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.”
“Hey,” he says, firm this time. “Would you talk to your friends that way?”
“What way?” I mutter into the dark cave of his comforting shoulder. I don’t ever want to leave. I will burrow here and hibernate.
“Would you let them call themselves idiots?”
“Well, I was one,” I say.
“It happens, Rachel. You had a moment. You said something you regret. You just have to pick yourself up and keep going. It’s like when I miss a big catch. Which, ahem, I did in last week’s game against the Pioneers,” he says, regret seeping into his tone.