The Ex-Girlfriend Experience: Don't Ruin Katie's Wedding

By Ellie Cahill

The plan: Bridget brings über-hot Lucas as her date to her cousin Katie's wedding. That way no one will think she's not over Katie marrying Bridget's high school boyfriend, and she'll finally prove to her family she's not the overly emotional little girl they all called Bleeding Heart Bridie.

 

The reality: Bridget loses her job. Lucas is a cheating bastard. And the only way she can convince her neighbor Adam to come with her last-minute is by agreeing to chauffeur him on his work trip en route to the wedding.

 

The ruse? Pass Adam off as Lucas. The complication? Adam has a secret of his own. The feelings? Complicated, oversized, and undeniable…

 

The Ex-Girlfriend Experience is a stand-alone romantic comedy that is part of the Don't Ruin Katie's Wedding Series. They can be read in any order!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Czukas
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201015138

Book preview

ONE

COOL AS A CUCUMBER

The mug on the table says Cool as a Cucumber. Okay, it actually says Cool as a, and then there’s a cartoon cucumber wearing sunglasses and giving a thumbs up drawn below the words. It’s a gift from my boss, Bob. He gave it to me after I’d been working for him for six months. He means it as a compliment. At least I think he does.

Right now, we’re both staring at it and Bob is anything but cool. He’s sweating. Visible beads standing out his forehead. It makes me uncomfortable to look at him.

It’s a generous severance package, he says, nudging a stapled sheaf of papers a little further across the table to me. He’s repeated this action twice already, obviously disconcerted by my continued failure to pick up the pages. And of course I’ll be happy to write you a letter of recommendation to anywhere you’d like me to send one.

I nod slightly, eyes still trained on the cucumber’s black sunglasses.

Bob clears his throat. I am sorry, Bridget.

My nostrils flare slightly as I draw in a slow, deep breath. I part my lips just slightly to let it out as silently as I can. The last thing I want is for him to detect me doing breathing exercises. A cool cucumber would never. When I trust myself to stay in control, I raise my eyes to my boss’s and say, I understand.

Bob smiles, but it’s an uncertain, weak smile and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never let them see you sweat, right?

I give him a smile of my own. A tight one with no teeth. You know it.

He spends a few more minutes with me, going over the severance agreement, which I sign, and telling me I have to the end of the day to pack up my belongings. I can leave early, he tells me, if I’m done. But once I leave the building I won’t be able to return again. Like I’ve committed a crime instead of being too efficient in the offices of an Efficiency Expert.

Just before he leaves to let the HR rep finalize my exit, Bob offers his hand to me for a shake. I’m startled when he covers my hand with both of his and gives me more of a squeeze than a shake.

I know you’re tough as nails, Bridget, but I also know you don’t have family around here. This might be overstepping my bounds a bit, but if you ever need anything, you call me, all right?

I blink at him in silent shock, my mouth opening and closing like a fish before I can find words to fill it. Um, that’s very nice of you.

I’m serious. Make sure you’ve got my number.

I look up into his earnest face, but avoid eye contact by fixing my gaze at a point between his eyebrows. There’s a single bead of sweat there. Thank you, sir. I have never called Bob ‘sir’ in all the time I’ve worked with him. Mr. Cody, sure. Bob, once we’d worked and traveled together for months. But sir? Nope. So why am I doing it now? I’m not sure. But my instinct is to keep things as formal as possible, and I usually trust my instincts in these situations.

Good luck to you.

For a frightening moment, I think he’s going to hug me, but thank god the HR rep chooses that moment to come into the conference room. I have never been so happy to see a middle-aged woman named Karen in my life. Not that Bob has bad intentions with that hug. But I am not sure I can maintain my infamous cool-as-a-cucumber attitude if he dared show me physical affection.

Bob slips away, leaving me to be fired in peace.

Does this qualify as firing? I’m being let go, as they say. Downsized. I kind of put myself out of a job, if I’m honest. I am—was—Bob Cody’s Executive Assistant. My job? A classic mouthful of late capitalistic jargon. Bob is an Independent Efficiency Expert. Which means I’ve spent the last three years traveling all over the country with Bob while he did weeklong evaluations of businesses and decided where they could trim the fat. Which usually meant figuring out who could be fired.

If you’ve ever seen the movie Office Space, you’ll probably remember the Bobs, who came in to consult. Bob loves that movie. And he loved to make jokes about being one of the Bobs. I think he overestimates the humor value of the joke for people who are wondering if they’re about to get fired.

Anyway. I was good at my job. Very good. I was everything Bob could have asked for and more. I was the pinnacle of efficiency. To the point that I reconfigured his entire work life with new software and processes that basically made me redundant. He was going to switch to a virtual assistant and only for ten hours a week.

So am I being fired? Or have I ultimately fired myself?

Does it matter? Either way it’s not the promotion I was expecting when I got called to this meeting.

In the end, whether it’s my own fault or not, I still find myself carrying a small, sad box of belongings to my car. There isn’t much—we’d traveled so much I never really personalized my desk. All I have is a bottle of lotion, a couple of chapsticks and cough drops, the cucumber mug from Bob, and a cardigan. Karen the HR Rep’s watchful eyes made sure I didn’t add any company property to the mix. Not even a pad of post-it notes.

I sit behind the wheel not starting the car for a long time. Just staring vacantly through the windshield at the painted number on the wall—30, my assigned parking space.

I’ve never been fired before.

There is a very determined bubble of feelings trying to creep up from the pit of my stomach to invade my chest, and then my head. Terrible, ugly feelings that probably intend to announce themselves with tears, and undignified honking sounds, and plugged sinuses, and maybe even shaking, and hyperventilating. Overwhelming feelings that never come with a time limit. My heart is already beating too fast in anticipation, and my palms are damp. Even staring ahead as determinedly as I am staring, my peripheral vision takes in the ever-increasing speed of my breaths.

No, I whisper aloud. You’re not doing this.

There is very little on god’s green earth that I hate more than losing control of my emotions. I like them tucked away in tidy boxes on a shelf like museum exhibits. Oddities like mermaids or jackalopes. Feelings can’t help me right now. All they’ll do is make this situation worse.

I grit my teeth, and try to concentrate on my breathing.

There’s still time. I can find a way out of this. I don’t have to let feelings be in the driver’s seat. I am in the driver’s seat. Literally and figuratively.

Logic, Bridget. Be logical.

I’ll find another job, I say softly. I didn’t get fired, I got downsized. I have a severance package. This is just a temporary setback.

Okay, yes. That’s a little better. What’s next?

You’re fixating, I tell myself. How can you possibly stop thinking about this when you won’t leave the parking lot?

Yes. Leaving is the next step.

I push the start button on my car and chant quietly to myself as I back out. Just leave. Just get away. Just leave. Just get away…

There we go. I can do this. I do not have to think about it right now, much less feel it. Just let it go for now. Come back later when it’s not so damn real.

I practice breathing and relaxing my jaw all the way home, and by the time I pull into my other designated underground spot, I’m feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that I’m pretty sure I can tell Lucas I lost my job without even getting upset about it. That’ll be good. Who wants an hysterical girlfriend, right?

And if I can tell him without getting upset, I can tell other people.

See? I tell myself. Logic wins again. You’ve got this.

I’m chanting to myself while I board the elevator and press the button for the seventh floor. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. I switch to silent chanting when two other people get on the elevator at the lobby level.

Off at Seven and I’m practically smiling. It’s a Friday, after all, and I have a weekend to get my resumé in order and be ready to hit the job market bright and early Monday. No problem. I’ll tell Lucas what happened. He’ll be appropriately sympathetic, but not so much that it annoys me. Maybe he’ll want to take me out for a consolation dinner. That wouldn’t suck.

Key in the lock and I’m already running through a mental list of places I might like to go for my consolation dinner. I let myself into the apartment, taking note of the soft bump of bass from the balcony, and a bottle of wine open on the kitchen counter. One of my roommates must have taken a speaker out there. With any luck, it will be Lucas. Happy Hour for one is about to become Slightly Bummed Out But Coping Hour for two.

Weird how people are just living their lives all around me. I don’t even know if this is typical for a Friday afternoon for Lucas. Or my other roommate Raquel.

I look longingly at the bottle of wine. I’m not usually one for drinking my feelings away—too much risk of letting them sneak out. But maybe just one. It has been a hell of a day.

I head for the balcony to ask if I can have a glass. But my eyes simply refuse to make sense of what I find there.

There’s a flash of silvery blonde that my brain immediately identifies as belonging to Raquel. But it’s too low and I can’t comprehend why Lucas’s face is above the flash of hair. He’s sitting in one of the chairs and his face is tilted up like he’s sunbathing. But his jaw is slack and his hand is buried in the silvery blonde bob that my brain insists belongs to Raquel.

I gasp as the pieces slot into place. The scene still makes zero sense, but I’m sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing.

Lucas startles. Bridget! Fuck!

And in case there was any doubt about what she was doing, there’s a wet popping sound as Raquel pulls back and whips around to look at me, glossy-lipped and wide-eyed. Shit.

I. Don’t. Got. This.

TWO

TAKE ME AWAY

To my horror, the first thing that comes out of my mouth is Oh, sorry! as I stumble back a few steps, trying to get out of sight. I slam my back against the wall beside the balcony door, breathing as hard as if I’d sprinted to the seventh floor. My eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of my head if I don’t manage to bring my lids a little closer to their normal position. And a weird, crawling sensation is climbing my spine.

Bridget, wait! Lucas’s voice from the balcony.

No thank you! I call back, squeezing my eyes shut.

Just wait.

I hear the sound of a chair scraping across the concrete, and I take off, running into my bedroom and slamming the door without a backward glance. I have never been so happy to have a lock on my door. It’s a good one. A real lock with a key. I press my back against it for good measure, bracing for impact.

It comes, not as an urgent slam of a body in pursuit, but a gentle tapping on the other side. So soft I can easily pretend I don’t hear it.

Bridget? he says, uncertainly. Will you let me in?

No thank you, I say again. Which is such a stupid thing to say. What am I even saying no to? And why the hell am I being polite about it?

Please. Just open the door.

I don’t think so. My voice has a thin, reedy quality I do not care for. My eyes are hot and my ears are throbbing from the inside with the sound of my heart. I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this.

We need to talk, Lucas tries.

I decide not to answer. I don’t know if I’ve got any more words budgeted before I’m at serious risk of crying. And I don’t want to cry.

Please just let me explain.

…

Bridget, please. I know you’re in there.

…

You’re being ridiculous.

His words wash over me in intervals, but I don’t respond. I’ve gone Away.

This is a trick I taught myself when I was little. Maybe ten? If there are too many feelings. Too much everything, I just pull away. From myself. From now. It’s not like an out of body experience. I don’t feel like I’m floating above myself, looking down. It’s like I’m looking at the world through a telescope and suddenly I turn it around. Everything becomes small and insignificant. I can just barely make out the sounds and sights around me. They’re dulled, like I’m underwater.

While I’m Away, I can just breathe. And somehow I feel like I can slow down time. I’m at a different pace than reality. There’s enough space between each tick of the clock that I can think. I can run through the facts and find what’s useful.

Right now, there doesn’t seem to be anything useful. Lucas is cheating on me with Raquel. My two roommates are having an affair. That’s a fact. And it sucks. What next? Clearly things are over with Lucas. I’m not going to even entertain the idea of staying with a cheater. Especially when he’s cheating with the other person in our apartment. How would that work? If he thinks we’re about to start some sort of polyamorous thrupple, he can think again. So, I have to end things. End of story.

Except for one major hangup. Lucas is supposed to be my date to my cousin Katie’s wedding next week. I bought that worthless cheater a plane ticket. Unbelievable. Not only am I out a date, but I’m out a bunch of cash.

This is really not my day.

Floating in my blurry state of Away, I try out a couple slow, anxiety-reducing breaths. The trick is to exhale longer than you inhale. I can’t remember where I learned that, but it works.

A few of those breaths and the tight knot in my stomach—which had been threatening to explode out of me in a flood of anger and tears, and quite possibly a second viewing of my lunch—eases a bit. Not completely, but enough that I think I can survive my next move.

Which is to make Lucas go away. ASAP.

I’m not going to scream. I’m not going to give him a single tear. I’m just going to open the door, tell him to get out, and close the door. That’s all I’m going to do.

I take two more breaths, then turn and pull the door open in one swift motion.

He’s there, hand raised to knock. He stumbles back a step in shock and I open my mouth to calmly tell him to leave.

Instead, what I say is, I left something in my car. Excuse me. And then I brush past him and straight out the front door.

Why? I don’t know. I didn’t leave anything in my car. I don’t even have my car key on me. I just said it. And walked away. Like a complete weirdo!

The sound of my rapidly thumping heart fills my ears from the inside as I stab the button for the elevator over and over again. Why am I going to the parking garage? I made up the whole car thing. What am I doing?

With a gentle ding, the elevator announces its arrival and I crowd the door, ready to dart inside as soon as the gap is wide enough. I may not have a real reason for going to my car, but the burning need to get away from Lucas is too strong to be denied.

The doors slide open and my brain barely registers that there’s another human inside before I crash straight into him.

Whoa! He stumbles back two steps and reflexively grabs my arms. Easy!

Sorry. I rear back and raise my hands protectively before I recognize the elevator’s occupant. Oh! Adam! Adam Levy is my neighbor across the hall. We have a weird habit of taking the elevator at the same time, so it’s a good thing we get along.

I mean, I know you get really excited to see me, but you don’t have to knock me over, Bridge.

I try to laugh, but it comes out forced and distracted as I shoot a glance back toward my apartment door.

Something wrong? Adam asks.

I have to— before I can finish, my door opens and I catch a fleeting glance of Lucas. I launch myself off Adam and stab the first button I can reach on the control panel. It’s the one for the 4 th floor, but I don’t care. I spot the Door Close button and jab my finger at it repeatedly until the doors close.

Bridget! Lucas calls, appearing in the final two inch gap of the elevator. But he’s too late, thank god, and the doors close on him.

I sigh with relief, letting my forehead come to rest against the wall.

Uhh…what the hell is going on? Adam asks.

I cringe. Sorry, I—I’m, um, I just, uh, broke up with Lucas.

The elevator dings as it arrives on the fourth floor, and a couple of women dressed for yoga get on with their rolled up mats slung over their shoulders.

I’m not even kidding, his second message was a dick pic. It’s like they’re not even trying anymore. Club level please, her tone changes slightly to give me the instruction, but she doesn’t even glance my way as her monologue continues. Do I just need to change my entire profile? Should it just say ‘If you send me a dick pic you’re disqualified’ and that’s it?

You know they’ll just see that as a challenge, her friend says.

Ugh. You’re probably right.

"I am right."

I hate men.

Maybe you should put that as your profile, the friend suggests.

The elevator arrives at the Club level and they wander out the doors casually without acknowledging us.

A lot to unpack there, Adam muses. But never mind that. Did you say you broke up with Lucas?

Yeah. I try poking the button for P3, the level where I parked my car, but the elevator starts climbing. Damn it!

Guess we’re going on the grand tour, Adam says.

Sorry. I poke the P3 button a few more times, but the elevator doesn’t care. A fresh injection of emotion makes my head suddenly hot and my eyes feel swollen and prickly. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Hey, hey, it’s okay. Adam tentatively rests a hand on my shoulder. Don’t cry.

I’m not crying! I snap, even though my voice sounds thick with unshed tears.

Adam pulls his hand away. Right. Obviously.

I’m fine, I tell him firmly.

I can see that.

The elevator comes to a stop at the fifth floor and a single guy gets on without a word. He presses the button for the lobby and blessedly, the elevator responds by going down.

Did you…need the parking garage? Adam asks softly.

I’m still pinching my nose and trying not to look at anyone. No.

Where are you going?

I shake my head slightly. I don’t know.

Okay.

The elevator dings our arrival at the lobby and the silent guy steps off hurriedly. Adam pats my shoulder softly. Come with me.

I don’t want to. I don’t want him to get a chance to see me any more out of control than this. I hate breaking down in front of people more than anything in the world.

But I also have nowhere to go and no plan. And if I just keep riding the elevator, there’s a good chance I’ll end up back on my floor and maybe if I’m really unlucky, Lucas will be the one who calls the elevator and he’ll discover me hanging out in it for no reason and I’ve had about all the humiliation I can handle right now, thank you very much.

So I give in and let Adam lead me out of the elevator.

THREE

A STREET SERENADE

The lobby of our building isn’t crowded, but it’s not empty. It’s almost never empty. That’s supposed to be part of the draw. My apartment is part of a new concept in housing. It’s more of a community than just a building, with lots of community spaces, a club level with a pool, a bar, and a restaurant, co-working areas, and a full calendar of activities you can take part in. Like yoga classes, or live music. Pool parties, wine tastings, and networking events. All very Silicon Valley right here in Denver, Colorado. I chose it because the apartments are designed for co-living. You get your own small suite that locks, and a shared living area and kitchen that’s professionally cleaned every two weeks. You don’t have to know your