“It happens.”
He taps on the register, standing close enough to me that our hips brush. He smells like peppermint, and all I can think about is being alone with him. He steps back so I can scan the order. I’m slow, but I somehow manage to stumble through, even though everyone is watching me. All the customers in my line migrate over to Violet, who is a hundred times faster.
When the rush finally clears—thanks to Violet—she turns to me. “What was that about?” she asks. “It’s like you’ve never worked a cash register before.”
“I, uh, guess I’m just having an off morning.”
How else can I explain it? It’s not like I can tell her the truth.
Alistair touches my wrist and a thousand tiny fireworks go off through my body. “You okay, Em?”
I nod. I want to fold myself in his arms, bury my face in his neck. I want to kiss him to make up for everything, even if he doesn’t know what I’m making up for. We’ve probably made out thousands of times over the past six months.
I reach out to straighten his name tag—his says Paul, too—and he looks at me, surprised. He smiles and there are those fireworks again, but then his face straightens, like he suddenly remembered something.
“Anyway, Avery’s already seeing someone else,” Violet says, picking up our earlier conversation. “The body isn’t even cold yet and she’s already back out there.”
“You don’t know that,” Alistair replies. But I notice he doesn’t look at her when he says it. He doesn’t look at me, either.
“I do know that. My feminine intuition is very strong.” She grimaces. “Ugh. We’re both on the schedule tomorrow. I’m thinking about calling in sick.”
“You’re going to have to face her sometime,” he says. “Might as well get it over with.”
Violet groans. “Why didn’t I listen to you? Dating someone you work with is a terrible idea.”
I wait for Alistair to correct her—after all, we’re dating and we work together. But he just shrugs.
I frown. Why did he just shrug?
“Listen, why don’t you come out with us later? Take your mind off everything.” He slings his arm around Violet’s shoulders. “We’re heading to Bonus Round after work to practice for the Catan tournament.”
Hold up. We’re in the Catan tournament? Every year, Bonus Round holds a qualifying tournament for the big national game, usually held in a city far away from where we are. We’ve talked about entering before, but never seriously.
Violet makes a face. “Is that that weird board game you guys are always playing? The one with the wheat and the cows?”
“Yes, and it’s not weird,” he replies. “And there are no cows. Try it and I promise you’ll be hooked. Right, Em?”
“Right.” I’m excited that we’re going to Bonus Round—and even more excited that I’ll be seeing Marisol—but I was hoping that we’d have some alone time together.
“I guess it’s better then hanging out by myself in my room,” Violet says.
“It’s definitely better than that.” He gives her a quick hug. “I’d better get back to stocking aisle three. Those boxes of floor polish aren’t going to unpack themselves.”
He walks away, whistling. But then he stops and turns back around, pushes his mop of dark hair out of his eyes. “Look, I know you think she was the one, but I don’t,” he says. “Now, I think you’re just remembering the good stuff. Next time you look back, I really think you should look again.”
“Huh?” Violet says.
“It’s from Five Hundred Days of Summer.” I smile. One of Alistair’s favorite movies.
Violet rolls her eyes. “Of course it is,” she says, but she’s smiling too.
CHAPTER
8
“Introvert hangovers are a real thing.” Marisol frowns at Alistair from across the table. “Look it up.”
“I’m not doubting that they exist,” he says, setting his blue road down on the game board. “I just don’t think that you have one.”
“I only just figured it out,” she says. She ticks the list of signs off on her fingers. “I’m tired and anxious. I can’t think clearly. It took me twenty minutes to decide which shade of yellow thread to use for this embroidery. I feel like I could kill someone.”
Alistair gestures at the wooden hoop on her lap. She’s been working on a detailed cross-stitch of a bride and groom between turns. It seems that Marisol has taken up embroidery, something she never showed an interest in before. And she’s gotten so good at it over the past six months that she’s opened up an Etsy shop.
“You’re tired and anxious because you’re taking on too many orders,” he says. “You have to give yourself a break.”
Marisol scowls and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have time for a break! I have to finish this before Saturday.” She glances at me and her eyes narrow. “Em, why do you keep smiling at me like that?”
“Like what?” But I know I have a goofy smile on my face. Despite the news about my parents and the fact that we’re selling our house—which I am trying very hard not to think about—I can’t help but be happy to be here at Bonus Round with them again. The place hasn’t changed: Mario and Luigi are still painted on the window, pumping their fists in the air. The Monopoly man is still running across the red brick wall behind the espresso machine, a fat sack of money in his hand. The same college guys are still playing Dungeons and Dragons at the corner table.
I feel like I’m home.
Alistair nudges my foot with the toe of his high-top Converse sneaker. “She’s right. You look smug.”
Smug? “I’m just happy.”
“No one is that happy.” Marisol stabs her needle through the stretched white fabric, adding a stitch to the bride’s yellow hair.
“Especially not you,” Alistair says.
Um, what?
“Well, I’m definitely less happy now then I was a minute ago,” I say, frowning.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Alistair says. “You’re just not acting like yourself. You’re off your game. And you’re never off your game.”
I can’t exactly argue with him about that. Okay, maybe I am still thinking about my parents and the move. I’m not sure what I’ve told Alistair and Marisol about what’s happening, and honestly, I don’t want to ruin this time with them by having a breakdown. Also, I haven’t played Catan in months, so I’m a bit rusty. I’ve been making dumb moves. Alistair is leading by three points and Marisol is only one point behind me. Not a good look, especially since the Catan competition is in two weeks. Apparently, all three of us have signed up.
Forty minutes later, Alistair wins the first game. He stands up to stretch, arms above his head, his Aliens T-shirt rising just enough to show off a slice of his flat stomach. I’m suddenly warm all over. “I’m going to get a victory cookie,” he says.
“Do you think Violet’s going to show up?” Marisol asks me, once he’s walked away.