Page 58 of All's Well that Friends Well
Still, despite the cheerful atmosphere, Quincey’s conversation leaves me feeling greasy. Oily. It doesn’t help that he’s clearly not the only one with these thoughts; as I look around again, I catch a few eyes, people looking at me and my casual clothes.
I swallow, my fingers clenching my paper plate more tightly. Is it really so weird to wear cute clothes to work? I’m not hurting anyone. Why do people care so much?
Of course, I know what my sisters would say.Your confidence makes them insecure.
It’s not untrue, but it’s not the whole truth, either. I’ve learned to cling to the little things that bring me joy.
My wardrobe brings me joy. If people don’t like it, fine.
The thought gives me strength, enough that I straighten up and breathe deeply through the anxiety trying to fester in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I say, because someone needs to end this chat, and it clearly won’t be Quincey. “I just need to?—”
But when he cuts me off, his words are too loud, too blaring to be an accident.
“You know,” he says, and half the room falls silent, all eyes flying to us. “I think it’s great you managed to find a job after how you did in highschool.” His gaze on me is smug, his thin lips curling as he goes on. “I know you struggle academically. You might not have been cut out for university. But the fact is, weneedmore blue collar workers.” He reaches his gross, clammy hand up and pats me on the head, like I’m a dog. “What I’m saying is I’m proud of you, Juliet. It’s good you’re trying to do something with your life.”
The kitchen is silent now, save for the steadytick, tick, tickof the wall clock my mom loves so much—light blue with little country chickens on it.
Inside my head, though, the voices are loud and growing. Somehow Quincey has taken the truth and twisted it, made it sound horrible. He’s walked into my mind and plucked out my insecurities, wielding them as patronizingly as possible.
My response is not elegant, and I hate myself for not being able to come up with something. “I—why would you?—”
Quincy speaks again when my voice falters and fades away. “Well, I mean,” he goes on, throwing a look around the room. “No one dreams of being a janitor, do they? I certainly didn’t.” It’s the most genuine thing I’ve heard him say, infused with something like bitterness. “But those jobs need to be done, don’t they? And with some hard work, you could rise in ranks. I really think you could do it.”
I open my mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out. Nothing at all, and I’m still hunting, hunting, when?—
“Are you being purposefully rude because she rejected you?”
Silence. Complete, utter silence, the kind I think Quincey was originally hoping for as every pair of eyes in the room turns to watch.
And then he appears, emanating the kind of power that has nothing to do with job or position and everything to dowithaura:Luca, taking slow steps across the kitchen, his expression pleasant except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. His eyes flash behind his square glasses, and in his presence Quincey seems to lose several inches of height.
Quincey tries to stand taller. He pushes his chest out, running one hand over his thin hair as his cheeks turn a splotchy purple-pink color. When he still doesn’t respond, though, Luca speaks again.
“I asked you a question,” he says, his words still mild. “Miss Marigold is working hard at her job, much like you do. So I’m unsure about why she’s being antagonized.” Luca approaches Quincey until he towers over him, closer than is polite. “Is it because she’s rejected you in the past?”
“I—” Quincey finally says, his hands fisting into balls, his voice trembling. “She never. I never. I’m only telling her I’m proud of her?—”
“Three times.” The voice pipes up from one end of the kitchen table; I turn, startled, my eyes widening further when I see Marianne. She clears her throat and says, “She rejected you three times.” Her gaze darts to me, her cheeks turning pink, and then she looks back at her plate of food, pushing what’s left of her quiche around with her fork.
The tangled knot in my throat swells as my eyes begin to sting, for an impossible number of reasons—humiliation, gratitude, residual stress and anxiety. I turn to Luca without even knowing why, only to find his focus on me.
And I don’t understand the look we share. I only know that after a second of staring into his eyes, I’m able to breathe a little easier. Some of the tension in his body eases too, until the silence in the kitchen becomes crackling and unavoidable.
It breaks abruptly when Rod clears his throat, and all heads turn toward him.
But his gaze is on Luca, who raises his eyebrows in question.
“The job,” Rod says with a significant look. “Offer her the job.” Then, incredibly, his eyes dart to me.
Luca blinks at the old man. “I—are you serious?” he says.
Rod hums, seeming completely unaware of the fact that everyone in this room is watching their exchange. “Yes,” he says thoughtfully as he looks at me again, much the same way he did when we first met—a look of interest and curiosity. “Yes, I think so.”
Luca’s expression morphs into one of faint disconcertion; he shakes his head as though pleading, but Rod squares his shoulders and returns Luca’s look of pleading with a stern one of his own.
“Don’t complain. Just do it,” Rod says firmly.
Luca’s shoulders slump. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he turns back to me and Quincey.
