Page 23 of More Than an Ex-Girlfriend

“The roach.” I raise my arm to toss the ball, and the door slams.

The tennis ball bounces off the wall, only an inch away from the target. Then I scramble to catch the ball but shift my focus as the bug takes flight. Again.

I’ll find the ball later.

The roach flies at me, but this time I’m prepared. I swing the cookie sheet, and it connects with the crunchy exoskeleton in midair. When the roach hits the ground, I slap it with a shoe repeatedly until the little legs are no longer twitching.

Then I grab a paper towel and walk the remains outside just in case it somehow revives itself.

When I walk back in, Lettie is standing in her living room. “You released it?”

“It’s dead, but I didn’t figure you wanted any roaches inside, dead or alive.” I hand over the cookie sheet. “And I’ll get you a new one of these because I used this to end that thing.”

Nodding, she steps toward me, then stops. “I was going to hug you, but I guess I won’t. I really appreciate you saving me from that thing. I thought I could handle anything, but not flying roaches apparently. You are much braver than I am.” She crosses her arms. “I want to show my gratitude for your help. That was why I wanted to hug you. But...” She tugs at the end of a strand of hair. “And I know I said cookies, but maybe I could make you dinner on Sunday. If you want.”

Looking at her, I see the skinny kid who sat down next to me and told me that crying was totally allowed after losing my parents. She knew because she’d lost her dad. And I recall the months of messages with Regretful-Raccoon, who for reasons I know now was just as warmhearted as Lettie.

“Sure.” I drop my shoe onto my side of the duplex. It would be inconvenient to leave it here accidentally. “I’d like that.”

“Just dinner or both?”

Her hopeful gaze does funny things to my insides, and I answer without giving the consequences much thought. “Both.”

Grinning, she closes the distance, and for the first time in years, I’m holding her in my arms again. This feels too right. I’ve missed her more than I can put into words.

Maybe we’re more than neighbors. But until I know why she ended things, friends is as far as it can go.

CHAPTER9

LETTIE

Ithink I know how the contestants on the Bachelor feel when they’re getting ready for their big one-on-one date. This is my one shot to impress Archer, and I’ve spent days stressing about what to make.

In the years since we’ve been apart, I’ve learned how to cook. Baking was always something I loved, but now I can make very tasty dinners. Deciding between an elaborate fancy dinner and a simple meal he always loved was tough. I went with the simple dinner. But I made it a tad more complicated. Instead of store-bought chicken strips, I’m breading and frying my own. Making everything from scratch will hopefully impress him, and remembering his favorite meal will hopefully let him see how much I still care.

After whipping the mashed potatoes, I drop corn on the cob into hot water and stir the gravy. While those are doing their thing, I’ll fry the chicken. I wipe my hands on my apron, then drop a breadcrumb into the oil to make sure it’s hot enough. The sizzle lets me know the temp is perfect. I lower the first batch of tenders into the oil, then set the table.

I flip the chicken, and when a truck door slams, I peek out the window.

Archer’s home. The first thing he always does after getting home is take a shower. I know because I can hear when the water is running in the pipes. And I expect today will be no different.

My phone rings, and assuming it’s Archer, I swipe to answer without checking to see who’s calling.

“Finally. Why are you ignoring my calls? You need to come home. My hours were cut back, and I need your help to cover bills.”

Conveniently, she doesn’t mention Wes. He’s probably spending all his time playing video games and drinking.

I should’ve looked at the screen before answering because I don’t want to deal with her now. Or ever. “I’m not moving back, Mom.”

She responds with a slurred string of obscenities. Clearly, not much has changed with her.

With the phone away from my ear, I wait until she finishes her tirade. “You can look for a roommate or maybe Wes can get a job, but I’m happy where I am. I like living here.” It’s the most I’ve said to my mom in a year.

“Your father would be ashamed of the way you’re treating your mother.”

The line goes dead, and I clench my jaw, willing tears not to fall. I’m not much of a crier, but mentioning my dad is guaranteed to get me emotional.

Blinking, I realize my eyes are burning not because of the mention of my father but because my house is filling with smoke.

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