With a sad smile, she nods. “I know.” She pauses then adds, a little resigned, “Lesson learned.”
But man, that’s a tough lesson all right. I wish I’d sniffed out the jerk sooner. Sensed it at the wedding and objected before she said I do instead of clapping when the happy couple walked down the aisle together, hand in hand.
Then again, even astute outsiders don’t always see the signs. Monroe had thought Quinn was good people—those were his exact words after we all went to a baseball game together. Even Axel, who has the bullshit detector of a bloodhound, liked my ex when we all played poker on one of his visits. I loved her so much I thought I’d marry her. Then boom, see you later.
Still, an idea has sprouted in my mind, pushing determinedly up from the past. What if Rachel had never met Edward after we’d finished college? What if I hadn’t ventured down the serial monogamy path several years ago? What if something else had happened six or seven years ago, the morning she muttered about pancakes when she slept over?
Settle down, man. Settle the fuck down.
Rachel’s a friend and that’s that. She was in my life way back when I was fifteen, and she’ll be around when I’m thirty-five.
And Quinn is history. So is Edward.
There is no what if.
Soon we leave, thanking Elodie on the way out. We head over to Puzzle Nerds in Noe Valley to pick up the One Mammal’s Trash puzzle.
On the drive back, I say, “Puzzle club? Next week? I’m pretty busy with practice and then we travel this weekend.”
“Your game’s in New York.” she says, and I wonder if she knows my schedule by heart.
“It is. I can see you Tuesday though.”
“It’s a plan,” she says.
A plan, not a date.
Too bad. That’s just…a little too bad.
When I reach her home, I pull up to the curb, then cut the engine. For a split second, I debate my options—say goodbye here or hop out and walk her to the door.
It’d be easier for me if I stayed here in the car.
But it’s nighttime in the city and that’s douchey.
I get out and walk her to the steps. But I don’t go up them. I’d want to kiss her too much if we got to the front door.
Great first dates have that effect.
Later, when I’m home alone, I’m restless. More restless than I usually am at the end of the day.
I’m wanting things I can’t have.
Things I shouldn’t have.
Things that could ruin this long-standing friendship.
When I flop into bed, I check my phone once more, out of habit, reviewing my calendar for tomorrow.
But something else tugs at my brain. Something more interesting. A distant possibility.
It’s ridiculous, but I do it anyway, clicking over to Date Night.
When I open Rachel’s profile, I smile stupidly over the words she’s added.
Seeking pro baller who loves chocolate.
13
FUCK OFF, FLUTTERS
Rachel
On Sunday, I’ve got one eye on the TV screen as I grab the tray of nachos from the oven then set it on the kitchen counter with a loud, irritated thunk. Juliet and Elodie are in the living room, camped out on my couch, watching the game.
But I’m glued to it even as I move around my home.
“C’mon! That was pass interference,” I shout at the officials across the country in New York. “You suck, ref.”
From her spot on the couch, Juliet thrusts an arm in the air in solidarity. “You tell ’em, sis.”
I stalk over to the TV screen and stab my finger at the instant replay, already showing the Leopards safety slamming an arm across Carter’s chest while he tried to catch the ball. “See? PI. Big PI.”
Elodie swirls her wine with a knowing look. “Yes, that was big PI, Rach,” she parrots.
The TV coverage narrows in on the refs conferring. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t brain science,” I say to them. “You don’t need to discuss it.”
After taking five seconds too long to recognize the patently obvious, the head ref finally calls the foul. “Automatic first down,” the guy in black and white stripes says.
Oh. What a surprise.
“Told you so,” I say, parking my hands on my hips and…oops. I actually spat on the screen. But that’s what sleeves are for. I use the end of mine to wipe it off.
When I turn around to head back to the kitchen, Elodie’s still giving me those eyes as I go—the I know what you’re thinking eyes.
“What’re those for?” I ask, drawing a circle with my finger and pointing at her freckled face.
“You’re just extra-ish today,” she says as I scoop the nachos onto a plate at the counter. “Extra Carter-ish, to be clear.”
Way to diagnose me.
Is it that obvious?
Well, it’s been obvious to me too. Even the mention of his name right now makes my stomach flutter. My belly’s been doing that a lot since that date five nights ago. My mind’s been pretty busy today too. Since I woke up and went to a HIIT class at the gym down the street, it’s been swirling with absurd ideas. Ones I definitely should not utter out loud. Ones I shouldn’t even entertain in my head.
I vowed to focus on our friendship, after all. I’ve done that quite nicely this last week. I’ve even abstained from getting off to thoughts of him, instead using a generic Hemsworthian hottie in my fantasies. Sort of like an AI man of my dreams.
“Just like I’ve done since high school,” I say, reminding them of the score with Carter and me as much as reminding myself.
We are friends. Just friends. That is all.
Fuck off, flutters.
I bring the plate of yummy, cheesy goodness back to my crew, setting it on the coffee table in front of the couch. The TV screen is against the wall that’s next to the bay window, since I didn’t want to block the view that Carter helped make possible the other week. On Boob Day, to be exact.
“Yes, everything with the two of you is just like it was in high school,” Elodie says as the tense game goes into a commercial.
Juliet scoops some olives, cheese, and guac onto a chip, then eggs me on with a drawn out, “Sooo. What’s going on with you two?”
Nothing. But lately I’ve been having this crazy idea about the four first dates he still has to go on…
I’m too afraid to voice my wild ideas though. Maybe I’d just sound foolish, even to my friend and my sister. I don’t trust my instincts enough to know if what I’ve been thinking is normal or wackadoodle. Actually, I don’t trust my instincts at all. “There’s nothing to tell,” I say.
Elodie coughs. “Bullshit.”
“Need more wine, Els?” I ask innocently.
“C’mon, Rach. He rolled out all the stops for you at my store,” she says. “He arranged that whole date for you.”
This isn’t the first time Elodie and I have discussed the chocolate date. She texted me the next day to say You looked so happy last night, then she added Also, you two looked like a couple.
I’d replied with We aren’t!
“The date was amazing. But it was entirely platonic,” I say, then bite into a chip, finishing it before I add, “Something he made quite clear when he asked me out on it. It was for Date Night. You know he has this sponsorship with them.”