Page 2 of Just My Ex

“Moldy leftovers?” my mom says with a laugh.

“Not this time. A cake that I’m pretty sure is not actually a cake.”

“What? I’m not following.”

“Just … can you come over? I’ll sweeten the deal with food.” I use my best sing-songy voice as Iclick click clickthe gas stove on.

“As long as you’re not going to try to feed me a fake cake, I’ll be right there.”

While I wait for her to get here, I whip up a gourmet dinner of mac and cheese with diced hot dogs in it and focus on my three-year-old daughter, Navie, who has the power to make me forget almost any woes that may be happening—for a moment or two.

And yes. Her name is Navie. She was named after the Navy because my mother’s father and grandfather both served.

Again, that’s my mother’s side—the sane side of the family.

My mom rings my doorbell twenty minutes after I call her. I know it’s her before I even open the door because of course I’m checking my video doorbell.

Her face is tight, her eyes wide. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

I open the door further to let her in. “Just—go say hi to Navie and then we’ll talk.”

In the sitting room, Navie runs over and they do their whole greeting routine. The spinning around, then two air kisses near each cheek, followed by a real one on the forehead. Every time I see it, I’m filled with a homesickness I can’t understand.

“We’re getting a dog!” Navie tells her grandmother, who gives me another wide-eyed look.

“We’re not,” I say firmly. I take her from my mom and gather her in my arms. “Maybe when you’re lots bigger. But not yet, okay?”

I’ve told her this many times. She’s very smart, so I don’t understand the confusion. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. Either way, as much as I’d love to, we are not getting a dog. I am a Mom Boss, but I have my limits, and taking care of a dog isn’t possible right now.

She goes back to the Matchbox cars and trucks she’s laid out in a precise pattern—one only recognizable by her—and my mom and I go in the kitchen.

“I would ask you if it was crazy sock day at work, but I already know the answer to that,” my mom says drily, pointing to my socks and then grabbing a dishrag to wipe down the counter.

“It’s usually dark when I get dressed,” I insist, looking down at the fuchsia polka-dotted sock and its Leprechaun-green counterpart.

Okay, so maybe I’m not quite the Mom Boss I think I am.

But they’re no-show socks, so no one’s ever the wiser!

I point out the cake still sitting on the countertop and the note. “It’s probably not cake …”

“If it’s from Raymond, it’s not cake. Hundred percent.”

“This is the first time he’s actually left anythinginthe house,” I tell her.

“He broke in?” She pinches her nose and grimaces at the cake. “Ew, it smells.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” I grab the largest knife I have. It’s Henry’s actually, but he said I could keep the knife set he brought into our marriage. Funny how things work in a divorce.

And funny how I get a text from him right as I’m about to use his knife.

Henry:Will you show this to Navie please? Tell her it’s a Ferrari Purosangue. Four door. I saw it in Lyon, France last week.

The photo is of a silver car parked on the side of a cobblestone road abutting an old world, baked cream stone building. Maybe it’s a café. I can see his foot in the photo. He never was very good at photography.

It’s fine. Navie will love it.

Well. Ahem. Lyon, is it? I’ll just sit here in middle suburbia, eating my souped- up mac and cheese and fearing for my safety while you’re working in security in France.

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