I put my hands on Juliette’s shoulders. “Breathe.”
“Okay,” she squeaked.
“Hey, ladies!” Wykofski shouted from the other path that led to the parking lot. “Everything copacetic?”
An idea came to me. I let go of her shoulders and shouted back to him, “Got anything to do tonight, Wykofski?”
He didn’t even give it a think. “Don’t think so.”
“Wanna play a game of Scrabble?”
Juliette was shaking her head. “Oh no, I can’t, I have so much work to do—”
At the same time, Wykofski lit up like a Christmas tree. “You mean it? Bro night?”
“Bro night,” I confirmed.
He gave a yelp. “Heck yeah! I have the game in my truck! Lemme go get it!” And he was off before Juliette could finish sputtering out an excuse.
She wilted and gave me a forlorn look. “I don’t have time.”
To which I replied, putting a hand on her shoulder, “Yes, you do. Besides, everywhere is closing about now. You can’t get back to work until tomorrow.”
“But . . .”
“Trust me.”
Not ten minutes later, we were in the kitchen at the old wooden breakfast nook. Juliette had taken the corner with the bench, and Wykofski had taken the other bench. There were three chairs, so I took the one in the middle, and Wykofski opened up the box and gave everyone their game pieces, though Oliver interrupted us just as we were about to start.
He peeked into the kitchen, his T-shirt patched with sweat from a run. He took out an earphone, surveying the disaster ofletter tiles. “What’re you doing in here—oh, Juliette,” he added flatly. “Hello.”
Beside me, Juliette went ramrod straight and started spinning a vowel tile she was currently holding. Her face grew cold. “Oh.Oliver.Hi.”
Wykofski pulled out a chair. “Sit down, join the fun!”
“What’re we playing?” Oliver asked. Juliette watched him silently. If Wykofski recognized the ire between the two of them, he played it off immaculately. “Scrabble? I haven’t played this in years.”
“It’s a good exercise for the brain,” said Wykofski. “We got room for one more if you wanna play.”
Juliette said, her voice sharp, “I’m sure he has things to do.”
Which Oliver took as a challenge. “Actually, I don’t. I’d love to play,” he added to Wykofski, and decided to join. “Juliette, how’s the bicentennial coming?”
She narrowed her eyes. “We’d be fine if you hadn’t automatically registered everyone for a plus-one.”
“Everyone’s going to bring a plus-one anyway,” he chided.
“No, we’re accounting for people who aren’t going to be there—and wasting time.”
“You clearly don’t know your audience,” he replied dryly.
Her shoulders stiffened. “I’ll have you know—”
“I think we need some snackaroonies,” Wykofski interrupted, rising to his feet, and went over to a cupboard that I thought was bare, and pulled out a jumbo box of Goldfish crackers. It was his secret stash, apparently, and after shaking out a bowl and putting it in the middle of the table, he instructed both parties to take a handful.
Somehow, it alleviated the tension. Arguing while eating the snack that smiles backdidmake one feel silly.
I arranged my letters, though I didn’t have very many words to choose from. Hopefully someone else had anm. “That reminds me, though. Did Yafir give you an updated budget?”
