Page 62 of All's Well that Friends Well
Sniveling Quincey Brewer, still chewing sour grapes, trying to wield what little power he has over someone he resents.
Juliet’s frozen expression, easier to read than she would want.
Memories from that morning, too—the polka dot bra, or the moment I told her I liked seeing her in my clothes.
It was true; there’s no denying that, as much as I wish I could. My mouth goes dry at the memory of my shirt hanging off her, her hair wet, her face screwed up as she told me off for stealing the hot water—looking more like an angry kitten than the tiger she was trying to be.
Still, true or not, I have never in my life admitted something like that to a woman I wasn’t dating. Ever. I’ve never told another woman about Maura, and I’ve never let a woman sleep in my house.
Something is shifting, changing. She’s wearing me down in a way I can’t define. It’s not necessarily romantic. It’s just…
She’s coming closer. She’s burrowing deeper. And somehow, despite all my attempts, I haven’t been able to stop her.
I need a vacation. I don’t care where; just someplacewith a bed. I need to leave Lucky, Colorado, and sleep for a week straight.
To give myself a break, I stand up. Everything on the form in front of me is starting to blur, so I stretch for a second as my jaw gapes in a yawn I can’t quite stop. Then I drift aimlessly out from behind the desk, meandering from one side of the office to the other until I find myself staring out my glass-paneled walls.
My eyes find Marianne and Josh on the far end of the work floor—Marianne Florissant and Joshua Vara, I now know, because I did indeed memorize the names of the people on my work floor. They’re standing up too, talking quietly, both looking down at the papers Marianne is holding.
Juliet said they’re dating,I think, my eyes narrowing. No matter how I look at it, though, I don’t see anything more than normal coworker behavior—quietly discussing whatever papers are there. They’re just friendly, even chatting with anyone who passes as they’re talking. But I didn’t notice anything at the breakfast. Their expressions aren’t flirtatious, either, and they’re not even really touching.
So where did Juliet come up with that idea? Did she see something?
I sigh, shaking my head until something out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. It presents as a blob of pink, and before I can stop myself, I’ve turned my gaze to the hallway that passes by our work space.
It’s Juliet, of course. Today she’s got on a pair of gray, fitted pants and a pink shirt, ruffled at the sleeves and collar—she’s nothing if not consistent in her wardrobe. She didn’t even seem to care about casual Friday last week, when everyone else was wearing jeans.
Not me, of course—I glance down at my own outfit—but the rest of them. I’m not sure I’m capable of casual clothing in my workplace. My eyes fly back to her, and once again, something uncomfortably potent stirs in my chest.
Juliet’s bright smile is sunshine in what I would normally call a light-enough space; there are windows out there, for instance, and fake potted trees in several corners, and a buzz of energy that’s often missing in stale, dull buildings. But in the face of Juliet Marigold and her million-watt smile, all those factors seem to dim.
I’m not the one she’s currently aiming that smile at, though, even as she lugs her mop and bucket on wheels. She seems to be smiling at Marianne, whose cheeks turn pink. Marianne returns a tentative smile and looks quickly away again.
Juliet isn’t trying to win me over today, I see. She’s trying to win Marianne over instead. How do they know each other? They must have gone to school together, right, if Marianne knows Quincey too?
It’s none of your business, I tell myself.
I take a step back from the blinds, then another, and I’m about to turn back to my desk when I see something else that makes me stop in my tracks.
Someone following Juliet, his eyes fixed on where she’s just disappeared out of sight.
I hurry back to the window, so close to the glass that my breath fogs it up, my eyes narrowing as I take the man in.
Quincey Brewer.
I looked him up after the breakfast on Sunday. His photo looked like a mugshot, but so does my employee picture—and the one on my license, and the one on my Costco membership, and every other picture that’s ever been takenof me. It didn’t matter—I still would have disliked him, even without hearing the way he spoke to Juliet.
If you ever need somewhere to rest…I’m here.
I shake my head against the memory. Quincey’s not creeping or sneaking now; his strides are slow, shuffling, his hands in his pockets, and he’s a bit soft, sort of doughy. His hair is a nondescript color of brown—although really, most brown looks the same to me, so what do I know?—but it’s what I can see of his expression that pings an alarm in my mind. There’s something furtive about it, scrunched up in a weird way—drooping, almost, and forlorn.
And you know what?
I’m suddenly a bit thirsty.
I reach blindly for my mug and grab the handle too tightly before making my way to the door and then out of my office. I’ll just take a stroll down the hallways and see what’s going on around here. Make sure everyone is doing their work.
I burst out of my office with more force than necessary, and I don’t blame the employees who startle at my appearance, their eyes widening as they jump.