Page 78 of The Rom-Commers

“Right,” Charlie said. Then he looked at me like he’d forgotten I was there. “You probably need to get going. I know your car had that…that… flat tire. Why don’t you just take my Blazer and bring it back for our—working day tomorrow?”

I guess we were hiding the wholeliving togetherthing from the ex.

“I can just get an Uber,” I said.

“No,” Charlie jumped in—weirdly eager to get rid of me. “The Blazer’s faster.”

“Okay, then,” I said.

Why was I feeling so rejected? Charlie had a right to go out to dinner with his ex-wife. It wasn’t like we had real plans. We were just eating together by default. And he certainly didn’t have to tell her about every detail of his life—and maybe I was one of those details he didn’t feel like getting into. That was fine. That was fair. And technically, he hadn’t even said anything wrong about me.

Iwasjust a writer.

That’s exactly what I was.

So why wasme getting kicked outso that Charlie could hit the town with this tall, slender, straight-haired woman with a perfect pedicure and matching manicure disappointing me so hard?

Oh, well. I could puzzle over that later.

They were waiting for me to go.

“I’ll just leave most of my writing stuff here,” I said, trying not to overact my part. “Since we’ll be doing more writing again when I return—tomorrow.” This was terrible dialogue.

“The keys are on the front hall table,” Charlie said.

I knew that. But I said, “Ah,” like that was news. Then I gave a little vague wave in their direction, the way I imagined someone who wasnotsuddenly the girl not chosen might, and said, “See ya later!” with such forced cheer that I accidentally added a tinge of madwoman.

I walked out to the car before realizing that I’d forgotten my purse—so I U-turned back into the house, and I was seconds from snagging it off the dining table when I heard Charlie and the terrifying Margaux, still in the kitchen. Talking about me.

And get this: Margaux was pressing a bag of frozen corn niblets to Charlie’s tailbone.

And Charlie wasn’t resisting.

Guess he was fine with his wife’s frozen vegetables.

Ex-wife’s.

“That was definitely more than research,” Margaux was saying, a hint of teasing in her voice.

“What would you know about research?” Charlie said.

“You don’t have to be a writer to read that situation.”

Charlie put his hand over the frozen corn to take over, and he stepped back to rest against the counter. “Don’t read the situation, okay? Don’t read anything.”

“I approve. She’s enchanting. I love that crazy hair.”

“Don’t call her hair crazy.”

“The fact that you’re so grouchy is just proving me right.”

“You don’t get to be right—or wrong—about any of this, Margaux.”

“Look, I’m just saying you clearly like her.”

“I don’tlikeher!” Charlie said.

But Margaux’s voice dripped with teasing. “Are you sure about that?”

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