Plays well with others, p.3
Plays Well With Others, page 3
I grab my phone from my back pocket and tap out a quick text to my friend Hazel, who’s in town for my official divorce party. The one I might be canceling. We can all just grab drinks at my place instead. Maybe my friends can help me bake too.
Rachel: On a scale of one to ten, how much would Juliet kill me for canceling the party she insisted on throwing me?
Hazel: One hundred. Also, why, why, why?
Rachel: I should just focus on my shop. I’m here to grow Bling and Baubles, not call attention to my pathetic-ass self.
Lord knows, I inadvertently called enough attention to myself yesterday with my impulsive phone answering. The only reason I’m not suffering from next-day mortification is that Carter was a total darling about the eyeful. He handled my embarrassment so well.
Ten out of ten, I recommend accidentally flashing two of a kind to a man who’s a perfect gentleman.
But a party where I’m the newly single and kicked-to-the-curb-by-her-ex-husband guest of honor?
That’s a real look-at-me event. I never threw parties while I was married. I never let loose. I never wore flashy clothes. It’s all so…not me.
While Hazel’s typing—the dots tell me so—I add another text.
Rachel: I probably have more wound-licking to do anyway. I should do it with the lemon cheesecake blueberry bars, some Amelia Stone breakup tunes, and a binge of the new season of F Boys And Girls. I can even bake some butterscotch brownies. Get a good night of sleep for the first time in a while. I haven’t been sleeping great in my new place. Then I’ll take a HIIT class in the morning.
Hazel: First, friends don’t let friends binge-watch bad reality TV alone, so if you choose to do that, I’m coming over with my jammies to join you.
Rachel: Do they have pockets?
Hazel: Obviously. I refuse to acknowledge the existence of jammies without pockets. But here’s my second point—there are literally studies showing that surrounding yourself with friends is the best medicine after a breakup. Better than butterscotch brownies.
Rachel: Someone studies that?
Hazel: Someone studies everything. And I’ve researched everything ever studied—I’ve googled it for a book at some point.
Hmm. She probably has. She’s written a lot of romance novels, and all her characters have serious shit to deal with. But I feel guilty celebrating my failure in love. Is getting divorced really something to throw a party for?
Oh hey, my ex kept a secret second family for years! Have a glass of champagne!
Rachel: Maybe I should stay in the shop and do…inventory. Research some new looks. Work on a marketing campaign.
Hazel: That’s Edward’s voice talking. Shut. Him. Down.
I peer around at my empty shop, needing to do something to prop up my baby. It’s been a rough few weeks here. Heck, it’s been a rough few months, ever since I decided to return to my hometown and open the shop here in San Francisco. Until a few weeks ago I’d been flying back and forth from Venice, trying to manage both stores. Now I’m living here, and the Venice one is still swimming along, with my manager there running it.
But this store hasn’t found its footing yet. I know it takes time, but the only amazing days have been when the spa owner up the street has sent bachelorette parties and groups of pampered and massaged friends here. I haven’t even met her. Maybe I should make her some brownies. Yes, that’s what I should do tonight.
I reply again to Hazel.
Rachel: I haven’t had a customer in twenty minutes. Hence I’m at my store, texting my friend, and contemplating baking brownies for the spa owner up the street to bribe her so she keeps sending me business.
As she’s replying, a text from my mom pops up too, but the bell above the door tinkles.
Hurrah!
With the enthusiasm of a marching band, I put down my phone and focus on the customer—a handsome man with some gray in his beard. He wears a tailored suit and sports an expensive watch and a platinum wedding band. I can read him from a mile away—he’s here to buy something for his wife.
Hey, big spender. Come to mama and open your wallet.
“Welcome to Bling and Baubles. Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I say. I’m closing in five minutes, but I don’t mention that. I’ve never understood why some shopkeepers make customers feel unwelcome even if they come five minutes before closing time. Last time I checked, five minutes before closing time was still, you know, open. Why make someone feel bad, especially if they might buy something from you?
He walks to the counter with the commanding stride of a man who gets what he wants. Like Edward does. “I’d love some help,” he says. “I need a little something for my wife. I missed her birthday last week.”
Like Edward did when he was visiting his other family.
“Oh. That’s too bad,” I say, trying to strip the how the hell did you miss her birthday from my tone.
“It happens. I was out of town,” he says with an I can’t be bothered shrug.
That was what my ex told me too.
Dick.
“That happens,” I say breezily to cover up my irritation.
“I had business meetings that ran unexpectedly long.”
Sounds so familiar. Does she believe you? Has she believed you for years, like I did? I want to shout. But I don’t, asking instead, “What would you like to get her, then?”
He waves a hand airily, a man who can dismiss his indiscretions with money. “Something that says I was missing her. And I’m so sorry.”
How about half your worth in the divorce you’ll be getting?
“I’m sure you’re very sorry. Perhaps a lovely necklace with a dollar sign on it?” I ask brightly. Or was that sarcastically?
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
Shoot. “I apologize,” I say, meaning it. I can’t take my hurt out on a customer. “Let me show you some necklaces,” I say, then I steer him to a display shelf. “Here’s a pretty pendant with a flower on it.”
“She likes lotus flowers.”
I touch my naked neck absently, remembering when Edward gave me a similar one more than a year ago—with a rose on it. Your favorite flower, he’d said. But those aren’t my favorite flowers. I love wildflowers. His other woman must have liked roses.
I grit my teeth and try to fight off the memories. “These do wonders for smoothing away the little things that happen when husbands travel. You know?”
The customer jerks his gaze to me, sneering. “Like meetings? I had meetings.”
“Yes, meetings, of course,” I say, trying to correct my mistake, but did that come out as bitter as the memories?
“They were meetings with my marketing partner,” he adds, then stares at me like I’m a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe. “I think I’ll shop elsewhere.”
The horror of what I’ve said smacks me in the face, but it takes me a few seconds to recover. “I’m so sorry. The necklace is on me. Consider it a gift,” I call out, trying to fix my mistake.
But with a huff, he turns on his heel and leaves, without the necklace.
With him gone, I lock the door, then slump against it, groaning in misery. I can’t believe what I just did. I sabotaged my own business over a stupid memory.
Pull yourself together, girl.
I head to the counter and grab my phone. I was wrong. I absolutely, positively need this party.
I text Hazel to tell her I’ll be there. I reply to my mom’s have fun at the party text by promising I will have so much fun, then I text Carter and ask if he can give me a ride home from the fête. He only lives five minutes from my place. He replies right away.
Carter: A ride home? Do you mean a ride there?
Rachel: Nope. A ride home. I will need a ride home since I’ll need an extra-large glass of champagne to erase what I just said to a customer.
Carter: Then I am definitely picking you up, too, since I need to hear this.
He’s such a sweetheart. He’s not even thinking about yesterday. He’s moved on. Let that be a lesson. I can move on from my shitty marriage.
Divorce party, here I come.
I send him a calendar invite to pick me up. There. It’s official now.
Burgundy lace bustier or the light blue one with embroidered red flowers? I’m in my bedroom an hour later, weighing the underthing choices post-shower.
The answer? Whatever will make me forget what I just said to a customer.
Did I really say all that marriage sucks and so do you stuff? Yes, yes, I did.
Fuck burgundy. Fuck light blue. I need black lace to match my black heart. I ditch the bustiers, grabbing a new black bra-and-panty set.
They won’t be seen by anyone but me, but that’s fine. Clearly, I shouldn’t be near people this week. This month. This lifetime.
I march—no, stomp—over to my phone and crank up the volume on Amelia Stone’s new tune blasting in my earbuds. It’s a breakup anthem, and that’s what this gal needs.
I blast it loud enough to drown out the last hour of my life as I slide into the panties, then snap on the bra. When I yank open my closet door, I see red.
So much glittery red hanging in front of my other clothes like a diva taking center stage, outshining the chorus girls behind her.
But…how did that get here?
Did I drape that red dress over my other clothes and then forget about it? Do I even own that postage-stamp-size number? I step closer and spot a card with my name on it dangling from the hanger.
I grab it, take it out, and open it.
There is one rule for what to wear at your divorce party—something smoking hot. I took care of an outfit for you, you beautiful single goddess, you.
Juliet must have used her code to come inside and leave this for tonight. Sister’s rights and all, to burst in and leave gifts.
And it’s not just any dress.
It’s a ruby red, sparkly, sequined body-con dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.
This looks like what a teenager would wear to a fuck-me-at-homecoming dance. But I don’t have a teenage-girl body. I flick the card against my palm as I consider the outfit. Then I spot my sister’s P.S. on the other side of the card—Body-con dresses aren’t just for the teens. Women in their thirties with women’s bodies can wear them and slay them.
She can read my mind. She’s always been able to. I run my fingers along the sequined look-at-me dress. “I am not worthy,” I confess to the dress. “I was a supreme asshole today.”
I go on, telling the dress everything, every terrible detail, until they’re all out of me.
And you know what? After what I’ve been through, the fact I didn’t try to garrote him with a necklace is absolutely miraculous.
I am worthy of this dress.
First, though, I’ve got to ditch the bra. I free the girls, then slingshot the black lace across the bedroom. It lands on a lamp, and that feels like a statement—the statement is I can wear whatever I want. Commando up top? Hell, yeah.
I tug on the dress, pulling up the spaghetti straps. The neckline plunges deeply.
And…hello! Is there a breeze down there?
I peer at the hem. Hmm. Do we call this mid-thigh length or butt-cheek length?
I shrug. Whatever.
I head to the mirror and…whoa. Is that me in this tiny thing? I’d never have worn this with Edward. He likes his ladies classy. He likes his women subtle. I am not subtle tonight. I am a billboard for Fun with a capital F.
I take out the earbuds and set them down on the bureau.
“Fuck him,” I say to my reflection, then I do my makeup, slip on some heels, and grab a purse and the lemon cheesecake blueberry bars.
Carter calls me at eight-thirty-five, five minutes after he said he’d arrive, but exactly when I figured I’d see him—Carter time. “On my way,” I say, then head down the steps of my townhome and swing open the front door. I’m so damn ready for this party.
Carter’s standing on the stoop, wearing dark jeans and an untucked slate-blue button-down that is form-fitting in all the right ways. It hugs his big biceps and snuggles against his strong chest. Bonus—with the cuffs rolled up, it shows off his forearms. In short, the shirt makes my handsome friend look even more handsome.
He’s just a good-looking guy, empirically and all.
“Hey, you,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, but it comes out strangled, like all the air has left his lungs.
“You okay?”
He clears his throat, blinks, then he manages a nod that looks a little uncomfortable. “You look…wow.”
“Aww. That’s sweet.” I lean in and kiss his cheek, taking that wow. Needing that wow.
When I let go, his eyes linger on me a little longer than usual. Well, he’s not used to seeing me in sparkles, so it makes sense that he’d want to make sure it’s really me under all this bling.
“It’s sparkly, isn’t it?” I say with a jut of my hip.
“Yes, just a little,” he grunts, then reaches for the plate of bars. He takes them as I hook my arm through his on the other side.
“Let me tell you what I said to a customer tonight.”
As we walk to his car, I tell him what I said so I can put my bad behavior behind me.
“I’m sure he didn’t think twice about it,” Carter says, exonerating me as he holds open the passenger door.
“Like us, with yesterday,” I say with a smile, sliding in.
“Yes. Exactly. We can even laugh about it,” he says once he’s in the car. “And we can laugh about it while we reinstate our puzzle club. Because I had an idea.”
“Oh! Tell me, tell me.”
But as he drives away, my phone buzzes with a notification that I have a new online review. I stop smiling.
I brace myself as I click it open.
The woman who owns this store is a big-mouthed, stupid bitch who should mind her own business.
5
HELLO, CHEESE GRATER
Rachel
Repeat after me—don’t ruin your mascara.
I say that over and over in my head as Carter drives to the party in the Marina, where all my friends will be gathered.
Suck back those sobs.
I fight off the lump in my throat that’s threatening to unleash a fire hydrant of tears. I won’t walk into the party looking like a crying banshee at Halloween.
“And I googled some new puzzle brands earlier today,” Carter says, chatting amiably as we pass the Palace of Fine Arts. This is helping, too, his warm, rumbly voice talking about all the regular things we like. “There’s this new puzzle maker called Florence and Arlo—how hip is that name, right?”
“So hip,” I say, trying to contribute something to the conversation while I let his voice soothe my shame.
“I bet she wears a beanie and he’s got a beard. But let me tell you, their puzzles do not suck,” he says as he slows at the red light near Chestnut Street. “No five hundred red jelly beans or one-thousand-piece boring gray castles. I can order one online, or even better, I found a shop in Noe Valley called Puzzle Nerds. They have this puzzle with caricatures of raccoons digging through trash cans. The name of it is One Mammal’s Trash is Another’s…” As he turns to me, the word treasure dies. “What is it, Sunshine?”
I shake my head, embarrassed by this stupid, utterly stupid, reaction to a bad review. It was all my fault anyway. “Nothing,” I mumble.
“You look like a kid holding her breath,” he says.
The lump grows so big it’s like a thrashing monster in my throat. I slam my hand to my mouth as my shoulders shake. “I’m fine,” I say, gulping in air.
“You’re not,” he says. The light changes, and with a lightning-fast assessment, he makes a right turn instead of going straight, then maneuvers the car along the curb and into a just-vacated spot. That’s no easy feat in a city where parking is harder than completing a thousand-piece puzzle.
He turns off the car and sets a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
“My mascara,” I blurt out, wobbly. But it’s too late. The lump wins. My eyes are faucets.
“Your mascara’s fine,” he says, then wraps his arm around me, pulling me against his shoulder.
“It’s not fine,” I choke out.
“Are you still upset about that jackass who clearly cheats on his wife?”
“That jackass left me a one-star review,” I say in a strangled breath as I push my face against his shoulder. I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me. I’m so ridiculous.
His hand slides over my hair in a comforting move. “That sucks,” he says, and I’m so grateful he didn’t try to Band-Aid over the awfulness and tell me it’s nothing. It’s not nothing—it’s something. And it’s my mistake.
“It’s all my fault,” I say as tears rain down.
“Still sucks,” he says, stroking my hair softly.
“I deserve it,” I add, pressing my face hard against him.
“You don’t deserve it. You had a bad day.”
“This review will ruin me. I’m already struggling with my business. My shop here isn’t taking off like the one in Venice because I’m the idiot who thought it would be smart to flee town and just open a new shop in a new town and trust that everyone would come.”
