Page 123 of Plays Well With Others

You make me happy, I want to say. But that might be too much. That might give my bruised heart away. I’ll feel him out tomorrow. Make sure I’m not misinterpreting how things have felt on the last few dates. Better to be safe than stupid.

Tomorrow night, maybe I’ll feel bold enough to say those four words: you make me happy.

For now, I send a smiley face and go to bed.

* * *

Monday is busier than usual. In the morning, I stop by some other shops in the city to check out the competition, then I have lunch with a supplier. Fable keeps the home fires burning at Bling and Baubles in the afternoon, while I meet with a PR firm about some social media initiatives for the store. Why not capitalize on the Date Night thing? I’m having my fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak, and I might as well use them.

After that meeting, I hustle over to the shop. It’s already four o’clock, and I want to make sure everything is going well before I leave to get ready for my date. Carter should be landing any minute. Then he’ll go home. I picture both of us getting ready, like in a movie montage, and I hope he’s as nervous and excited as I am.

But I’m also scared of dinner.

Which is so stupid. It’s a freaking meal. I eat at that damn time every day. But fancy restaurants remind me so much of my ex and his lies. They remind me, too, of the way Edward tried to smooth them over with his fancy meals and elaborate stories.

This is different.

Tonight will be different.

I’m ready to make new memories with my best friend. I’m ready to put the past behind me.

As I pass Sur La Table and its window display of utensils, a fun idea pops into my head. I dart into the shop and quickly find a red plastic spatula. It’s silly, but so are we. I’ll give this to him tonight and ask, “Can we keep a lucky spatula at your place too?”

Yes! That’s what I’ll say. That ought to make my intentions clear without putting too much pressure on him.

I buy the spatula, complete with a red bow. Once I leave, I fish my phone from my purse.

Whoa.

Three missed calls?

From Carter? That’s odd. He never calls three times.

My smile erases itself.

Did something happen to him? Oh god, is he okay? Worry seizes me as I race to open my contacts while imagining the worst.

Something happened to him. He met someone else. He’s seeing another woman. He’s canceling on me to see his other family.

Stop. Just stop.

This is Carter, and surely these three calls are nothing.

That’s what I tell myself as I hit his name, but then a text pops up from him.

Call me when you see this. I have to cancel tonight.

I stop in my tracks, déjà vuknocking the breath out of me.

40

RAIN CHECK WOES

Rachel

“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Carter says, contrition in his tone.

But still, as I trudge up Fillmore, my feet heavy and my gut twisted, I can’t shake the awful familiarity lodged in me.

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