Page 18 of Texts From My Exes
“Son of a—Ezra! Harper, why are you bringing that good-for—” Sneeze. “—nothing—” Sneeze.
I leaned against the car, deadpan. “Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze—Kid around.”
Silence. Then Ezra’s voice rang from inside:
“YOU WERE BORN IN EVERETT!”
I flinched while dad points his Samsung Galaxy Flip phone at me. It’s almost like he’s purposefully tossing high school memories in my face by way of his phone. Sometimes I can still feel my fingers sliding over the sad buttons only for the T9 to completely screw me and send something the guy has to translate to even understand, which just takes away all sleuth like levels of flirting and tosses them out the window.
Dad looked like he was about to sneeze again so I sidestepped him and made my way into the farm house and I use the term lightly. It was a modern chic design with reclaimed wood, twelve-foot ceilings, bright colors, some recycled windows from a chapel and well, designer couches that we rarely sat on because my mom valued them more than our own lives. She joked but one time Ezra sat on one and I suddenly understood the showSnapped. I’ve never seen Ezra move so fast in my entire life, thank God for his Korean heritage, immediately he started bowing which shook her out of her stupor enough to feel bad.
Ever since then they’ve been close, mom and Ezra, thick as thieves actually. I think it’s because she took the bowing as him addressing the queen of the house rather than respect, but I’m not going to correct a damn thing. Not when he’s the reason I get pumpkin bread first every Thanksgiving instead of my sister. He was already sitting next to her at the table drinking his first mimosa.
“Harper!” Oh no, she was using the high-pitched voice.
I shot a glare to Ezra. What did he say? How much did he divulge? Was he already drunk? My eyes said all the questions without my mouth doing any of the work and because I couldn’t see his through his thick glasses he merely stared back and slowly lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped.
Betrayer!
Where the hell was the loyalty? I pulled out a chair next to him. “Yes?”
“Tell me all about him!” She gushed folding her hands on her lap like we were about to start braiding hair and painting nails. “I’m so curious! I’ve been following the blog—very clever, I’m sure Aunt Trudence would be proud and I do hope you succeed with your little project.” And there it was; little project. Did she not understand I actually made money as an influencer on top of teaching? That it actually afforded me the nicer things in life aswell as extra art supplies for the kids in my class? Did it matter? I liked my job, furthermore, my channel was a good outlet for my teacher rage. Before the whole ‘dating my exes’ thing I’d gained quite the following over “Stuff my Students Say.”
It's another reason Ezra loved volunteering with my class. He learned new things and loved how they publicly shamed me at such a young age. Said he found it charming. While I found it alarming they knew how.
“Him?” I repeated slowly. “Just whathimare we discussing right now?”
Ezra shrugged, the picture of innocence, like they hadn’t just been whispering about me over cocktails and croissants.
Then he snorted.
Not the good kind of snort—the bad kind. The one I knew too well. The one laced with judgment.
He shoved his neon glasses up his nose and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed in what could only be described aspeak arrogance.
“I think,” he said, dragging it out, “she means the lovely… Vex.”
Mom clapped her hands together like a trained seal at feeding time. “How do Inotknow about him? The one that got away! The perfect boyfriend!”
Her voice got louder with each word until I was certain the neighbors now thought my love life had a studio audience.
“Vex!”
I clenched my teeth and shot Ezra a desperate look for help.
He answered by chugging his mimosa like this was a spectator sport.
Great.The least he could do was help me keep the lie straight.
I looked between Mom and my own mimosa. “Just… need a drink first.”
Tossed it back. Tried to remember all the ridiculous attributes I’d given this fictional man.
Perfect skin.
Long, messy, inky-dark hair with… oh God…shots of gold.
Why had I saidshots of gold? Like he was the brooding cover model for some torrid romance novel. What real man had hair like that? Was I high when I made him up?
