Read an Excerpt
1
If I were to ask you “Where is the worst place to run into an ex?” you might say “the supermarket” or “on a date with somebody else” or maybe even “at a family reunion.” To which I would reply, (1) “wrong,” (2) “wrong,” and (3) “for the love of God, man, stop hooking up with your cousin.”
There is a right answer, by the way.
I can tell you—-with absolute certainty—-the worst place to run into an ex is inside your own home, while you are splayed across the bathroom floor, neck—deep in porcelain, your stomach hollowed out like the inside of a snare drum.
Should I elaborate?
Say you’re me. (Hi, I’m Cam.) You’re a senior in high school, just two weeks from graduating. Best time of your life, or so you’ve been told. Results may vary.
Say you’re head over heels in love with a girl—let’s call her, oh, I don’t know, Ally. You and this Ally had been dating for over a year. Everything with you guys was good—no, better than good. Phenomenal. Stupendous. Second to none.
Say that very same girl blindsided you, ending things abruptly and without explanation. Shredding your heart in the process. Real hatchet job. I’ve been thinking about this for a while . . . It’s not you, it’s me . . . I still want us to be friends. She played all the hits.
That was in January. Now it’s late May. The two of you haven’t spoken since. Not even a text.
Say a couple months after the split, you found out she was seeing someone else. But not just any someone else. The very some-one else who you’d always known had a thing for her. Who she swore to you was “just a friend.”
Here’s where it gets fun.
Say that ex (you know, the one with the hatchet) was driving home from school one afternoon in late March when suddenly—-inexplicably—-she lost track of the road. Wrapped the hood of her car around an oak tree at the bottom of the Shermer Ravines. The skid marks are still there, branded on the pavement. So is the puncture her sedan left in the guardrail.
Say she’s been in a coma ever since, confined to a hospital bed just a few miles up the road. Unable to walk, talk, or breathe without the assistance of a ventilator. Unable to—-hypothetically—-materialize out of thin air. Inside your bathroom. At three in the morning.
So I’ll ask again: Where is the worst place to run into an ex?
The answer? Anywhere.
