Now, Joni’s brow unfurrowed, as if something just came to her. “Wait, you did go on a rant for a few minutes.”
“Was it about her?” Ezra pointed to Frankie.
“No, at least, I don’t think so?” Joni shook her head slowly. “I kind of lose myself when I’m playing a hand,” she said finally. “I could tell you what cards I was holding, I could even probably tell you what cardsyouwere holding. But the rest of it...” She shrugged.
“Well, he can count cards,” Frankie piped up. “So don’t feel too badly.” At this, Ezra audibly blew out his breath, then took another hundred from his wallet, slid it across the table.
To Frankie he snapped: “Just so you know, the card counting is for blackjack, not poker. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Then to Joni, softer, he said: “But still, that’s probably only reasonable.”
“Oh!” Joni brightened. “Actually, you did say something like that: ‘I don’t think I’m being unreasonable!’ ” Joni faltered, trying to bring it back. “I think... wait, maybe someone couldn’t get here? Her flight was canceled?” She considered this, her eyes narrow, her lips pressed into a line. “Yes! Yes, that was it. She couldn’t get here because of the weather, and you were, well, look, you were pretty frazzled. More like... irate. You were irate. And probably... drunk? That’s why I couldn’t believe you kept winning.”
“The card counting,” Frankie said again dryly. Ezra slapped a hand down on the table and glared at her. “I guess that would explain why she’s not at the hotel,” Frankie continued, as if this were helpful.
“Shit!” Ezra ignored her. He sank his face into his hands. “Shit! I had a plan!” He dropped his hands to his lap, closed his eyes, and inhaled. “I can fix this,” he said. “I’ll just fix this.”
Frankie, who really did know better than to keep stirring the pot, couldn’t help herself. “How? How do you fix this?” Did Ezra have access to a jet? To the weather? How did one fix this? Frankie was honestly intrigued.
“Notnow, Frankie,” Ezra buzzed, and there it was again: Frankie found herself attracted to Ezra’s newfound backbone. Frankie hadn’t known that he, metaphorically, had it in him. He slouched over, resting his forehead on the table, and her impulse evaporated.
“Oh!” Joni brightened again. “And there was a scavenger hunt.”
“A scavenger hunt?” Frankie echoed back, her decibel too high, too loud, as Ezra groaned again, dropping his face into his hands.
“I think, I mean, again, please don’t take this as gospel, but I think you guys were a team?”
“That can’t be right,” Frankie said, even though she’d thought of such a thing just a few minutes prior. How? Why? Under what circumstances would Frankie Harriman ever agree to participate in a game that was most likely to be found at a ten-year-old’s birthday party? Especially... with Ezra Jones?
Before Frankie could give the notion any breathing room,however, Ezra, being so quintessentially Ezra, leaned over and flopped to the floor.
“Man down,” Frankie said to no one.
Old patterns, familiar habits, a warning. All of it surprised her, even though none of it should.
EIGHT
Ezra
Ezra found himself staring at the stucco on the ceiling, inexplicably flattened against the rustic wood floor of the coffee shop. He had no memory of why he was down there; he had no memory of how he got down there.
Frankie’s face moved into his frame, then hovered.
“Ezra, come on, you have to get control of yourself.” She paused. “It’s after ten o’clock already. Pictures are in six hours at the chapel, and Laila threatened my life if I’m not on time.”
Frankie always ran late. He’d forgotten about that. He could tell that she was trying to be patient, but she’d never much been one for patience. He shifted his eyes from hers back to the ceiling. A refusal.
Then Joni, the barista, spoke up.
“Should I call someone? Like, 911?” He watched her gaze move from him to Frankie then back to him. “Campus is pretty dead, but someone could come? I know they have some patrols in case of Y2K.”
“Y2K is really not a thing.” Frankie scoffed. “Also, he does this occasionally.”
Ezra wanted to state that he hadn’t, frankly, had a panic attack in ten years—coincidentally, since Frankie Harriman exited his life—not even when his mom died, because at least he’d steeled himself for that.
“You’re a sweet wife,” Joni said, and Ezra’s panic went straight through the roof again.
“No, we’re not really...” Frankie started.
“No,” Ezra managed, cutting her off. “No. I had a plan.”
