How dinner with my ex turned my life into a rom-com
A freshly divorced, USA Today bestselling romance author lives her very own plot twists when she starts dating again in New York City.
Welcome to the first chapter of Flings & Other Things. Prepare yourself for a mix of real, sometimes borrowed, almost definitely embellished, and a few entirely fictional stories of a divorced romance author in her 40s braving the wild world of dating in NYC.
But before we get started, here’s a Trigger Warning:
Family members who get this newsletter, unsubscribe now. And that goes for you too, ex-husband. Much as our relationship is amicable, I’d rather you not go any further. These tales might be sweet, but some might get spicy. And there will be shopping lists.
Now that it’s just us, let me tell you about the ex-husband incident that kicked off this whole enterprise, in case you’re wondering how it all began.
So, picture this: I met up with my ex-husband one afternoon. Yep, we’re those weird people who grab the occasional drink post-divorce. Our relationship had devolved into a platonic, squabbling siblings dynamic before the paperwork was signed. That picture might be a little ick, but it is what it is.
Every so often, I can get him to swing by to fix random shit in the apartment we once shared. Sometimes without complaint, sometimes after a measure of guilting. I return the favor whenever possible. Our friends disapprove of this co-dependent vibe, but when things fall apart, a girl’s got to have an on-call DIYer in place.
This particular episode was time-sensitive since I was hopping across the pond to Lisbon that night, and my apartment was in desperate need of some emergency ex-husband handiwork—a leaky shower head waits for no one.
I throw a hoodie over my Little Miss Bossy T-shirt (because I’m all about staying in character) and pull on my Paige jeans, slap on some tinted sunscreen (X no longer gets a full face of makeup).
To show my gratitude for his diligent screwdriving, I offer to take X to the local seafood place—far fancier than you’d guess for a neighborhood joint, but this is NYC and fancy comes with the territory.
We opt for a spot at the bar, a table would’ve made it look like we were on a date. We were not. This was purely transactional. You Fix. I Feed. (Well, I pick up the tab.)
Since we’ve missed Happy Hour, this thank you comes at the cost of overpriced cocktails and a dozen five-dollar-a-pop oysters
The platter’s barely set down when he kicks off with, “So…”
I reach for one of the high-roller half-shells. X is well known for his slow starts. I’ve lost years of my life waiting with bated breath for big revelations, only to hear equivalents of, “We’re out of toothpaste.” I can’t afford to lose another second. I pop the oyster into my mouth.
“I have a girlfriend.”
Cue choke. Inside. No self-respecting ex-wife would choke for real. Plus, these bougie brine-bombs just slide down one’s throat, choking doesn’t really happen. A bazillion thoughts run through my head.
I didn’t even know he was dating. Or could get a date. What the holy fuck? I flip the empty shell, setting it down, a little crack sounding as it hits the ice. “Oh nice. How long have you two been together?”
“Since August.”
“Two months ago? Nice.”
“Umm, a year and two months ago.”
“Ah.” Not nice. What the ACTUAL holy fuck? That was barely two months after he moved out. I flash back to the last time I found a box of condoms at his place. (No, I wasn’t snooping. I was grabbing myself a phone charger from his bedside. This isn’t a rom-com—this is my life where electronics need juicing.) I remember thinking, Good for him. Not like he’ll ever use them. But apparently… he did. He has.
“Oh good. Glad you are… settled. I’ve been out there, too. Meeting people, going out…” Lies. so many lies. My bootcuts are practically blazing. No, I wasn’t dating. I figured, all in good time. It would happen when it happens, and all that jazz. I’ve been surviving on a steady diet of book boyfriends: There’s Luke, the sexy OB-GYN from Wrong, Gray the football star from The Friend Zone, and Malcolm, the requisite rich guy from Return Billionaire to Sender. (By the way, all of these are currently on KU—grab a free trial here and thank me later.)
And to complement my fictional boyfriends? My trusty Swedish massager. (Yes, this link will open what you think it will, don’t click at work or around company.)
“How is it?”
“Fun. So fun.” Ugh. How does he always do this? Zen. Zen. Where’s my fucking zen?
“And it’s good?”
“Oh, so good. I mean, our sex life sucked…” Tiny jab. Or maybe not so tiny. But not a lie. Sex with the ex had never been wow. However, since I wasn’t dating, I wasn’t having sex. (Not that one’s required for the other.) We both laugh. If I were writing this for a book, my character would do this “mechanically” or “maniacally” but I spent years in high school drama, so my tinkling laugh comes out perfect. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Let’s be clear. I don’t really care that there’s a girlfriend, but to dare do something like this before me? No way. We had roles. ROLES! I was the brains of this operation, he always followed my lead. Now, all of a sudden, he’s ahead of me? By a fucking year? I glance down at our oysters, those would-be aphrodisiacs that never did anything for us. Unbelievable. Unacceptable.
And in that moment, I come up with a plan.
Who'd have guessed a leaky shower head could lead to such a plot twist over oysters!?