Page 10 of Plays Well With Others

“She likes lotus flowers.”

I touch my naked neck absently, remembering when Edward gave me a similar one more than a year ago—with a rose on it.Your favorite flower,he’d said. But those aren’t my favorite flowers. I love wildflowers. His other woman must have liked roses.

I grit my teeth and try to fight off the memories. “These do wonders for smoothing away thelittle thingsthat happen when husbands travel. You know?”

The customer jerks his gaze to me, sneering. “Like meetings? I had meetings.”

“Yes, meetings, of course,” I say, trying to correct my mistake, but did that come out as bitter as the memories?

“They were meetings with my marketing partner,” he adds, then stares at me like I’m a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe. “I think I’ll shop elsewhere.”

The horror of what I’ve said smacks me in the face, but it takes me a few seconds to recover. “I’m so sorry. The necklace is on me. Consider it a gift,” I call out, trying to fix my mistake.

But with a huff, he turns on his heel and leaves, without the necklace.

With him gone, I lock the door, then slump against it, groaning in misery. I can’t believe what I just did. I sabotaged my own business over a stupid memory.

Pull yourself together, girl.

I head to the counter and grab my phone. I was wrong. I absolutely, positively need this party.

I text Hazel to tell her I’ll be there. I reply to my mom’shave fun at the partytext by promisingI will have so much fun,then I text Carter and ask if he can give me a ride home from the fête. He only lives five minutes from my place. He replies right away.

Carter: A ride home? Do you mean a ride there?

Rachel: Nope. A ride home. I will need a ride home since I’ll need an extra-large glass of champagne to erase what I just said to a customer.

Carter: Then I am definitely picking you up, too, since I need to hear this.

He’s such a sweetheart. He’s not even thinking about yesterday. He’s moved on. Let that be a lesson. I can move on from my shitty marriage.

Divorce party, here I come.

I send him a calendar invite to pick me up. There. It’s official now.

* * *

Burgundy lace bustier or the light blue one with embroidered red flowers? I’m in my bedroom an hour later, weighing the underthing choices post-shower.

The answer? Whatever will make me forget what I just said to a customer.

Did I really say all thatmarriage sucks and so do youstuff? Yes, yes, I did.

Fuck burgundy. Fuck light blue. I need black lace to match my black heart. I ditch the bustiers, grabbing a new black bra-and-panty set.

They won’t be seen by anyone but me, but that’s fine. Clearly, I shouldn’t be near people this week. This month. This lifetime.

I march—no, stomp—over to my phone and crank up the volume on Amelia Stone’s new tune blasting in my earbuds. It’s a breakup anthem, and that’s what this gal needs.

I blast it loud enough to drown out the last hour of my life as I slide into the panties, then snap on the bra. When I yank open my closet door, I see red.

So much glittery red hanging in front of my other clothes like a diva taking center stage, outshining the chorus girls behind her.

But…how did that get here?

Did I drape that red dress over my other clothes and then forget about it? Do I even own that postage-stamp-size number? I step closer and spot a card with my name on it dangling from the hanger.

I grab it, take it out, and open it.

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