Page 1 of Just My Ex

Chapter 1

Quinn

I am not happy about finding a small, iced cake in my refrigerator, carefully placed next to the milk, like it was a surprise for my birthday or something.

It’s not my birthday, and this is no ordinary cake.

As the niece of Raymond Delfini, I should be used to stunts like these.

My extended family is quirky—to a fault. We have a whole lot of familial weirdness going on.

My cousin, Marley, holds two world records. One for eating the most jalapeños in a minute—fourteen. And another for creating a relief sculpture of the art from the Sistine Chapel in mashed potatoes—the largest of its kind in the world.

Her mom, Nancy, Raymond’s wife, danced for the Rockettes a long time ago, and then became a mime and a puppeteer.

As for Raymond, my dad’s brother? He was a stand-up comedian in the eighties in LA, then worked with the dolphins at Sea World, and then, when he was bored with that, started a company that makes gag gifts, like plastic vomit you can use to gross out your friends.

I kid you not.

So when I find a pink frosted cake speared with plastic picks that sport dog stickers in my fridge, goosebumps shimmy up my arms and legs. I know it’s from Raymond, so there’s no way I’m eating it. And there’s no telling what he’s done to it, or even what it actually is.

Because it’s for sure not really a cake, and there’s a folded piece of cardstock next to it with squirrely guy handwriting that reads, “Happy Un-Birthday to Navie.”

Raymond knows my daughter is in love with every dog on the planet.

This is … not okay.

Raymond now hates me, venomously hates me, for inheriting his father’s money, the Delfini family inheritance.

I swear, I didn’t mean to! And with all the trouble this has caused, I wish I could give it back.

Sorta. I sorta wish I could give it back. The thing is, I’m a single mom, and the thought of just washing my hands of this whole business leaves my gut feeling all hollowed out, like it’s an avocado and I’ve scraped out the fruit and the big, hard pit.

Yep. That’s me. A hollowed-out person with a thin, wrinkly, avocado skin. And I’ve felt this way since before all this went down with the Delfini family.

I’ve been single for a year now, and this whole divorce thing is really why I feel so hollowed out, like I’m pretending to be me.

Apparently, divorce can do that to a person. You have to rebuild—allegedly.

I lift the pink “cake” out of the fridge, carefully, because who knows if it’s spring-loaded with some sort of contraption that plasters it all over my face? That would be par for the course for Raymond.

But no. Nothing happens when I set the cake on the counter and stare at it. My heart is drumming in my ears. This stint? This isn’t your regular old April Fool’s Joke, all “ha-ha funny.” This one takes our family feud to a whole ‘nother level becausehe was in my house.

Uncle Raymond was in my house.

And he left a surprise for my three-year-old daughter.

Which is problematic. I just want to live my life without fear of angry relatives breaking in.

I love my life, mostly. Except for the whole threatening, menacing uncle routine. And that hollowed out feeling.

I rotate the cake around and stare at the note. Raymond definitely broke in.

A shiver goes up my spine.

I dial my mom’s number.

“You should see what I found in my refrigerator just now,” I say, pulling a pot out of the cupboard and filling it with water.

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