Page 117 of Plays Well With Others

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After we capture some footage of us at the party meeting new friends, saying hi again to old friends, talking to the camera, and even dragging my brother and Hazel into the shot—much to Axel’s chagrin—I finally hitend.

This series is fun, I suppose.

But what I like most are the moments when the cameras don’t roll. When Rachel and I can be ourselves with each other and with friends.

Like when Hazel turns to Rachel and waggles a bottle of chardonnay at her. “Want to hang in the backyard, drink wine, and look at the stars as we debate who had the most clever costume?”

“I’m so there,” Rachel says.

Is this some of what she’s missed out on for the last five years too? A chance to be herself, the girl who likes cheap wine and fun costumes rather than pearls and snooty sommeliers?

Seems so, since she grabs her wine mug and shoves it Hazel’s way. “But pour now. Don’t wait another second.”

I’ve seen Rachel hang out with friends before. But I’m staring at her holding a mug of white wine like it’s fucking enchanting.

I don’t even know why, except everything she does is.

And every time I see her, it’s harder and harder for me to just be okay with the way thingswere.

When I wantthis.

I want all these guys to know they can’t even pretend to hit on my girl. I want everyone in San Francisco to see me kiss her. I want her to feel what it’s like when a man makes a declaration for you in public.

But what the fuck am I supposed to do with all these emotions bubbling up inside me? In a flash, that enchantment turns to irritation. To utter frustration.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, then turn away from her to grab a beer from the cooler in the kitchen. After I open it, Axel joins me, clapping a hand on my shoulder as Hazel and Rachel motion that they’re going to the backyard.

“Hey, just wondering if you wanted me to write your emotions on your sleeve,” he deadpans as he surveys my open lab coat.

I turn to him in his cop uniform—withGrammar Policeembroidered on the pocket—and sigh. “They already are,” I admit.

“Yeah, no shit,” he says, then lifts his beer and tips some back. “Here’s a crazy idea. You could tell her how you feel.”

I glance around the party. It’s loud and hot and everyone’s here. “Now’s hardly the time.”

“That’s probably true, but you could, I dunno, find a time.” Despite his joking words, he stares at me seriously. “Think about it, Carter. You don’t have to do it tonight. But it’s eating you up inside. And I know what that’s like.”

“What’s it like?” I ask, sounding miserable and needing the corroboration.

“Like someone stuck a fist in your chest and twisted your heart. And the only thing worse is the worry she might not return the feelings,” he says.

Leave it to a writer to use words to deliver a gut punch.

Shaking my head, I let out a mirthless laugh. “And on that note, I think I won’t rush into it. I don’t need to feel worse.”

Right now, I still feel good. I still feel happy. I feel like something is stirring between us. Like maybe she’s looking at me in new ways too.

Like she did earlier in her living room when we locked eyes and everything felt…possible.

But what if that was just a post-sex high?

I need more evidence before I hold up a boom box to her window. If you’re going to do a John Cusack, you’d better be dead certain. There’s no going back on a boom box serenade.

For now, though, I join her outside, setting a hand on her back—possessively. No one better go near her.

She dips her face and smiles.

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