Page 4 of Plays Well With Others

When I reach Rachel’s stoop, my mug sleight of hand has done the trick. Now the tricky bit—walking into her home like nothing happened.

And since I can learn from my mistakes, I call rather than FaceTime.

She answers with a chirpy, “Hello!”

That’s promising. She sounds like herself. The Great Flashing Incident must not have bugged her at all.

“Good morning, Sunshine.” There. Using the nickname I gave her back in high school will also help the reset. “Want to let me in?” I ask.

Wait…Does that sound dirty?Want to let me in? Or does it only sound dirtytoday?

“Of course,” she says.

The buzzer blares, and I bound up the steps. She’s already opening the door when I get there. Her chestnut hair is swept back in a ponytail and she’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and the most awkward grin ever.

Eyes up, I thrust the bag at her. “I got you a mug. A housewarming present.”

“Oh.” She takes the mug from the bag, but before I can see her reaction, I peer around her place, looking for something to focus on other thanmydirty thoughts.

Ah, perfect. Her windowsill is covered in tiny plants. I didn’t notice those last time I was here. I point at one with leaves and shit. “Hey, is that…a cactus?”

“No. It’s basil. But close.”

“Cool, cool,” I say, and I’m pretty sure basil has nothing in common with desert plants, but that’s good of her to be so chill. I beeline for the windowsill, stopping to pick up a pot from the floor. I set it with the rest of her plant family, keeping myself busy.

“That’s the rosemary,” she says, bright and cheery. Maybe more cheery than usual?

I scratch my jaw as I stare at the plants, then check out a taller one on the floor next to the windowsill. “Is this a fern?” I ask, though I’ve no idea what ferns look like. Green, maybe?

“No. But good guess. The tall one is a ficus. I call him Bob the Ficus. Well, Juliet named him. She gave it to me. Said it’s a starting over plant.” Like me, Rachel is talking a little faster and chirpier than usual.

“Smart move on your sister’s part.” I touch Bob’s waxy leaves. “I’ve been meaning to get a plant,” I say, and that’s a lie. But the more I talk about plants, the less I’ll think about tits. “Do you have to, um, water Bob a lot?”

“I do. Bob gets thirsty. I could use this mug to water him,” she says, extra upbeat.

And hey, if she’s not weird, I don’t need to be weird. Besides, we’ve got plants to discuss. Slowly, I wheel around, successfully keeping my vision locked on hers in a straight line. “That’s perfect because the mug, you know, holds water.”

“One of the nice things about mugs,” she says from across the room.

“Or you can use it to drink coffee, or wine, or really anything. Tea, soda,” I say, then pause to think about more beverages so I don’t think about breasts. “Juice maybe.”

“I don’t like juice. But wine could work,” she says in the same spirit.

It’s like the incident never happened. “Want to break it in?”

“With wine? I mean, sure. I got a delivery.”

I shake my head. “No. I meant to water Bob?”

“Oh, sure. Or you can. To practice for your own Bob,” she offers.

Right. Yeah. I’m getting a Bob, evidently.

She turns into the open-plan kitchen. Since I’m doing well at not staring below her neck, I follow her, stopping at the counter full of boxes while she fusses around with the faucet. She heaves a sigh, then another, finally lasering me with a no-bullshit look. “Carter. This is a mug that says I’m going to pretend I never saw your boobs, right?”

I blink.

“What? No. No way,” I say, sputtering as images rush back to my brain—my lifelong friend, naked on camera, steam rising around her like she’s a goddess. Pale skin that invites kisses. Curves that should be worshiped. Flesh, so much gorgeous flesh that I now know exists under her clothes.

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