Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“And I googled some new puzzle brands earlier today,” Carter says, chatting amiably as we pass the Palace of Fine Arts. This is helping, too, his warm, rumbly voice talking about all the regular things we like. “There’s this new puzzle maker called Florence and Arlo—how hip is that name, right?”
“So hip,” I say, trying to contribute something to the conversation while I let his voice soothe my shame.
“I bet she wears a beanie and he’s got a beard. But let me tell you, their puzzles do not suck,” he says as he slows at the red light near Chestnut Street. “No five hundred red jelly beans or one-thousand-piece boring gray castles. I can order one online, or even better, I found a shop in Noe Valley called Puzzle Nerds. They have this puzzle with caricatures of raccoons digging through trash cans. The name of it is One Mammal’s Trash is Another’s…” As he turns to me, the word treasure dies. “What is it, Sunshine?”
I shake my head, embarrassed by this stupid, utterly stupid, reaction to a bad review. It was all my fault anyway. “Nothing,” I mumble.
“You look like a kid holding her breath,” he says.
The lump grows so big it’s like a thrashing monster in my throat. I slam my hand to my mouth as my shoulders shake. “I’m fine,” I say, gulping in air.
“You’re not,” he says. The light changes, and with a lightning-fast assessment, he makes a right turn instead of going straight, then maneuvers the car along the curb and into a just-vacated spot. That’s no easy feat in a city where parking is harder than completing a thousand-piece puzzle.
He turns off the car and sets a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
“My mascara,” I blurt out, wobbly. But it’s too late. The lump wins. My eyes are faucets.
“Your mascara’s fine,” he says, then wraps his arm around me, pulling me against his shoulder.
“It’s not fine,” I choke out.
“Are you still upset about that jackass who clearly cheats on his wife?”
“That jackass left me a one-star review,” I say in a strangled breath as I push my face against his shoulder. I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me. I’m so ridiculous.
His hand slides over my hair in a comforting move. “That sucks,” he says, and I’m so grateful he didn’t try to Band-Aid over the awfulness and tell me it’s nothing. It’s not nothing—it’s something. And it’s my mistake.
“It’s all my fault,” I say as tears rain down.
“Still sucks,” he says, stroking my hair softly.
“I deserve it,” I add, pressing my face hard against him.
“You don’t deserve it. You had a bad day.”
“This review will ruin me. I’m already struggling with my business. My shop here isn’t taking off like the one in Venice because I’m the idiot who thought it would be smart to flee town and just open a new shop in a new town and trust that everyone would come.”
“Hey,” he says, firm this time. “Would you talk to your friends that way?”
“What way?” I mutter into the dark cave of his comforting shoulder. I don’t ever want to leave. I will burrow here and hibernate.
“Would you let them call themselves idiots?”
“Well, I was one,” I say.
“It happens, Rachel. You had a moment. You said something you regret. You just have to pick yourself up and keep going. It’s like when I miss a big catch. Which, ahem, I did in last week’s game against the Pioneers,” he says, regret seeping into his tone.
“And I was so mad when the other team’s fans cheered you for missing it. I stomped my feet and flipped them off on the TV screen,” I say.
He chuckles, and his easy approach makes me lift my face a tiny bit, but not enough for him to see my mascara streaks.
“That guy who came into my store? He called me a stupid bitch in his review,” I confess, and it’s embarrassing to admit that out loud even though it’s in black and white and living forever online.
Carter seethes like a bull in a ring. “And he’s a cheating asshole. Want me to track him down and tell him he fucked with the wrong jewelry store owner?”
The image of Carter marching up to that slick man’s fancy home amuses me so much that the tears slow, then stop.
“No thanks. But I feel better now.”
I finally raise my face and, judging by Carter’s quickly hidden horror, I might feel better, but I can’t say the same about how I look.
Thank god for Sephora’s world-domination strategy. Five minutes later, Carter’s miraculously found another parking spot on this street and pulled up at the nearest makeup shop. “Tell me what kind you need, and I’ll get it. I love errands,” he says, rubbing his palms like he’s excited to track down a new tube of eye makeup.