Page 42 of All's Well that Friends Well
But see? She and Cyrus are with each otherall the time.They’re not even doing anything together—she’s just studying. How can they be like this and not fall in love?
I sigh and push that train of thought aside, because I need to focus on the reason I came.
At my entrance, Poppy sets her book aside, looking at mewith interest. Her dark hair is in a wild ponytail, a few curls escaping.
“You took the test?” she says.
I’m not even surprised she knows. I just assumed Cyrus would tell her.
“I did.” I grab a pillow from the end of the couch and pull it over my stomach, making myself comfortable.
Cyrus lumbers back in and sits in his chair, his attention solely on me—which, for Cyrus, is rare. “And?” he says.
I take a deep breath, trying to quell the tangled feelings in my chest. “And it says I should be asocial worker!” I say.
Cyrus’s expression changes into one of understanding. “Ah,” he grunts.
“Yeah,” I say.
Poppy looks more confused. “What’s wrong with—” But then she breaks off, and her face shifts, too, except her eyes soften with sympathy. “Right. Of course.” She clears her throat around a faintly uncomfortable pause. “It would be…rough.”
“It would be horrible!” I wail. “I sob at the commercials trying to get you to sponsor children from third-world countries.”
Cyrus snorts. “And you were weepy for a week when you saw that animal cruelty campaign on TV for the first time?—”
“The Sarah McLachlan one,” I say miserably as a lump rises in my throat. “With that song?—”
“We don’t need to discuss details,” Poppy says, shooting a reproachful look at Cyrus, who just shrugs. “But yes. I’m not sure social work would be ideal for someone with your—your—” She struggles to find a polite word and finally settles on “empathy levels. Your empathylevels.”
She’s right, though. I know it deep down in my soul. Being a social worker would tear me apart. I do not have the ability to emotionally compartmentalize like I would need to.
“Did it say anything else?” Poppy says. Cyrus’s eyes are on his laptop in his lap again, but he glances up briefly at the question.
“Psychology,” I say, my voice dull. “Counseling stuff. Which would require a lot of school and would still make me cry all the time. So.”
“So,” Cyrus says firmly. “You keep searching. You keep thinking.” He pauses, and his voice softens infinitesimally. “This is not the end, Jules.”
My eyes prickle, but I squeeze them shut. Then I take a deep breath and nod. “I know,” I say, trying to make my voice more enthusiastic. “I know. It’s just very anticlimactic. And very…”
But I trail off, even as my mind keeps going.
Frustrating.It’s very frustrating. Because I need to find out who I am. I need to find out what I bring to the table, and then I need tostartbringing whatever it is.
I’m halfway to my feet when Cyrus speaks again. “You know it doesn’t matter. Don’t you?”
I swallow but don’t look at him.
“What some test says—it doesn’t matter. You’re still you.”
But I don’t even know whoIam.
The desire to bake has my fingers dancing on the steering wheel as I drive home. By the time I arrive, though, I’ve talked myself out of it, mostly because I don’t want to worry India and Aurora. So I hurry upstairs instead, claiming the need for a nap. They look questioningly at eachother, but they don’t say anything else. When I get to my room, I sit on my bed and think.
I need to be productive. I need to move forward. In at least one area of my life, I need to bedoingsomething, or I’m going to scream so loudly Luca hears me all the way over in my parents’ old place.
A little sigh escapes me at this, and I know if I were looking in a mirror I would see a mortified cringe on my face.
Luca. There’s a good heart under that gruff exterior. I’ve always known it, but now I have proof. He gave me those clothes. He didn’t get mad that I was basically stalking him. He’s even letting me bring him a yummy baked good.
