Page 9 of Plays Well With Others

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 dosomethingto 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 thehow the hell did you miss her birthdayfrom my tone.

“It happens. I was out of town,” he says with anI can’t be botheredshrug.

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.”

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