Page 4 of The Ex-cavenger Hunt

I grab the stylus and begin to scribble the names of the guys I’ve dated on my tablet. There aren’t that many. It should be super simple. At least that’s what I think until I hit number eleven and there are still more to add.

“Wow, when did I become such a serial dater,” I mutter to myself, half-impressed, half-exasperated. I tap the stylus against my chin, pondering over the guys I used to date—all charming, all flawed, all not quite right.

With the last name noted, I lean back against the armrest, the tablet resting on my crossed legs.

Maybe Zoe has a point . . . Though, this isn’t just about finding someone—it’s about understanding my own heart’s melody and maybe, just maybe, discovering a harmony I’ve overlooked.

“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, tracing the names with my fingertip. I can’t help but feel a twinge of hope that among these notes of nostalgia, there’s a love song that’s yet to reach its crescendo.

I push to my feet, saving the document and mailing myself a copy so I don’t lose it.

“Let’s set the mood, shall we?” I say, breezing over to the vintage record player perched on a teal cabinet.

A flick of my wrist, and the needle drops with a satisfying crackle onto a vinyl I bought just last week—Olivia Rodrigo begins to sing at the top of her lungs.

This time, I don’t join her, she’s just part of the soundtrack as I begin to paint on the blank canvas of my life.

I let the music seep into my bones, swaying hips and snapping fingers guiding me through the living room turned ballroom. I spin away, laughter bubbling up from my chest as I picture Brian’s earnest hazel eyes, the way he’d toss his head back when he laughed, hair flopping just so. We were kids trying on forever like it was a pair of too-big shoes—clumsy, yes, but genuine.

“High school sweetheart,” I sigh, shaking my head fondly. “More like high school bittersweet.”

I catch my reflection in the mirror—a woman on the brink of something big. “Why are you doing this?” I suddenly ask myself. “Is it to show your sister that you can bring a date to her wedding or because you believe you’re on the right path for yourself?”

I respond to my reflection, “Does it matter?”

It really doesn’t. It’s not like I have much to do lately. I’m between projects. This might be the best time to figure out what went wrong or why I didn’t keep what was right.

“Operation Ex Marks the Spot is officially underway,” I declare, striking a dramatic pose with one hand on my hip.

I breathe in deep, the scent of jasmine incense twirling with the air, and exhale any lingering doubts.

Here’s to second chances, to love stories with dog-eared pages, to finding what I’m looking for—or maybe realizing it’s been here all along.

Chapter Three

Ethan

“You know what you need?” Max, my best friend and business partner, asks with a smirk as he barges into my office uninvited.

I roll my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Knock on the fucking door,” I shout at him. “It’s pretty simple, really. You should try it.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

Max raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement. “I would if I knew what it was, but . . . not everyone is as smart and well-versed in the ancient rules of communication.”

Oh, so he wants to be an asshole. Well, two can play the same game. I cross my arms and lean against the back of my chair, fixing him with a pointed stare.

“It’s pretty simple. Start with your right hand. The one you use to swipe on your phone for hours or, if it’s easier to remember, it’s the one you use to jerk off because no woman will glance at your ugly face.” I demonstrate, curling my fingers into a fist. “Position it precisely 1.5 feet from the door’s surface, fingers slightly curled as though you’re about to grasp the holy grail—because, at this moment, your knock is just that important.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and he narrows his eyes at me, but I continue, undeterred.

“With the grace of a mildly enthused sloth, execute a series of noises—people call them knocks.” I mime the action, rapping my knuckles against an imaginary door. “Pause. Wait with bated breath. You’ve just communicated in the most ancient of languages: the knock. If done correctly, you shall be granted entry. Feel free to add this skill to your résumé.”

Max shakes his head, his expression a mixture of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Are you done, fucker?” he asks, his tone flat.

I wave dismissively toward the door, a smug grin playing on my lips. “Yes, you may leave now. Make sure to close the door behind you.”

“You’re in a fucking mood,” he mutters, shooting me a sideways glance. “Have you thought about getting laid or something?”

“Just get out of here, Max,” I say, my voice tight. “I’ve got work to do.”

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