Double Regrets: My Boyfriend Is My Ex’s Boss

Maya's penthouse. Ten in the morning.

Amelia signed the last page of the divorce petition and slid the stack across the marble counter to the lawyer.

"That's everything," Mr. Park said. "Filing first thing tomorrow. You sure you don't want anything? Spousal support? The apartment?"

"Nothing."

"Mrs. Hale - but what about your parents' inheritance"

"Quinn. It's Quinn now. That he should give it back. Please make sure of it in these papers,and just send him a copy."

Mr. Park did some changes,and passed them to me

She picked up her phone to forward the scan to Adrian.

She typed his name in the recipient field.

Cannot send message. Recipient has blocked you.

She blinked.

She tried again. Cannot send message.

Maya leaned over her shoulder, sipping a smoothie. "What's wrong?"

"He blocked my number."

A beat.

Maya put the smoothie down very slowly.

"Excuse me. Excuse me, did you just say. That grown man. The CEO. The one who paraded his ex around in front of four hundred people in YOUR husband-shaped role last night. THAT man. Blocked YOU?"

"Maya - "

"Babe. Babe, is he a mean girl in eighth grade? Did he block you? Are we doing that? Is he going to write DON'T TALK TO HER on the bathroom wall next? My God. The pettiness. THE PETTINESS, Amelia."

Amelia laughed despite herself. Wet, surprised, real.

"Email it," Maya said. "Email that little weasel. From your lawyer's account. Make it official. Make it ugly."

Mr. Park nodded. Pulled out his laptop. Started typing.

Maya wasn't done. She was pacing.

"He blocked her. He BLOCKED her. Sir, you should be on your knees in the gutter outside her building begging for a chance to wash her car, and instead you are clicking 'block' like a teenage girl whose crush didn't text back. Unbelievable."

"Maya, please - "

"I'm putting it in a song."

"Don't put it in a song."

"It's already in the song. The song is writing itself. He blocked her, your honor. Your honor, he blocked her - "

The laptop pinged. Mr. Park looked up.

"Sent. He'll have it in his inbox in thirty seconds."

Amelia exhaled.

She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until it left her.

* * *

Maya made eggs. Maya made coffee. Maya put a plate in front of Amelia and said "eat, woman," and then Amelia's phone buzzed.

She flinched.

It wasn't Adrian.

Maison Galerie Lefèvre, the email said. Paris.

She read it three times.

"Maya."

"Mm?"

"My painting got into the Paris show."

Maya's fork stopped midair.

"The - the one you submitted four years ago? The one Adrian said wasn't going anywhere?"

"It's nominated. Audience Choice category."

"Babe."

"They want me there. Opening night. Friday."

"BABE."

Maya's chair scraped back. She came around the counter and grabbed Amelia's face in both hands.

"You," she said, "are getting on a plane."

"Maya, I can't just - "

"Watch me. I'm calling my travel guy. You're going to Paris."

"I don't have anything to wear, I don't have a place to - "

"You have Auntie Meg."

Amelia froze.

"...Auntie Meg?"

"Texan. Fifty-seven. Six feet tall in heels. Drinks bourbon out of crystal at noon. Married a French banker in the nineties, divorced him in the two-thousands, kept the apartment. Owns half the sixth arrondissement. Your mother's college roommate at Vassar - was the maid of honor at her wedding, was supposed to be at the funeral and missed her flight, has been mad at herself about it for six years. Loves you like her own. Has been waiting for you to leave that man since the day you met him." Maya was already dialing. "Pack."

* * *

Meg met her at Charles de Gaulle in a camel coat and pearl earrings the size of small grapes, holding a bouquet of white peonies and a flask of bourbon she had emptied on the drive over. She took one look at Amelia, dropped the peonies on the floor of the terminal, and pulled her in.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said into Amelia's hair. "What did he do to you."

Amelia couldn't speak.

Meg held her tighter. "Come on. Driver's right outside. We talk later. First - wine. Then bath. Then sleep. Tomorrow, your show."

In the back of the car, Meg held Amelia's hand and did not let go.

"You should have come years ago," she said quietly. "When your mother - when the accident - I told you. Come live with me. I'd be your mother now. And you said - "

"I was twenty-two. I wanted to wait."

"For that boy. Who you would never tell me about. Not his name, not his face. Nothing. Just him."

Amelia smiled at the window. A thin, tired smile.

"He was mine, Meg. I didn't want to share him. Not even with you."

"And then he didn't come back."

"And then he didn't come back. And then Adrian - " She exhaled. "His ex had just left him. My boyfriend had just left me. We were both - broken. We drank too much one night. Leo happened. We got married because we should have. I buried the boy who left me, and I gave everything I had to Adrian and Leo."

Meg waited.

"I was bad at it."

"No, honey."

"I was. I tried for six years and they hated me by the end of it. Maybe - maybe the people I love just don't love me back. Maybe it's a thing about me. Like a - " she laughed, dry, " - like a curse."

Meg's hand tightened on hers.

"It is not a curse," she said. "It is bad men, baby. Just bad men."

* * *

Two hours later. The drawing room. Amelia, finally asleep upstairs.

Meg was on the phone.

"Alex. It's Meg."

A pause on the other end. "Meg. Is something wrong?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"There is a young woman staying with me. She is filing for divorce from her husband. He is a snake. He has hurt her for six years. I want you to do two things. First - protect her. She is in your city when she comes back. Second - " Meg swirled her bourbon. " - I want you to announce, publicly, that she is your new girlfriend."

Silence.

"Meg."

"I know."

"I cannot - I do not know this woman."

"You will. Three months. Fake. A photograph in a magazine. Maybe two. Enough to protect her from her husband's social standing. Then you walk away."

"With all respect, no."

"Alex."

"I am not pretending to date a stranger. I have a daughter. My company. My - "

"Alex."

"No, Meg."

A long pause.

Then, softly:

"Your mother. On the last day. What did she say to you."

Silence.

"What did she say, Alex."

"...Meg."

"She said take care of Auntie Meg. Yes? She said godmother is mother too. Yes?"

"...Yes."

"Then you take care of me. Three months. Some pictures. I will never ask you for anything else as long as I live."

A very long silence.

Then, quiet, defeated:

"Three months. Fake dating. After that I am out. I will not - I cannot - there are things you don't know."

"What things, Alex?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. Three months. Send me her information."

Meg smiled into the phone.

"Her name is Amelia."

A beat.

"Amelia what."

"Amelia Quinn."

The line went very, very quiet.

Meg pulled the phone from her ear, frowned at the screen - call still connected - and put it back.

"...Alex?"

Nothing.

"Alex, are you there?"

A breath. Just one. Caught.

Then -

"Meg."

His voice had changed.

It had gone low. It had gone strange. It was the voice of a man who had just been hit, very hard, in the chest, by something he had not seen coming.

"Say that name again."

"Amelia. Amelia Quinn. Her mother was my dearest friend, Alex. I've held this girl since she was three days old. Why - "

"Meg."

"What."

"Where is she right now."

"Upstairs. Sleeping. Alex, what is - "

"Don't let her leave."

The line clicked.

Meg lowered the phone slowly.

She set it on the table, picked up her bourbon, took a long, thoughtful sip.

In thirty-five years she had never heard her godson make that sound. Not when his father walked out. Not when his mother died.

He had just made one over a name.

Meg looked at the phone on her coffee table.

She did not know what was between her godson and her Amelia. But the instinct said -

Something.

Meg smiled.

"Well," she said softly. "This is going to be fun."

* * *