Page 84 of Ella Gets the D
Morgan chokes on her lasagna. “My brother, the neat freak?”
I nod.
“Did you drug him?”
“No!” I laugh.
The decision to tell Morgan about me and Julian weighs heavy. I’ve wanted to, but he and I haven’t definedwhatwe’re doing. Would she be upset if we became more than friends? Am I ready to be more?”
Getting a divorce and falling for my best friend’s brother wasn’t on my vision board this year. Did I second-guess responding to his calls and texts while he was away? Of course. But I couldn’t come up with an excuse to shut out the man who has been nothing but kind and attentive to my needs.
To my children’s needs.
“You’re good for him.”
Now I’m the one who chokes. “What?”
“He’s happier.” Morgan eyes me. “Julian. He’s less stressed than I’ve seen him in a long time.” She cuts into her lasagna. “You look happier too, El.”
Where is she going with this?
It takes work to push down my grin, but I do. “I am.”
My smile is no longer forced, to keep up appearances for the kids. It’s one I wear daily in gratitude of the life I’m building with my babies and the people who fill it with joy.
“How are you holding up?”
“Better than expected. Haile and Jackson are doing great. My job is amazing, and I—” A tear falls. Morgan reaches for my hand. “He didn’t break me.”
“Look at us,” Morgan says through sniffles. “Divorced moms crying before we go out. I mean, really.” She dabs her eyes with a napkin.
“At least we look good.” Our glasses clink.
“About today.” I take a sip. There’s no way to dance around the topic. “Are you okay…with Joseph?”
Her body stiffens at his name. She lifts her glass to her lips, but not before I catch the tremble in her chin. “We couldn’t get it right.” Her shoulder lifts. “Sky is an artist. She’s good for him.”
Silence tugs itself into place with unspoken self-doubt and regret. I’d endure another five months in divorce limbo if it meant I could ease the pain in her eyes. Staying in a relationship with the wrong person is a walking hemorrhoid, but losing time with the one you love is an ache that time doesn’t always heal.
“Do you want to stay in?”
“And order wings and watchLiving Singlereruns again? No. We’re going out.” Morgan’s red bottoms hit the floor with aclack.
Never mind then.
She thrusts a finger in my face. Okay, this is serious. Note to self: remember to schedule a manicure.
“Let’s dance, drink, and cut up. We have no kids tonight, and I don’t want to think about my ex railing an abstract painter.”
I reach for the dishes and rinse them off in the sink as Morgan continues her monologue. I add in the occasional “That’s right” in solidarity. There’s no bringing her down when she’s this worked up.
That’s a lie. Alcohol does wonders.
A loaded dishwasher and two whiskey shots later, we call up a car and are out the door with no mom duties or fucks to give.
“Are we at the right spot?”
Music flows through ebony speakers against lacquered walls in the same hue. Clusters of people in hushed conversationsgather in front of a mahogany bar under industrial pendant lamps on a pulley.
