Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(47)
Is it desperate to randomly crash my ex’s open house after not speaking to him for over a decade? One hundred percent. Am I shameless enough to risk the humiliation anyway? Beyond.
Just thinking about Cody Venner feels like slipping on a favorite tried-and-true sweater. Among a hundred other sweaters, you gravitate toward this one for every occasion, anticipating the bliss of that fuzzy, plush fabric against your skin. The freshly laundered yet familiar scent of home. Just the right amount of wear and tear for optimal comfort and movement.
“He was the perfect boyfriend,” I’d explained to Trevor on my way out the door to meet Mel. “He was ambitious, great with my parents, involved in every club and sport. I didn’t see it coming when he broke up with me before college. He was going to Penn State, and I was staying here in Boston. He didn’t think we could do long-distance—”
Trevor shook his head. “Nah. Cody broke up with you because he wanted the freedom to fuck other girls.”
“You don’t even know Cody,” I’d snapped, offended on Cody’s behalf while simultaneously burdened by the memory of crying for multiple days straight in my bedroom after our breakup, combing through my box full of three years’ worth of handwritten notes and drawings he’d sent me during class. There were moments I was convinced my lungs were collapsing, that my chest was caving in on me. That I quite literally couldn’t live without him. Aside from Seth, Cody was by far my worst breakup.
Trevor doubled down. “I don’t have to know him. I know the way men think.”
Whether or not Cody intended to sow his wild oats in college is neither here nor there. Holding a decade-old mistake over his head would be shortsighted, particularly if our connection was as strong as I remember.
I’ve even perfected how I’ll look when we lay eyes on each other. I’ll do my brows-to-hairline shocked expression and whimper, “Cody Venner, is that really you?” in a transatlantic, old-school, black-and-white-movie accent.
But now that I’m here, I’m paralyzed with fear. What if Cody thinks I’m nuts for showing up? What if he laughs in my face? What if he full-out rejects me, like all my other exes? Or worse, what if he doesn’t even remember me?
I’ll stay in this bush forever, I think to myself as Mel tries to coax me out with the promise of snacks. It smells divine in here, like a Christmas tree farm. It’s thick enough to shield me from the unforgiving wind. I’m finally convinced to emerge when she dangles the prospect of borrowing her shoes whenever I want.
After three steps, I think better of it and scamper back into the bushes like a skittish rodent. “Nope. Can’t do it. This was a bad idea.”
Mel yanks on my coat sleeve. “Look, I didn’t spend hours perfecting my sexy prospective-house-flipper look for nothing. As long as you stick to the script, everything will be fine. Remember, you’re just here for a second opinion on my house-flipping business. It’s all but a strange coincidence that he just so happens to be the selling agent.” She charges across the street at an alarmingly fast pace for someone in three-inch heel boots that she deems “house-flipper chic.” She definitely watches too much HGTV.
Before I even take a step, I close my eyes and suck in a dramatic breath.
Relax. You’ve got this. This could be your second-chance romance. The very one you’ve been waiting for. He could be in that very house and you’re wasting precious time, you nitwit!
My mental scolding works, because I strut forth like Miss Congeniality Sandra Bullock post-makeover, pre–twisted ankle. Hair blowing. Hips sashaying side to side to the beat of “She’s a Lady.” If only I had aviators to whip off with fierce attitude, revealing my soulful brown eyes. I imagine my gaze somehow ensnaring Cody from a distance, weakening him to his knees until he dissolves like an iceberg in the middle of the Sahara.
A foghorn pierces my ears, rudely interrupting my fantasy. A bright-yellow school bus lurches to a stop a few feet from me, brakes squealing. My sad little life flashes before my eyes. The elderly bus driver shakes his head, fury-motioning for me to get the hell out of the middle of the street.
Mel pulls me onto the sidewalk and brushes the nonexistent dirt off my coat, as if I’ve fallen on the ground or something. “Oh my God. You almost got crushed.”
“See? It’s an omen. A sign that this is a terrible idea,” I whine.
She tugs me toward the decaying porch’s peeling navy-blue stairs. “Come on. You’re fine.”
The porch steps sag under our weight. Our initial assessment was correct. This place is a serious project, but its original Victorian charm is still evident. The wood beams around the posts are carved into intricate curves and little swirls. The same swirls are embedded into the wood around the doors and windows, all of which look original.
When Mel opens the wooden double doors, a strong waft of eucalyptus instantly clears my stuffed nose. The foyer is narrow, with an elaborate wooden staircase jutting from the middle, flanked by a winter garland. A heavily accented Bostonian voice booms from the back of the house.
And that’s when I hear it. “. . . the previous owners knocked down the wall to create an open living area . . .” It’s Cody. I’m sure of it. I haven’t heard his voice in years, but there’s a familiar cadence and rhythm to it that always reminded me of a TV news anchor.
Behind the staircase is an entranceway to the outdated kitchen. As Mel steps forward, a young couple and a man in a crisp gray suit pass the doorway. I instantly recognize the pronounced slope of his linebacker shoulders.