Page 6 of All's Well that Friends Well
I could have knocked on the door and asked Luca Slater if I could come in and grab something. That would have been the smart thing to do. The only problem is, I’ve tried it before and it didn’t work out the way I wanted.
I’ve been trying to get back in his good graces ever since our mortifying, flour-covered, sob-filled first encounter.
It stresses me out when people overtly dislike me, and Iknowhe got the wrong idea about me. Plus he’s so handsome. I’ve brought him cookies and brownies and a really lovely peach crumble, but so far, nothing. I’ve even asked him out for lunch a couple times, just to clear the air. But every time I knock on his door, he opens it the tiniest crack and looks at me with distrustful eyes, and then he takes myplate of baked goods and closes the door in my face without saying thanks.
The only time we’ve exchanged more than two words is when I asked him if I could run in and grab something I forgot was stowed in the closet of my old room. A bag with a few old sweaters, actually, that I didn’t have space for in the house I share with my sisters. But it had been getting chilly, and I love a good sweater, you know? So I asked Luca if I could grab them. But he just grunted at me to wait on the doorstep, closed the door in my face, and then returned five minutes later with the bag of sweaters. He didn’t even let me go inside.
It’s not a sweater I need this time; it’s a book. I don’t remember the full title, and even if I did…
I shake my head. It’s stupid to be self-conscious about a book, but I totally am. Luckily I happen to know, based on extensive stalker-like behavior, that Luca Slater isn’t home at the moment. His car isn’t in the driveway or garage, anyway. So I’ll pop in, grab the book from the shelf in my old bedroom, and then be gone. He’ll never know I was here.
The bark of the tree I’m climbing digs sharply into my hands, a biting pain that makes me wince. I’m not used to climbing trees. I am, however, very limber and very flexible and deceptively strong—I’ve been practicing giving myself compliments! I do not always believe them. But I am trying!—which makes things easier. I pull myself up from the lower branches to the higher ones until I reach the one perfectly poised by Aurora’s old window. There’s no screen, and the latch is broken—done on purpose, courtesy of teenage Aurora herself during her rebellious phase—so I slide the window open with a lurch. My fingersshake as I push it all the way up and then slip inside, landing softly on Aurora’s floor.
A little poof of dust from the carpet greets my entrance, something Aurora would never allow if she were living here. Luca clearly doesn’t use this room for anything, and honestly, I don’t blame him. There’s very little color. It’s just white and neutral with some blues.
Or I don’t know; maybe Luca would actually like that? He’s so stern. Straight lines and sharp corners and hard edges, upright, nothing soft or pliant about him.
I just think he might really like my chocolate chip cookies if he would give them a try. I think he might even stop frowning for two seconds while he chewed. He might look at me and see something other than the obnoxious little girl he thinks I am.
I tiptoe to the bedroom door, listening carefully, but I don’t hear anything, so I round the corner into the hallway and then head to the room two doors down. My steps are silent as I hurry into my old bedroom, my eyes flying straight to the bookshelf in the corner.
I’m surprised to see, though, that this room doesn’t bear the same signs of disuse Aurora’s did. My white corner desk has been cleared of its baubles and photos, topped instead by one large computer monitor and littered with a smattering of mugs and cups. There are a few random books on my fluffy pink bedspread, as well as some pens tossed carelessly next to them.
I may not be a genius, but I recognize an office space when I see one. All those mugs are probably half-full of cold coffee. This man probably doesn’t drink enough water. He needs the touch of a woman in his life.
Icould be that woman.
He might get enough femininity just from being in my room, though. Why did he set up his home office in here? The walls are a light cream color, the bed pink and ruffly, everything soft and sweet. I glance around with interest, a smile spreading over my face as I look for other places his imprint is nestled among my things. There’s not much, but here and there I spot little clues—a timer I’ve never seen, a pad of sticky notes, a generic calendar like the kind they sell in gas stations, or the kind realtors give away for free. A few random dates are circled, but there aren’t any notes.
A creaking sound from the hallway pulls me out of my inspection, and I startle, my heart jumping into my throat. My body stills as my mind kicks into overdrive, and for a second I just listen, straining my ears to hear.
But there’s nothing. No more creaks, no breathing, no footsteps or sounds of the kind I’m positive Luca Slater would make.
Someone that tall and that masculine just has to make noise, you know? It doesn’t seem right that he could move through the world silently. Every tiny facial expression of his screams with whatever he’s thinking—most of what I’ve seen is blatant dislike—so I don’t think he couldsneak.
I let out a soft breath when I still hear nothing but silence, and then I hurry to the bookshelf, my eyes skimming for the book I need. It takes barely a second to find it, because my collection is limited.
But India was right last night when she said things are changing. She was talking about our relationship statuses, but other things are changing too. And I can adapt, or I can fall behind. So when I find the medium-sized soft-cover book, I tug it out and stare at the front for a second.
Studying for Idiots: Your Guide to Becoming an Intellectual Master.
Maybe I should have read it before; I don’t know if it would have helped. I bought it after my senior year, having graduated in the bottom half of my class, carrying no one’s expectations for greatness. I’d wondered about college, so I bought this book. I looked at the table of contents, got scared, and never opened it again.
I’ve never been “smart.” I’ve never been “bookish.” School was always hard for me, and I always pretended not to care. I pretended I wasn’t interested in trying, because that was less embarrassing than the truth: that Ididtry. I triedhardin school. And I got poor grades anyway.
But after almost a year of looking for a job, I still can’t find one. My old work of teaching ballet isn’t an option any longer. So it’s time to explore other avenues—in secret, where no one will look at me with sympathy and tell me they’re so proud of me for trying to do something other than dance or be beautiful.
I must have more to offer. Ineedto have more to offer.
I inhale deeply, take one last look at the book cover, and tuck it under my arm. Then I cross to the door. I listen carefully again, and when I don’t hear anything, I peek my head out into the hall. No one is there, and no sign anyone was here earlier, either. I slip out of the room, sparing one last smile for Luca Slater’s strange business setup in the middle of my frothy pink room. If he likes my space, maybe there’s hope that someday he might like me, too. I scurry down the hall, back to Aurora’s room, and climb out the window again. Both feet are on the ground one minute later.
In and out, found the book, no one the wiser—mission accomplished.
LUCA
Juliet Marigold has been sneaking aroundin my house. She was in my office, as a matter of fact. She’s gone now, but only just, because her scent lingers—strawberries and cream or maybe strawberry pound cake. I smelled it the first time we met, when she threw herself at me, flinging her arms around my neck and sobbing that she’d thought I was dead, and I haven’t forgotten that aroma since. It always makes me hungry.
I was climbing up the stairs a few minutes ago when I heard the lurch of a window opening; I froze and waited, listening to a set of quick, light steps. My first instinct was to barge in, of course, but the footsteps sounded like those of a child or a small woman. So I darted into the bathroom, waiting to see what my intruder was doing. It was only when I heard the window open and close again that I came out and smelled that strawberry smell.
