Page 94 of Plays Well With Others

“I know.” Her expression is gentle, but her reprimand is real. “Butmaybe,just maybe, cool the competitive drive.”

She’s being helpful. I get it. But I’m kind of annoyed. We’ve played all kinds of games together over the years—scavenger hunts, escape rooms, mini golf. She’s never told me to cool it before. Why didn’t she tell me sooner that I was being an asshole that day?

“Sure,” I say, a little cold. Self-protection and all.

“Carter.” There’s a plea in her voice.

I hold up a stop sign hand. “Message received. I’ll be chill.”

She sighs, clearly worried thisdon’thas gone south. Well, it has. “Don’t get mad and pouty. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” I grab the door handle to get out of here. This car is suddenly too small. I need to go for a quick walk. Burn this off. This convo reminds me too much of Quinn. She got on my case about too many things. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.

Rachel reaches for my arm, wraps her hand around it. “I didn’t mean it like a correction. It was more of a suggestion of how I like to play. I like it casual,” she says, trying so hard to be upbeat and positive.

Unlike me.

“Sounded like a correction though,” I grumble, but then I replay my words. Fuck, I sound like a little dick. I try to shake off this irritation. “Hey, it’s no biggie. I’ll be less competitive. Want to hit the links?”

She’s quiet in a resigned sort of way. “Do you want to talk about this?”

“What’s there to talk about?” I ask with a big smile. Fake it till you make it. I’ll get this annoyance out of my system soon enough. All on my own.

“Carter, I don’t mind your competitive side. I’m just not like that. And I don’t know how to play that way. But please don’t be mad at me,” she says, and her voice is wobbly.

“I’m not mad at you, Rachel,” I say, and soon, I swear I won’t be pissed about this.

“You sound mad at me. I’m sorry I said it. It was no big deal. Just be yourself. I want you to just be yourself,” she says, her tone urgent now as she tries to fix the situation.

I groan. Now she’s walking it back. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to release my frustration. Trying to remember, too, why I was so damn competitive that day. I’m not normally like that. Iamusually more chill. I save my competitive fire for the gridiron, where it counts.

I close my eyes, calling up the day. Rachel was getting divorced. She was telling us about her plans to move here, for the store, to see her family, her friends.

She was saying,“This is a fresh start for me. To move on from the past.”

I should have been upbeat and encouraging, but all I’d wanted to say wasWhat did you ever see in that jerk?

Only, I couldn’t say it. She was hurting and yet trying to be hopeful. And I just couldn’t be the prick who’d burst her tentative happiness bubble. So I channeled all my focus away from her and onto the game. I played like a competitive beast, so I wouldn’t ask that terrible question.

“Carter, you’re freaking me out. Talk to me.”

I snap open my eyes. Her eyes are wide and guileless. Iamhurting her now. But I just have to know. “What did you ever see in him?”

She blinks, confused. “Excuse me?”

“Edward. What did you see in him? He was such a colossal jackass,” I say, holding nothing back.

Her lower lip quivers, and she jerks her gaze away from me, looking out the tinted passenger window.

Ah, fuck. This is why I should have shut up. I should never have given in to my own pointless urge to know something unknowable.

“Rachel, I’m sorry,” I say, with genuine remorse.

She purses her lips, nods, then covers her mouth.

“Sweetheart. I mean it,” I say, trying to right this sinking ship.

She drops her hand from her mouth, draws a breath, then meets my gaze again. Her eyes are vulnerable. “I ask myself that all the time. I feel so stupid for having fallen for him. So ridiculously stupid,” she says, her voice breaking.

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