Page 83 of Play Along With Me
"I'll think about it," I promise, which is as much as I can commit to right now.
"That's all I ask," Leila says, satisfied. "Now, tell me everything about brunch. Did Patricia ask about your reproductive timeline? Did you actually swim in the chocolate fountain? I need details."
As I launch into a full report of the Marshall Family Brunch Experience, complete with dramatic reenactments ofPatricia's more outrageous questions, my phone buzzes one more time.
Jake: For what it's worth, I'm actually looking forward to dinner tomorrow. Even with the photo album threat looming. Is that weird?
I stare at the text, my heart doing that uncomfortable flip again. Leila's words echo in my head:What's the worst that could happen?
I take a deep breath and type.
Me: Not weird. I'm looking forward to it too. Even the embarrassing childhood photos. Especially those, actually.
Jake: Then I'll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams, Audrey.
Me: Night, Hockey Jesus. May your dreams be free of mullet flashbacks.
I put my phone down, aware that Leila is watching me with a mixture of amusement and concern.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" I ask rhetorically.
"The best kind," she assures me. "Now, back to Patricia's wedding questions. Did she actually ask about your preferred China patterns? Because that's next-level mother-in-law enthusiasm."
As I continue regaling Leila with brunch stories, part of my mind remains fixed on tomorrow's dinner and the increasingly complicated feelings I can no longer pretend are just part of a performance.
Somewhere between "fake for convenience" and "real but terrifying," there's a middle ground I haven't quite figured out how to navigate. But for the first time in a long while, I find myself wanting to try.
The Liberty Hotel bar on Monday nights is typically subdued—mostly business travelers nursing solitary drinks while checking emails, the occasional couple celebrating something minor, and locals who prefer quieter atmospheres. It's my favorite shift precisely because it's low-key, giving me time to observe people and mentally file away character notes for my writing.
Tonight, however, I can't seem to focus on anyone but the customers who aren't here—specifically, a certain backup goalie who's taken up an alarming amount of real estate in my brain.
"You're zoning out again," Marcus observes from beside me.
I set the glass down, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming. "Just thinking."
"Uh-huh," he says skeptically. "Same thinking as the café yesterday? Must be a really compelling elsewhere you're visiting."
"You work too many places with me," I grumble, moving on to the next glass.
"Not my fault we both hustle in the Boston service industry," Marcus shrugs. "So what's his name?"
"What makes you think there's a 'him'?"
"Because I've known you for two years, and the only time you get that particular thousand-yard stare is when you're either writing a difficult scene in your head or thinking about aguy. Since you're not muttering dialogue under your breath, I'm guessing it's the latter."
I really need less perceptive coworkers.
"It's nothing," I insist. "Just... a weird situation."
"Aren't they all?" Marcus says philosophically, then moves to take an order from a newly arrived customer.
I try to redirect my thoughts to something productive—mentally outlining Chapter 7 of my novel, remembering to pick up cat food on the way home, calculating how many shifts I need to work to afford new brakes for my car. Anything besides Jake's smile or the way his hand felt around mine at brunch or how easy our text conversations flow.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I resist the urge to check it immediately. I'm working, after all, and the constant phone-checking is exactly the kind of behavior I used to mock mercilessly when witnessing it in others.
Three minutes later, I cave and glance at the screen during a lull.
It's not Jake, but an Instagram notification:Patricia Marshall (@ProudHockeyMom35) tagged you in a photo.
