Page 13 of Ex Marks the Spot

Day 1—Dallas, Texas

Shewhat?

Questions bombard my brain, and I spit out fragments of each one in rapid-fire succession—“How did . . . ? Weren’t you . . . ? When were . . . ?”—before landing on an exasperated, “Why?”

Hartley crosses her arms and stares straight ahead. “Plans change.”

“But you had the perfect opportunity on a golden platter!” I hold my palms out for visual reference of said platter because seriously,what the hell?

“I’m well aware of what I lost,” she retorts before pressing her lips into a thin line.

“Did the breakup play into your decision not to go to Italy?” Wendell asks.

We both reply with an immediate, “No,” which puts me in Wendell’s crosshairs again.

“What makes you so sure of that answer, Court?”

I draw a long breath and release it before speaking. “Hartley’s one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. She’s also a super-optimist. To her, the glass isn’t just half full, it’s overflowing with sparkling water and served with one of those paper umbrellas. I knew if I pushed her away enough, she’d go over there and then realize I’d done the right thing. But apparently, I gave up everything for nothing,” I add with a derisive snort.

It's quiet for approximately three seconds.

Then Hartley swivels her head and pins me with a murderous look. “Youwhat?”

One thing is on my mind when Hartley’s name pops up on my phone: Bachelor camping trips are infinitely better than regular bachelor parties. Especially when they involve a luxury cabin with a mammoth game room and a hot tub that comfortably seats twelve.

“No girls allowed, Mueller!” Rhett shouts from across the pool table.

“You know the rules,” Nick adds, pointing to the Cone of Shame, which is just an ugly lampshade he found in the hall closet that I’ll have to wear once I’m off the phone.

I respond with a good-natured middle finger, then pass my pool stick to Wade and head to an adjacent bedroom where it’s quieter. “Hello?”

A weird, not-quite-static noise greets me.

“Hartley? You there?”

The noise continues for several seconds, then stops and I hear a muffled female voice say, “—you’re choosing him over Michelangelo. I’d like to go on record and say you’re a dumbass.”

Sounds like Hartley’s roommate Corrina based on the Southern accent.

“And I’d like to go on record and say you watch too many legal shows,” Hartley’s distant voice replies.

Ah, now it makes sense. Also, there’s no way in hell I’m wearing the Cone of Shame for a butt-dial. Nick can kiss my ass.

I’m about to end the call when Corrina says, “Seriously, Hart. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don’t just throw it away for a guy.”

Wait . . . what? I crank the volume and close the bedroom door.

“You know he’s not just a guy. And besides, I already have a job lined up at the campus gallery.”

“A job that pays minimum wage, and they won’t even let you feature your own work until you’ve been there for six months.”

“Hold up. You were excited for me when I got that job.”

“Of course I was. But this isItaly.”

A door slams, and then I hear Megan say, “Hey, I got your 911 text. What’s wrong?”

“Do you remember the undergrad abroad program Hartley applied to last year?”

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