Page 52 of Plays Well With Others

“Great idea! Me too,” she says, like she’s just learned we’re both from the same hometown andOMG isn’t that so cool.

Yeah, I’m Inspector Poirot all right. Something is suspicious because Rachel likes wine, even with cookies.

She grabs two bubbly waters from the fridge then thrusts one at me. I take it then ask, “What’s going on with you?”

Flicking a dollop of cookie dough off her apron bib, she looks away from me. “What do you mean?”

The question comes out pitchy.

As she pops open her can, I wave a hand at her. “You’re kind of…off.”

“Me?” She brings her free hand to her chest, like I could possibly be talking about anyone else.

“Yeah, you.”

“I’m fine. Totally fine. Just a busy day. You know how it goes. Busy, busy, busy. Customers. Which is good. So good, right? Like yes, this is what I want. Customers!” She stops talking long enough to take a quick drink. “I mean, especially after the other week. And oh my god, did I ever tell you about that guy’s wife?”

Holy shit, my head is spinning from the speed of her chatter. “The guy who left the dick review?”

She nods exaggeratedly then sets down the can on the counter with a loud clang. “Yes. His wife came in. It turns out she’s the spa owner up the street, and she’s basically my brand-new enemy. I told Hazel, and Hazel put her name on her whiteboard. You know about Hazel’s whiteboard, right?”

What the hell? She’s doing it again, spinning like a top. “I don’t know about Hazel’s whiteboard,” I say, then lean against the kitchen counter, taking a drink as I try to figure out what’s up with my friend.

Rachel motors around the kitchen, cleaning up baking supplies as she talks. She reminds me of me, keeping busy, doing something while her mind races—right along with her mouth. “She has this whiteboard where she writes down things that irritate her. People and places and events,” Rachel says, and I try, I swear I try, to feign interest in Hazel’s fucking whiteboard, but I don’t care.

Because Rachel is not Rachel tonight.

She’s like Rachel on helium. She’s Rachel times ten servings of caffeine. And if there’s one thing I know about Rachel, it’s that she’s a terrible liar.

Like that time our friend group went to a bonfire on Stinson Beach our senior year and stayed out too late. I dropped her off at her house an hour past curfew and took the fall. “My fault, Mr. and Mrs. Dumont. I forgot to set an alarm to leave on time. My bad,” I said.

It was simple and believable, but then Rachel piled on. “And my phone has been like an alien lately. I swear, there’s some strange Martian life form taking it over. Like, hello, alien. Why are you messing with the alarms on my phone too?”

Her parents were not fooled. They were pissed at me, too, for trying to cover for her.

What’s she covering up now with her ramblings?

“So now the guy who left the dick review and the wife of the dick reviewer are on the board,” she declares as she sets a mixing bowl in the sink with a flourish.

Oh, shit. I’ve got a sinking feeling about what’s gotten into her. What if it’s the girlfriend lessons? Is she getting cold feet now? I should point-blank ask her, but I need to figure out the best way to say it. Rachel’s sensitive at the moment. Hell, she’s always been sensitive. But she’s particularly sensitive about romance stuff. I busy myself by grabbing a kitchen towel and wiping down the counter as she launches right into another tale of the whiteboard.

“And Axel was on there once,” she says, then adds, “Your brother.”

In case I’ve forgotten who he is.

But as I empty the crumbs into the sink, I’m no longer in the mood to guess. I had a hard practice. Coach worked us to the bone. Yeah, I love football, but it’s also exhausting. I don’t have endless energy, despite what some people think.

Besides, a good boyfriend would ask. And whether Rachel has changed her mind or not, I promised her I’d be an excellent platonic boyfriend.

Here goes.

As the timer beeps, and she removes the cookies, I run a couple of conversational plays in my head. Then, I flip a coin and pick one.

I set down the can. “Hey, Rachel?”

“Yes?” she chirps as she slides the next batch of cookies into the oven.

“Remember that time when you threw me a surprise birthday party when I turned twenty-five?”

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