An Ex for Christmas(47)

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.

I close the fridge and face him. “How did you know?”

His half smile is sad. “Aren’t you the one that’s always reminding me we’ve been best friends for nearly a decade? I knew where you were because I know you.”

I nibble my bottom lip as I study him, trying to figure out what he’s thinking—feeling. He doesn’t look mad, but then Mark’s not exactly a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy.

But the last thing I want to do is play games with my best friend, so I give him the truth, even though it doesn’t exactly show me in the best light.

“I was afraid if I told you Adam reached out, you would tell me not to go.”

There. It’s not a pretty admission, but it’s honest.

For a second, Mark says nothing, then he says only a word.

“Adam.”

I swear something like relief passes over his face as he says the name. “How’d you find him?”

“He found me, actually.” I take a sip of the water. “I’d put feelers out to a mutual friend a few days ago, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it.”

“Lucky you to be wrong,” he says, in that same mild voice. “How’d it go? He pass the mistletoe test?”

I wince, because the thought of kissing Adam Bartley is so . . . so . . .

“Adam’s gay,” I blurt out. “I went out to meet him for a drink, only to find out the reason he was so eager to meet me was because he and his partner have adopted his nephew. They’re trying to get him into Emory Academy.”

I pause, waiting for him to say something, anything. He doesn’t, so I keep babbling.