Solving for Ex

Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-five

a foolish precipitation

It was the Friday after Thanksgiving. The triplets had been out of school for three days in a row, and Mom and Kristin had cooked up a storm in the kitchen for hours. (This made Mom question to a small extent my insistence that Kristin didn’t cook, since she whipped up a mean cauliflower gratin from stuff she found hiding in the corners of the freezer, pantry, and fridge.)

 The house was a total disaster. I was a complete disaster, too, and it felt wonderful. I’d rolled out of bed and pulled on yoga pants and an oversized turtleneck, piled my hair in a bun on top of my head, and swiped on some lip gloss to combat the dry air. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Tess and I were recovering from a late lunch of pecan pie and mashed potatoes by snuggling on the couch and watching How to Train Your Dragon while the boys did the same by playing the ten thousandth game of football on our front lawn.

We were just making the requisite swooning noises over the scene where the two kids fly on the dragon for the first time when my phone buzzed against my hip. I pulled it out to see a text message from an area code I didn’t recognize.

First:

HAPPY THANKSGIVING. WHATCHA DOING?

Then, two seconds later,

(THIS IS VINCENT.)

Despite myself, I smiled. There was something about the familiarity of being home while texting with Vincent,or maybe being far away from Brendan, or maybe just living in a completely suspended reality, that made me one hundred percent comfortable.

I texted back:

NOTHING. BUMMING AROUND WITH BABY SIS.

Almost immediately, he replied:

GOOD. OKAY IF I STOP BY?

I made a strange choking-gasping sound and basically launched poor Tess off my lap when I jumped off the couch.

“Ow!” she whined. “Why’d you do that?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s just….oh my God.” My hand flew up to my face and felt how greasy it was. “He’s coming? Over here? How is he here?” I texted the question to him and got no answer.

I buzzed with a weird nervous energy as I dashed up the stairs to pull on some jeans, splash some water on my face and swipe mascara on my lashes. I stood back from the mirror. I touched my fingertips to my lips and remembered that morning, just a week ago, on Mount Washington. I hadn’t been crazy about Vincent by a long shot, but his lips had felt so good on mine.

And my first thought when I got that text wasn’t how to get out of seeing Vincent, but how to look nice when I did.

I stood in front of the mirror, tugged the elastic tie out of my hair, then winced at how frizzy and misshapen my hair looked. I normally ironed it before school, and this was a disaster. I tied it back up again.

I checked my phone. Nothing from Vincent.

Then, a knock on the front door. Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

I half skipped, half tumbled down the stairs to see Mom answering the door and Vincent’s dark honey-colored mop peering in. “Good evening, ma’am,” Vincent’s smooth voice said, “Is Ashley home?”