Page 44 of All's Well that Friends Well
She’s not a snob. She doesn’t think she’s better than everyone. She’s not malicious. She simply is who she is, and as long as she doesn’t think she’s hurting anyone, she refuses to be anything else.
And, I guess, I can grudgingly admit…I respect that.
I’m allowed to respect positive qualities. It doesn’t mean anything.
I’m not sure people see those positive qualities in her. In fact, I’m fairly sure that people underestimate her, almost constantly. Something shifts behind my sternum, as uncomfortable as the stupid pants I’m wearing, and I sigh.
I’vebeen underestimating her. When someone surprisesyou over and over, it means you need to let go of all your expectations, because they’re clearly incorrect.
And Juliet? She surprises me at every turn. She has since the day we met. Most people would take a hint, but she doesn’t. She’s tenacious to a fault, invasive in the most well-intentioned way.
Now she’s waltzing around my workplace in bright pink, humming cheerfully to herself, and apparently trying to get me to fall in love with her.
Heat creeps up my neck at this thought, my hands flexing compulsively on the wheel.Absurd—she’s absurd. Normal people don’t say things like that, and if they do, they don’t mean them.
But then again, Juliet doesn’t behave the way most people behave. She’s unrestrained, uninhibited, impervious to the waves her mere appearance is making.
Well—seemingly impervious. But I saw her when she was talking to her brother on the phone. She knew what people were saying about her, and it hurt her. She was mortified, too, when I pointed out that she’d basically been stalking me.
Stop.I need to stop thinking about this—about her, about work, about all of it. Right now the only thing on my radar should be Mr. and Mrs. Delaney—I still can’t bring myself to call them by their first names—and how wonderful they are, how much they look forward to our visits, how much brighter I make their month by visiting.
I couldn’t do anything for Maura, but I can do something for her parents, even if it’s something small like showing up and eating with them. They get lonely, I know.
I do too. And yet somehow when I see them, that loneliness doesn’t go away. If anything, it widens that chasm in mychest, makes me feel further away from everyone rather than closer. I’m not sure if that’s normal.
“Should I go to therapy?” I mutter to myself.
When my phone rings, I snatch the opportunity to divert my mind and accept the call without looking at who it is. My voice is strangely loud in my ears after the rush of my whirling thoughts. “Hello.”
“Luca Slater!”
My heart skips a beat, mostly from surprise. The voice is cheerful, bright, and unmistakably feminine.
Feminine—and familiar.
“Ju—Miss Marigold?”
“Yep!” she says, completely carefree—like she calls me all the time, like I’m not her boss. “I’m bringing you the peach breakfast bars for the breakfast tomorrow.”
And it must be my shock that causes the truth to spill from my lips: “I—I forgot. I completely forgot. I didn’t even—” I break off, searching back. She asked if she could bring her food over, and I said yes without thinking because I secretly loved the peach crumble she’d made. “I forgot that I wouldn’t be home. I’m on my way to dinner.”
“Oh, really?” I know I’m not imagining her disappointment. “Hmm. What should I do, in that case—hang on.” These two words are more abrupt. “Wait. You’re going to dinner—adate?No, you said you didn’t have a girlfriend—but you could in the future,” she babbles on, talking to herself more than me. “Are you going on a date? Delaney, right? Is she beautiful?”
Something strange and unpleasant turns in my stomach at the sound of her voice speaking that name. “Where did you hear that name?” I say, a demand rather than a question, the words harsher than necessary.
But she doesn’t seem to notice. “On your calendar,” she says. Then she sighs, a staticky sound that filters unpleasantly down the line. “Of course you’re going on a date. Who wouldn’t want to date you?”
I snort at this. “So many people don’t want to date me, Miss Marigold. Most of the world.”
She hums skeptically. “I don’t know about that,” she says.
“Well, I’m not going on a date?—”
“You’re not?” she breaks in, and she hasno rightto sound that happy. No right at all.
“No,” I croak. I clear my throat. “I’m not.”
“But even if you were,” she says, “you require more than beauty from a woman. Right? So even if you went on a date with someone and she was beautiful, I still might have a chance.”
