“I think you should start at the beginning,” Rachel said, taking her own glass from Travis and giving him some serious heart eyes. He returned them right back at her.
If it was anyone else, Molly would’ve groaned and told them to knock it off, but it was Rachel and Rachel deserved every bit of heart eyes that Travis wanted to sling in her direction.
“Okay.” Molly took another solid gulp of liquid courage. “Here’s the thing.” One more for good measure. “I actually don’t hate Gavin. Who knew?”
Rachel had a wry grin on her mouth. Travis sat on the arm of the sofa beside her, toying with her hair because apparently the newlyweds weren’t able to keep their hands off each other for over thirty seconds. Molly sort of wondered, deep down, what that felt like, the whole need-to-touch-you-now part of a relationship? She hadn’t even had that with Ollie’s dad. They’d had a good tolerate-each-other relationship that she thought was more than it was. Hence…Ollie.
And being alone while everyone else around her found blissful happiness.
“I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” Rachel said, like she was a mediator and not Molly’s best friend, which required that she take her side on all things relationship related.
Which was, she should point out to herself, why this whole thing would remain firmly in the fakey-fake zone.
Molly gave the rundown of Ollie’s desire for stunt school, her car’s decision to creep along on its last legs, the house in the neighborhood that seemed too perfect to be true—even if it was a touch overpriced for the current market—and Agnes’s desire to match herself with Charlie. She included the bit about Gavin and Travis’s mother’s attempts to find Gavin a soulmate, and the part where they agreed to be not-so-conveniently attached. She didn’t mention the Skittles. Rachel already knew.
“But it’s only on paper,” Molly assured. “The relationship.”
“Did you actually make him sign something?” Rachel asked, one eyebrow raised.
No, but that would be a good idea. Molly shook her head, crossed her jean-covered legs, and rose to find more margarita fixings.
“I got you.” Travis slipped the cup from her hand and moseyed on into the kitchen like he’d just had seven days of blissful beach honeymooning with his new wife.
Molly fell back onto the sofa, letting the soft fabric wrap around her. Rachel was excellent at picking out furniture, that was for sure.
“I should make him sign something.” Molly pressed
her eyes closed and pushed against the bridge of her nose. “That would be a good idea.”
Rachel leaned forward and put her hand on Molly’s knee. “I don’t think we’re really having a discussion about good ideas here. But I actually don’t hate this whole thing. A project like this could be good.”
Molly peeled her right eyelid open.
“Good for who exactly?” Molly asked, just for the sake of clarity.
“You, silly. And him.” Rachel sipped at her cocktail. “You’ll both realize that the other is an exceptional human. And…” She spoke low and into the rim of her beverage, “Maybe there will be a spark.”
Say wha? Ha. No. No sparkage. No volts.
“How many margaritas did you have before I got here?” Molly asked, because this was now very pertinent information given that her friend appeared to be talking like she was wasted.
“None, actually.” Rachel sipped on hers like it was a crisp white wine. “Travis encouraged me to wait until you arrived.”
What did she mean by encouraged? Molly tilted her head to the side and studied her friend. Uh-oh. Right. Encouraged.
“You got laid, didn’t you?” Molly didn’t really have to ask, she knew her friend well enough to know how Travis had convinced her to wait.
“My kids come home in precisely thirty minutes.” Rachel laughed. “I had to take it while I still could.”
Molly paused mid-slug. Thirty minutes?
Oh, oh, oh no.
Shit on a salami sandwich. That meant Gavin would bring the kids by.
Here’s the thing: Molly had released any grip on expectations once they agreed to commit relationship fraud together. They’d barely talked. Only a few brief texts after Molly’s—okay, she’d just call it what it was—Molly’s evacuation from Puffle Yum. She’d bolted before her Evelyn tour. She needed some non-toaster-tart scented air—air in her own home, hiding under the covers of her own bed.
Then the text came.
