Page 12 of Plays Well With Others

“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 isOne Mammal’s Trash is Another’s…” As he turns to me, the wordtreasuredies. “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.

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