Page 54 of All's Well that Friends Well
Are those…polka dots? A pink bra with white polka dots? There’s a tiny little bow in the middle, too, and?—
STOP LOOKING, LUCA,I scream at myself.
Gorgeous. She has agorgeousbody, and I refuse to admit that I suspected as much.
“Give me a heads up next time,” I bark, whirling aroundto stare at the closet door instead. Then I toss my old shirt to the side. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Just put it on!” she says, already on her way out of the room.
“No.” The word escapes me before I’ve even thought about it. I look over to see her stop right in the door frame, and she turns toward me. I force myself not to shrink under her gaze, but it’s a close call—because she sees more than she should. In fact, at this moment, I think she hears every word I’m not saying: that I will never wear that shirt again.
She understands more about me than I want her to, and I don’t know how to stop it. How can I keep her out when she insists on worming her way in?
“A different shirt, then,” she says after a second, startling when the doorbell rings, her eyes widening again. She flaps her hands at me and then disappears, calling over her shoulder, “Hurry. Hurry!”
I don’t know what’s happening right now, and I don’t think I’d be able to figure it out if I had all day to sit with my thoughts and feelings and examine them, so I don’t bother trying. I just storm out after her, listening as she rummages around in one of the rooms. It takes me ten seconds to change pants and find another shirt; I emerge in the hallway, still buttoning my shirt, just as she does.
I blink at her. “What’s that?” I ask, looking at her outfit. “You said you didn’t have clothes here!”
She straightens her shirt and sniffs. “I saidIdidn’t have any warm clothes inmyroom.”
I gesture at her jeans and loose t-shirt, irritation welling up inside. “You clearly had stuff you could have worn,” I say. “Why did you insist on wearing mine?”
“Because!” She stomps her foot. “It’s part of the plan—domy best to look my best! And men think it’s sexy when women wear their shirts!” Her cheeks are pink as she throws the words at me, her eyes fixed on a spot over my head.
Plan?What plan? And how—why?—
I shake my head. Once again, I have no response for her. She has rendered me dumb.
“Well?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips as her gaze finally clashes with mine. Somehow her eyes are bluer right now.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Well?” she says again, raising her eyebrow. “Am I right? You liked it, didn’t you?”
The doorbell rings once, twice, three times, and there’s a noise that sounds faintly like someone knocking on glass, and they’re going to call the police soon?—
“Of course I did,” I say, throwing my hands in the air as the words burst out of me. “Obviously I did.” I point at her, my eyes narrowing on the surprised yet satisfied look on her face. “Never do it again. You are banned from wearing my clothing. And stop—stop—” I break off before spitting the words out. “Stoplikingme so much. It’s—it’s?—”
Confusing.That’s the word I don’t say. It’s confusing. I whirl away and hurry to the stairs before she can see how flustered I am, how close I am to losing it. There’s too much going on right now, too much on all fronts, and I can’t focus on her right now. I can’t think about the stupid pink bra or the little freckle next to her belly button or the way she looks at me, like she sees me.
Like shewantsto see me, the way so few people ever have.
“Hide,” I whisper-yell over my shoulder, not trying tocontain the bite in my voice. “Now. Don’t come out until it’s over.”
“Wait,” she says, hurrying after me. “Wait. Just—” She reaches for my hair, and I try to swat her hand away, but she pushes it to the side. “Your hair is sticking up,” she says as I wait on the top step. She licks her fingers and then smooths them over the cowlick at the crown of my head, pressing hard.
This time I manage to get her hand off my head. “You just put your spit in my hair?—”
“Yeah, well, you looked like Alfalfa,” she says. “If Alfalfa were tall and buff and handsome,” she says as I feel my cheeks heat. Her eyes light up with something dangerously mischievous. “And if Alfalfa liked the way I look in his shirt?—”
“Juliet!”
“Sorry!” she squawks, her eyes flying wide with shock at her own daring. She waves her hands wildly. “Sorry, I’m out of my mind. Go—go!”
I turn forward again, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck and praying she’ll listen to me and stay hidden. Either way, I don’t have time to worry. I all but throw myself down the stairs, skid to a stop in front of the door, and yank it open—where I find a group of a dozen of my employees, all looking very concerned.
JULIET
