Page 11 of Ex Marks the Spot

His brow arches up and his stupid, stupid lips curve into a smirk. “What I’m hearing you say is that you’re fantasizing about me right now?”

“Don’t even start with that.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll?—”

“Okay, I think we got it,” Mack says from a million miles away.

Blinking out of my Court-induced stupor, I realize we’ve uncrossed our arms and we’re now standing toe-to-toe. My face is flushed and my blood is buzzing in ways I’ve long forgotten about.

“I’ve missed that fire,” he rasps, eyes raking over me.

His confession is a blast of ice-cold truth that snaps me back to my senses. “Yeah, well whose fault is that?”

After a five-minute break in which I woosah’ed my heartrate back to a normal level while a crew member outfitted me with a lavalier mic and a battery pack, I plop down in a canvas chair to film the interview they’ll play in the intro of the first episode. Court’s chair is a foot to my right, but at least I don’t have to look at him this time.

A producer named Wendell smiles from his seat beside the camera. “This shouldn’t take long. Just be yourselves and try to answer your questions in full sentences. Hartley, let’s start with you. What’s your current profession?”

“I’m a painter.” I leave out the part about my medium being houses instead of canvases because the less Court knows about my life, the better.

“And what about you, Court?”

After a brief pause, he says, “I’m a substitute teacher.”

“Interesting, because here on your application it says you work at a?—"

“Yes, I’m also a COO for a startup in the automotive industry,” Court says, shifting in his seat.

My quiet snort doesn’t go unnoticed by Wendell. “What do you think about his jobs?”

“I think it sounds like he runs a chop shop and doesn’t want to admit it on television so he’s using the teacher thing as a cover.”

Court rolls his eyes. “It’s a perfectly legitimate company.”

“So are businesses in the mafia,” I say, shrugging.

“At least I don’t rip off my customers. You can’t say the same for yourself.”

“Excuse me? I’veneverripped off a customer.”

“Then what do you call the twenty-seven dollars and twelve cents you stole from me?”

Oh yeah.I can’t believe I forgot about that. “You purchased something from me. I mailed it. That’s not stealing.”

“I purchased a five-by-seven art print. You sent me a crappy version on regular paper from a cheap home office color printer that needed a new ink cartridge.”

A zing of satisfaction ripples through me. I laughed all the way to the post office that day. “Again I say: You purchased something and I mailed it. It’s not my fault that you don’t understand my art.”

He huffs a laugh and mutters, “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, what’s ridiculous is you having the gall to contact me throughmyonline business in a shitty attempt to assuageyourguilt.”

“What made you reach out to Hartley?” Wendell asks Court.

He sighs and rubs the space between his brows. “A couple of years after we broke up, a mutual friend sent me a screenshot from Hartley’s social media. She’d posted some memory thing of a picture of us when we were dating. The caption talked about her biggest regret being the time she wasted with me. I’m not big on social media, so I bought a print from her website and wrote in the note section that I’d like to talk and hoped she was doing well.”

“And I take it you didn’t like that idea?” Wendell asks me.

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