Page 1 of Battle of the Exes

Prologue

You may kiss the bride.

Five simple words that would flip my world upside down.

But that’s how my story begins. The kiss at the beginning. Backwards of how these things are meant to go.

From the time I met Beau, that’s been my life. Backwards.

Standing under the flower laden canopy, looking into my groom’s dreamy eyes, I tilted up my head to meet his lips.

Everything was perfect. The cool late spring breeze, the Rockies in the background, our nearest and dearest in attendance.

Until my cousin’s two-year-old toddled between us and proceeded to hurl all over my white satin shoes.

I should have known then it was a sign, a harbinger foreshadowing how long our wedded bliss would last.

Three whole days.

Chapter One

Ivy

“Mocha latte, two sugars.”

“Thanks, Mimi.”

I take the proffered drink from my assistant’s hand, head to my office and shut the door behind me. I look out onto my view of the East River, only partially blocked by a giant green dumpster. But I’m not complaining. I love my thirty feet of prime Manhattan office space, filled with family photos and various framed letters from my readers.

I share the floor with an insurance company and an eclectic art gallery, which explains the wood carved octopus that sits on the shelf next to my Women in Media award.

A tugboat chugs past under a gloomy sky, its flags whipping inthe wind.

New York is late to the spring party. While most of the country is experiencing warming temps, the Big Apple, like its inhabitants, remains defiant.

I take a seat behind my desk, glad to have the darkening clouds at my back. I sip my coffee, high octane, just the way I like it. My desk is neat as a pin, which is one hundred percent Mimi’s doing.

She is a gem, the best assistant I’veeverhad. Which is a long time. Twenty years long.

How did two decades sail by so quickly?

I grab my reading glasses, donning them, and tap the desktop mouse, ready to pick up where I left off yesterday. I’m nearly done with this week’s column.

Dear Ivybegan as a generic advice column when I knew close to nothing about journalism. Thanks to a world-class mentor, dogged perseverance, and a sprinkle of luck, it has evolved into a nationally syndicated relationship column. Mothers and daughters, business partners, neighbors, couples.

I’m a writer, not a psychologist, and never claimed to be one. I do, however, have several pros on call and my own healthy dose of common sense.

This week I’m focusing on an amusing letter from a reader in Chinatown.

Dear Ivy,

My boyfriend got me a chicken. Not as a joke—he genuinely believes this bird will help with my stress. I named her Henrietta, and she now follows meeverywhere. The problem is she’s obsessed with me. I can't eat breakfast without her pecking at my plate. She’s started sitting on my laptop while I try to work. And last night, she perched on my pillow and watched me sleep.

I’ve tried ignoring her, but my boyfriend says I’m being “too distant” and that Henrietta is just “showing affection.”

Ivy, I love my boyfriend but I can’t handle a feathered stalker. How do I break it to him that I don’t need an emotional support chicken without seeming ungrateful?

Sincerely,

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