Page 22 of Play On

I’m so stupid.On so many levels.

“Vi?”

I blink, realising that Aimee has been talking to me and I have no idea what she said.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you’d like to sit at that table.” She inclines her head to a green velvet booth.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

We slide into the booth, and a waitress quickly appears to welcome us and give us the wine list and the cocktail menus, and then she gives us a few minutes to make our selections.

“Okay. Let’s pick our drinks and get that sorted before you start talking, or we won’t be ordering cocktails for another hour,” Aimee says.

I laugh as I flip open the black leather-bound menu. “Are you assuming I still talk a lot, Aimee?”

“I assume nothing. I know it.”

We both laugh, and it feels like coming home. Coming home to a friendship that always felt comforting and right. And I can’t explain it, but I think Aimee is going to be in my life to stay this time.

I peruse the options on the menu. Wisteria House always has clever cocktails, and I love when they do seasonal ones, like a pineapple whisky sour and a rosé negroni. I decide to go with a spicy mandarin margarita and close the book.

Aimee is still looking over the menu, her lower lip drawn between her teeth. I smile. She always bites her lower lip when she’s considering something.

“I think I just want a Pimm’s cup,” she says. “But I feel like I should get something more elaborate because, you know, Wisteria House.”

“Aimee. I’m vowing right now this will not be the only time we get drinks at Wisteria House, so get the Pimm’s cup now, and the next time I’m in London, we’ll come back, and you can order some fancy, over-the-top cocktail.”

She looks up at me. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

With her decision made, she closes her menu, and we begin talking. Just nonstop talking, only pausing for the waitress to take our orders. As soon as she leaves, Aimee looks at me.

“Okay, I don’t want the Connectivity Story Share version of your life,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I already know that. Tell me how you really are and what you’ve been up to.”

I hesitate.

“What’s the look for?” she asks instantly.

I blink. “What look?” I wasn’t aware I had any kind of look on my face.

“Like something is painful for you to talk about.”

As I stare back at Aimee, the woman who knew me so well during our time at St. Andrews, I decide it might be time to admit some truths.

“You’re right. I hesitate because I’ve seen what a success you’ve made of your career. You’re an editorial assistant for one of the top publishers in London.”

Aimee began as an intern for Moore/Leeds Publishing and has moved up to editorial assistant in the romance division.

She furrows her brow. “What does that have to do with what’s going on in your life?”

I gather up my courage to speak. “I’m floundering, that’s why.”

A shocked look passes over Aimee’s beautiful face. I feel my cheeks burn hot in shame.

“I work at the family gift shop at Wintersmith Hall,” I confess. “Oh sure, I have input on what sells in the shop and help Mum select items to keep in stock, but that’s all I do. You have an amazing career. So do our other old friends from St. Andrews. But I’m at home, doing what I did during the summers since I was sixteen.”

“But Violet,” Aimee says, surprise laced in her voice, “I just assumed you did that because you wanted to. I thought you were pitching in on the family business.”

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