“When did you check it?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember the specifics. “An hour ago, maybe two? Why?”
He closes his eyes and presses his palms against them. This is clearly stressing him out. “Would you just… check again? Please?”
“Okay, okay.” I unearth my phone from my stretchy overalls pocket and open up my email.
Alex leans in, his chest brushing my shoulder.
“Oof,” I tell him. “Nicorette smells awful.”
“Tastes awful,” he says, then he nods his chin at my phone. “Email, Ted.”
“Right.”
We both scan my tidy inbox. Its contents are unremarkable, with the exception of an email that came in this morning from my water provider, explaining they’re going to charge me three hundred dollars for using water that I didn’t use, but that’s a problem for Tomorrow Morning Thea, who doesn’t go in to work until noon.
“This month’s water bill?” I ask.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Alex yanks off his ball cap and scrapes his fingers through his hair. “You were on the email, too.”
“Whatemail?”
“The one,” he says, tugging his ball cap back on, “from your ex-husband and my ex-wife.”
I blink, stunned.
An email from Ethan and Jen means it’s Capital N News—something too important to text about, too awkward to say in person. Alex and I have discussed this before, that at any point these past two years, the moment could come when they’d announce their engagement, elopement, pregnancy. It’s seemed inevitable. My stomach still knots.
Alex leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You still have Ethan’s email filtered out of your inbox, don’t you?”
I point to the hidden garbage cabinet behind him. “Straight to the Trash.”
“Not just any ‘Trash’ folder, though.” Alex lifts his eyebrows after a beat of my silence, confusion etched in his expression. “If I remember correctly? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not looking at you,” I tell him. “I’m thinking.”
“Atme?” he asks.
“I frown when I’m thinking, you know that.”
Suddenly, the memory of what he’s referring to comes rushing back. Peering down at my phone, I tap my way to my email’s Trash. It’s been so long since I made that vindictively titled subfolder, let alone looked at it, I honestly forgot it existed.
“You remember correctly,” I tell him. “The Buttface McGee subfolder remains.” My frown returns. “Why has Ethan been forwarding me scammy home warranty offer emails?”
Alex leans in, staring at my phone. A notch forms in his brow. “Ted, when’s the last time you checked this folder?”
“Never. That being the point of filtering my ex’s email address—oh, God, there it is.”
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the newest email.
Subject: Family Vacation!!!
“Three exclamation points,” I say to myself. “Which means—”
“Jen wrote it,” Alex says. “Yes. But it came from Ethan’s email address. Obviously. Since it went straight to—”
“Buttface McGee.” I stare at the unopened email, biting my lip. What would possess Jen and Ethan to email us about a family vacation?