it to an alley somewhere. Or to a gym. Maybe boxing gym? Oh goodness, the thought of throwing a few gloved-up punches at Toren’s face is so deliciously appealing that I nearly salivate despite the nasty seafood stuff wreaking havoc on my olfactory senses at the moment.

He looks at me warily like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Name dropping?” I manage to choke out. “You’re accusing me of being crazy? No! You don’t get that right. You don’t get any rights, and you’re in no position to make demands.” It makes me feel like a detective on all those crime shows I’ve watched in the past when I spout that, and I’m inordinately pleased with myself for about three point seven nine seconds.