Page 22 of More Than an Ex-Girlfriend

Tonight, I’m just reading the most recent message, thinking about what Anderson said and wondering how I would’ve answered had she not deleted it. Is there any scenario where I’d give her—by extension us—another chance? Not knowing why things ended makes me hesitant to open my heart to her again. But the attraction is still there.

Shoot. I’m more attracted now than back in high school. But it takes more than attraction for couples to get a happily ever after. However, focusing on where the relationship might end up feels like chasing something.

In the years we’ve been apart, we’ve both changed. My energy should be on getting to know this new Lettie. And allowing her to get to know me. In a friendly way. While some things about me haven’t changed and never will, like my scars, other things have changed. More than just my manly physique.

Grinning, I read that part of the message again. Then skip back up to the part where she talks about the flutters and our first kiss.

I close my eyes, and instantly I’m that lanky kid again, and I’m walking Lettie home. We’d been friends for years, and that night, I reached for her hand as we walked back from the school dance. She’d smiled when our fingers touched.

With each step, my confidence grew. Then we made it to her front door.

Her mom was at work, which meant no one would be peeking out the window. After unlocking the door, Lettie waited to open it. For a full second, she stared up at me, smiling.

And I took a chance and leaned in for a goodnight kiss.

When she kissed me back, my heart felt like it was going to explode. Everything was perfect. For years, it stayed that way. We did at least. The rest of life was still kind of rocky. Especially for her.

But then the night after graduation, she broke up with me. And it crushed me. She was supposed to be my forever.

A loud crash snaps me back to the present, and I jump up. There’s an intermittent banging on her side, and Lettie lets loose an explicative, a word I’ve never heard leave her lips.

I yank on a shirt and knock at the adjoining door. “What’s going on?”

The bolt flips, and Lettie swings the door open. There’s a cookie sheet over her head, and she’s hunched down.

Lettie is one of those people who are tough and can take care of themselves no matter the circumstance. So the look of panic on her face shocks me.

She points into the kitchen. “I went out to the back porch because it’s nice out, and then one of those big, awful tree roaches crawled in. I tried to stomp it, but it took flight.” After a glance around the room, she continues. “I will bake you an infinite number of cookies if you get it for me.”

Laughing, I walk back toward my couch.

“Don’t leave me. Archer, please.” She follows me in, then closes the door. “Or we could switch sides. The sheets on my bed are really soft.”

“Since when are you afraid of anything? And I wasn’t leaving you. I was getting a shoe and this.” I hold up a tennis ball. “In case it lands somewhere up high.”

“Did you know they could fly? It’s got like a four-inch wingspan. That’s nightmarish. Seriously.”

I can’t argue that point. Once—or maybe twice—I’ve almost hit the deck when one flew in my direction. “Where is it?”

“On the wall next to the fridge. Up high.”

Before opening the door, I look over my shoulder. “If you want, you can wait here.”

She drops onto the couch. “I owe you.” Then she holds out the pan. “Take this. You might need it.”

I take it but refuse to use it as a shield. I’m facing off with a roach, not a wolverine.

As I swing the door closed behind me, she shouts, “Good luck.”

That must’ve sounded like a battle cry to the beastly critter because it comes out of nowhere and divebombs my head. And I hit the floor. Good thing that door is closed so Lettie didn’t see.

I’ve faced down angry bulls, maneuvered calves in need of medical attention away from protective mamas, and dealt with more fire ants than I can count. But these roaches are worse. Between the barb-looking things on their creepy legs and the fact that even the barn cats will only kill tree roaches but not eat them, it confirms that roaches are vile.

After a quick scan, I spot the dark brown demon insect on the wall above the television. This may not end quickly. And I need to be strategic. Keeping one eye on the bug, I close all the doors in the hallway. And I start with Lettie’s bedroom. As curious as I am, I don’t take time to peek. I just need her room blocked off because if the roach ends up MIA in her room, I cannot offer her the other bedroom in my place as there is no bed in there. And the two of us sharing my bed is out of the question.

Needing to think about something other than Lettie in my bed, I stare at the roach. “Okay, buddy. This is how it’s going to go. You are going to come down here, and I’m going to end your life. That is the way it will end. Whether this is a quick death or a long drawn-out ordeal is up to you.”

“Who are you talking to?” Lettie has the door open a crack.

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