The Ex(28)

I left him alone in my bed while he cried.

Six months later, a perky blond woman in a headband and cardigan sweater walked into Lissa’s, sat next to me at the bar, and introduced herself as Anne. I had been keeping Ryan at a distance for weeks. I assumed she was there to confront me, but I was wrong. “You don’t know me, but trust that I would never say this unless I absolutely meant it: Ryan needs you right now. You make him feel better. I can’t take him lying in bed all day. When he’s back on his feet, things will be different.”

Now Ryan was back on his feet as a solo practitioner, closing real estate deals and writing wills, but things weren’t so different. He and Anne had “an understanding.” He didn’t do anything to embarrass or endanger her. She visited her mother a little more frequently and understood when he had to work late.

My phone buzzed on the bed next to me with a new message. Can I come over?

Jack’s bail hearing was tomorrow afternoon, and Don was helping, even though I knew he thought it was a terrible idea.

Go to sleep, Ryan. I turned off the light and closed my eyes.





Chapter 9


I WAITED OUTSIDE Jack’s apartment building for Buckley, fanning myself with my folded copy of the New York Post. This morning’s front page featured Jack’s booking photo. He looked strung out. Above his photograph: FROM VICTIM TO VIGILANTE.

A black SUV pulled to the curb, and an attractive blond woman in a driver’s uniform stepped from the front seat. She had to be close to six feet tall. Before she could reach the rear passenger door, Buckley hopped out, pulling her cross-slung messenger’s bag over her head in one swift move.

She greeted me with “Hey,” and began walking to the building entrance as she waved to the driver. “Thanks, Barbie. I’ll text you when we’re done.”

I planted myself in her path. “Your father’s bail hearing is this afternoon. Not a good time to leave his lawyer waiting on the sidewalk for twenty minutes.”

Her pale eyes stared up at me. They were nearly translucent. I saw a tear begin to pool, and she used the back of her hand to wipe it away. “I’m sorry. I normally take the subway, and didn’t realize the car would take so much longer.”

“You know things aren’t exactly normal.” Last night, I had told Buckley to shut down all her social media accounts: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Vine, ask.fm. But it was only a matter of time before some enterprising online sleuth dug up an old yearbook photograph and went viral with it. She wouldn’t be riding the subway for a while.

Her shoulders started to shake, and before I realized what was happening, she was on the verge of sobbing. “I’m sorry. Honestly, of all people, I’m never late. I’m always on time. Always.”

I looked around to see if anyone was staring. I was annoyed about a teenager leaving me on the street, but I hadn’t expected her to have a meltdown. I should have realized that eventually the stress of her father’s arrest would get to her. I rested a hand on her shoulder, but then pulled it back. I wasn’t family. “Hey, it’s no big deal.”

Her gaze dropped to the concrete beneath her feet. “I see you looking at me like Dad raised a brat. Or maybe you think I’m spoiled or weird or something because of what happened to Mom. But I swear, I thought I’d be here early. Did I make it so you won’t be ready for the bail hearing?”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“I should have at least apologized, I’m sorry. My dad says it’s generational. He blames it on text messaging—the way people just wait until they’re supposed to be somewhere and then type OMW, like it’s all okay. He likes to respond, Oh my word? to mess with people.” She looked up with a shy smile. I could tell there was something else she wanted to say.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked like she had a secret. “No, I can tell it’s something.”

“Just, the way you called me out. Charlotte said you could be—”

“Do I even want to know?”

She started to laugh. “You know, passive-aggressive. But that was straight-up aggressive-aggressive. It was actually pretty cool.”

Crisis averted.


THE DOORMAN ON DUTY GREETED Buckley with a wide smile. “How’s my little rock and roller this morning?”

“Out all night with the band, Nick. You know how it is.”

When the building’s elevator dinged, a middle-aged couple stepped out. They kept their gaze locked straight ahead as we exchanged places. Just as the doors were about to close, I heard one of them say to the other, “That poor girl.”

I immediately changed the subject. “So . . . Barbie?”

“I know. Ridiculous, right? Charlotte says feminism gives her the same right to keep eye candy around as any rich guy. I doubt Betty Friedan would agree. I heard what those douche bags said, by the way, but thanks for trying.”

“It’s just two people,” I said.

“No it’s not. I’ve been ‘that poor girl’ for a long time now. I’m used to it.”


“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING me.” Buckley stood motionless in the middle of her living room.

I had warned Buckley to prepare herself to see the only home she had ever known redecorated by a search warrant.