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)
This is different.
Tonight will be different.
I’m ready to make new memories with my best friend. I’m ready to put the past behind me.
As I pass Sur La Table and its window display of utensils, a fun idea pops into my head. I dart into the shop and quickly find a red plastic spatula. It’s silly, but so are we. I’ll give this to him tonight and ask, “Can we keep a lucky spatula at your place too?”
Yes! That’s what I’ll say. That ought to make my intentions clear without putting too much pressure on him.
I buy the spatula, complete with a red bow. Once I leave, I fish my phone from my purse.
Whoa.
Three missed calls?
From Carter? That’s odd. He never calls three times.
My smile erases itself.
Did something happen to him? Oh god, is he okay? Worry seizes me as I race to open my contacts while imagining the worst.
Something happened to him. He met someone else. He’s seeing another woman. He’s canceling on me to see his other family.
Stop. Just stop.
This is Carter, and surely these three calls are nothing.
That’s what I tell myself as I hit his name, but then a text pops up from him.
Call me when you see this. I have to cancel tonight.
I stop in my tracks, déjà vu knocking the breath out of me.
40
RAIN CHECK WOES
Rachel
“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Carter says, contrition in his tone.
But still, as I trudge up Fillmore, my feet heavy and my gut twisted, I can’t shake the awful familiarity lodged in me.
Even as he tries to reassure me. “I knew I had this photo shoot this morning, which is why I didn’t fly back with the team last night,” he says, explaining himself. Practically over-explaining himself as he adds, “But I completely forgot that I’d also committed to do this dinner with Seductive tonight and then a golf game for charity tomorrow, and I just totally fucked up, Rachel. I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, swallowing down my disappointment. This isn’t about me.
It’s just one date. One un-date. What’s the big deal?
I have to find a way to put my past aside. I can’t let it get in the way of our friendship. Besides, he’s so earnest, and I can tell he’s beating himself up over one little moment, so clearly this is not the moment to fly my “I fell for you and here’s a lucky spatula” flag.
“I get it. I do,” I say, so cheery, so chipper, so upbeat. I refuse to let on that I am disappointed. I don’t want to be like his ex-girlfriends who gave him a hard time about his focus, his attention, his time management. They aren’t in his life. And dammit, I’m going to be in his life no matter what. So, I add, “I’m your pal. I totally get it.”
“Rachel, I feel like shit,” he says, so genuinely remorseful that my heart hurts for him. “I never want you to think you don’t matter. Can we have a rain check?”
Oh.
Oh, no.
My head rings with that word.
I stop in my tracks, setting a hand against the brick wall of Better With Pockets.
Rain check is what I said when I rescheduled the mirror sex because of the sidewalk sale opportunity.
He’s doing the same. Understandably.
But holy smokes. He’s following the same rules. The rules we effectively established for our five dates of girlfriend lessons—sex and education and then we stay friends.
That. Is. All.
I am such a fool. I’ve read everything wrong. I took every sweet moment, every sexy moment, every dirty moment, every soulful look, and I twisted them around to assume he was falling in love with me too.
What an idiot I am.
He’s not falling in love with me. He’s doing exactly what I asked him to do—giving me girlfriend lessons. He said he’d be the best boyfriend ever. And he has been, and he still is—right now.
He’s showing me how it feels to be treated well. And he’s doing it because he is my best friend. Not because he feels the same ridiculous, romantic way I do.
My throat tightens, and a sob tries to fight free. I swallow it immediately, since I don’t want him to hear the catch in my voice. The catch that says all these flutters and swoons were only in my head.
I am so glad I saw the truth before I said something stupidly romantic that could have harmed our lifelong friendship.
Those times when I’d asked him to open up? When he’d sometimes drift off? I’d hoped he was thinking about me. But he was probably being honest then, too, when he’d said he was thinking about football. Even when I’d asked him about the Halloween party I didn’t go to, and we’d both gotten a little wistful—I’d been so sure we were both wondering what might have been if I had gone. If I’d made better choices five years ago. I was so sure we were thinking about each other.