Page 2 of Hers for the Weekend

“There are no meal choices,” Levi argued from somewhere farther away. “I’m not a short-order cook. There’s one meal. It’s vegetarian. People can eat it.”

“Maybe Tara has a gluten intolerance, honey.”

Levi was a famous TV chef, but he was also often an actual short-order cook because he covered shifts at the Christmasland Inn, where he oversaw the culinary part of their events business. Tara wasn’t paying attention to their argument, though. It was better to tune out Levi and Hannah when they argued, which was most of the time. They treated it as foreplay.

Instead, her brain was stuck on the idea of RSVPing for one.

A movie played out in her mind, of her showing up at Carrigan’s with all its melodramatic gauche festive cheer, trying to keep her cool while surrounded by live reindeer and sticky gingerbread frosting and the world’s creepiest animatronic cherubs. It was a nightmare scenario at best, but to also have to watch Miriam and her fiancée Noelle and Hannah and Levi and Cole and the hot bartender be adorably in love, while she sat at the singles table?

She would be alone with the parrot-covered walls closing in on her, raining tinsel in her hair. Her friends would pity her and feel obligated to worry about her and maybe even, God forbid, try to matchmake. Pretty much every person whose opinion actually mattered to her was going to that wedding, and she refused to be a bother, a burden, or pathetic.

She might have to go to her ex-fiancée’s wedding, but no way in hell was she going solo.

“No,” she interrupted, “I don’t have a gluten allergy. I am allergic to avocados, but I eat them anyway. Life’s short. I’m also not coming alone.”

“You’re not what?” Hannah asked, obviously giving Tara her full attention again, as Levi’s voice faded in the background.

“I’m bringing someone.” Tara managed to sound certain, a by-product of her time in front of juries.

“And who might that be?”

“My… girlfriend,” Tara replied brusquely. “Who I’m not ready to talk about yet.” Because she didn’t exist.

“You’re Carrigan’s crew, Tara. Everything’s our business,” Hannah argued.

She was warmed by this statement against her better judgment. She should not want to be adopted into their little island of misfit toys, since Carrigan’s was the Hotel California of Upstate New York, but it was nice to be wanted. “I am certainly not Carrigan’s crew!”

“I’ll ask Cole,” Hannah said. “Love you, byeeeee!”

She hung up.

Shit. Cole.

Tara would definitely have to call Cole as soon as she fortified herself. First she needed a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Besides, what the hell was she going to tell him? She’d never been able to lie to him.

She decided to walk down to Emma’s. The cafe wasn’t clean and minimalist or overpriced in the way her social set preferred; it just had good coffee and great pastries and waitstaff who knew her by name. It was comfortable and faded, unfashionable in the best way.

She and Miriam had come here together a thousand times over the course of their relationship, hashing things out over cups of coffee, and the last time they’d seen each other, it was where they’d put their relationship to rest. Those memories hadn’t ruined the cafe. Instead, they’d seasoned it, like a good cast-iron skillet.

Tara needed that right now—and she was a little bit (or a lot?) hoping to see Holly. Truly, having a raging, unrequited crush on your regular waitress was almost as pathetic as going to your ex’s wedding alone, but it couldn’t be helped. Today was Holly’s day off (and why did Tara even have her schedule memorized?) but sometimes she was there, anyway, baking.

Emma’s was decorated for Christmas with a pink plastic tree hung with silver garland and would have delighted Miriam. The cook shouted at her through the passthrough to sit wherever she wanted, and the cashier waved at her like an old friend.

Did she spend too much time in this cafe? It was more comfortable than her pristine, carefully curated Single House. Her house had been called cold and silent, but until recently, she’d always thought of it as calm. Everything was beautiful, and nothing was loud.

Only lately had it seemed… like a set piece she’d built for a one-woman show. Like she was method acting her personality.

Which she was, kind of, because her real personality wasn’t good for anyone.

Chapter 2

Holly

Shirley Manson was screaming in Holly Delaney’s earbuds, the lattice crust on her apple pie had turned out impeccably, and she was getting overtime for coming in on her day off to deal with pastry. She bopped on the balls of her feet as she tightened the handkerchief knotted on top of her head, then pulled the pie out of the oven and bumped the door closed with her hip.

Garbage was right in the middle of beseeching the listener to pour their misery down when they were rudely interrupted by a text notification. She ignored the noise, focusing on trying to get a tray of croissants into the oven before the lunch rush. Her phone immediately started buzzing again. It was probably a scam bot texting about her car’s extended warranty, as if her beater had seen a warranty in… ever.

Just in case, she slid the oven door shut, brushed the flour off her hands, and fished it out.

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