“I think you have the wrong guy,” Ezra said. “I don’t play poker.”

“You play poker,” Frankie interjected. “At least last I heard.”

“Not anymore I don’t.” He waved a hand as if to end the discussion, and Frankie was honest to God a little turned-on by his dismissiveness.

“No, it was definitely you.” Joni hesitated. “Ezra, right?”

If Ezra’s face hadn’t been so mangled, Frankie was certain she would have seen the blood rise to his cheeks. As it was, he was already a piggish shade of pink.

“Was I there?” Frankie asked.

“You don’t remember if you were there?” Joni said, not unkindly, rather just because it was a reasonable question. “But . . . I’m not sure? We were over at Waverly’s—”

“Waverly’s . . . the pool hall? That’s still around?” Frankie said.

At this Joni looked even more perplexed.

“We went to school here,” Ezra offered. “But we haven’t gotten around to exploring just yet.”

“Oh! Cute. Married college sweethearts.”

“Oh no—” Ezra started to explain.

“So we were at Waverly’s, not Lemonhead?” Frankie talked over him. “Because I was definitely at Lemonhead.” She thought again of Laila and wished she’d paid better attention to the last name of the girl she was crashing with. At least then she could call directory assistance and track her down to sleuth out the messy spiral of their evening.

Her phone, she needed her phone, where was her phone? She had it on her last night in the elevator when she’d locked eyes with Ezra. Had she and Laila even made it to the rehearsal dinner? Had Ezra? Some part of her brain tingled—she imagined her neurons waking up after being sucker punched—and she tried to lean in and pay attention. Why was she thinking she’d been on—no, this didn’t seem possible. Had she participated in . . . a scavenger hunt? Frankie thought she must be hallucinating now. Never in her wildest dreams would she do such a thing. Even for April. So why was it prickling at her subconscious, why did it feel so real?

But then the barista was talking again, and Frankie swallowed the thought.

“No, Waverly’s isn’t really a ‘pool hall’ now—just a bar, but with a . . . back room. Lemonhead is just good for the dance floor. Maybe it wasn’t that way when you went here?” Joni looked at Frankie with an almost pitying look, and Frankie wanted to scream that she was only thirty-two and hadn’t even entered the prime of her life, but she found that she just didn’t have the energy.

“Ok,” Frankie said. “So he was at Waverly’s. My whereabouts are still unknown.”

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Joni said, as if Frankie were about to rap Ezra on the knuckles, like a chiding wife, a possessive partner. “I was just coming over to say that you were the best player I’ve ever gone up against. And, like, I’m easily the best in our senior class.”