Page 72 of All's Well that Friends Well
So I let her pull me closer as she begins to speak.
“My mind tells me lies,” she says softly. “That’s my secret.” Her gaze darts up to mine and then away again. “My mind tells me I’m not good enough. It tells me I have nothing to offer. It tells me—” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “It tells me if I eat too much, I’ll fail. That what I see in the mirror is unacceptable.”
My heart sinks heavily when I realize what she means, the words she’s not saying, but I let her go on.
“I’ve always been beautiful. I’ve always been graceful. I excelled at ballet naturally. And as I excelled at ballet, I performed very poorly in school, even though I tried. I really did try.”
I only nod to show I’m listening, because I’m afraid if I say anything at all, this spell will be broken.
She exhales, a little puff of breath I feel against my lips. “It was easy to slip into. Putting off meals, dieting in the extreme. Sometimes I didn’t even realize I was doing it. But I ended up getting sick.” It’s only now that her eyes come back to mine. “So I dropped out of college to get better.” With a little shrug, she finishes, “And here I am. Mostly doing well. Lost my job as a ballet teacher because our studio closed, became a janitor instead. Trying to make the best of it.” Her voice is light, matter-of-fact. And though there’s pain there, there’s acceptance, too.
Still, though. “You’re allowed to be upset,” I say. I don’t mean for my words to be so—so growled, but that’s how they come out, and she blinks at me.
“Are you—” she says, looking bemused. “Are you gettingmadat me right now?”
“No.” I unhook her arms from behind my neck and step back, running my hand down my face. My back protests at the sudden change of position, stiff from leaning forward for so long. “It’s not that. It’s just—you don’t have to be positive about everything. You’re allowed to acknowledge when something sucks.”
Her expression clears. “I know,” she says simply. Her hands have settled back in her lap, and for a moment, I think I’m seeing the version of herself she tries to hide. Tired—that’s the word I would use. She just looks tired. Tired of trying when she feels like there’s no payoff, tired of being tired, tired of waiting for things that don’t happen.
If you ever need somewhere to rest…I’m here.
And it hits me, with the force of a lightning bolt to the heart: Juliet Marigold needs to rest just as badly as I do. It doesn’t matter that she’s energetic and smiling and bubbly every time I see her. Beneath all that, she’s stepping on demons to push those facets of herself to the surface.
She needs water and sunlight, too.
Something uncomfortably powerful rises in me, an admiration I can’t push away no matter how hard I try, as I look at the woman still sitting on the edge of my desk. She’s swinging her legs a bit, dressed in pink, golden hair other people pay a fortune to get. Her expression is neutral, her blue eyes darting around the room—avoiding mine, I think. And I know before she came to this room, she was wiping down counters in the break room and scrubbing toilets andmopping floors. She probably did it without complaining, and she probably said hello to anyone who walked past, too.
Regardless of how she did in school, Juliet is smart. She’s not petty, and she thinks deeply. So she knows that her job is important, glamorous or not. But I find myself wanting to pull her out of there early anyway, even if only by a few days. Bring her to my side and let her sit on my couch instead of hunching over in a way that probably makes her body ache.
It’s a stupid thought. She’s mine starting Monday. But the idea holds appeal all the same.
“Well?” she says after a moment of silence in which my thoughts race and my emotions do strange things. She tilts her head and gives me a little smile, her eyes bright once again. “I’m waiting, Mr. Slater.”
The breath that whooshes out of me is rough, unsteady. Because I don’t know if I can handle being calledMr. Slaterby someone who’s kissed me the way she has.
But that’s how it’s going to have to be, isn’t it? We’re going to have to act normal. Like this never happened.
So I nod, and I’m about to speak when she holds up one hand.
“You accept that you’re offering this up freely? And you won’t resent me or act like I’ve forced you to say anything later?”
I nod again.
“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied. She’s still sitting on my desk, and I settle myself in my chair. Then I look up at her.
“Tell me exactly what you want,” I say. I pry the words from my lips with difficulty, although not as much difficulty as Iexpected.
“I want to know what happened,” she answers, her voice softening. “With your—” She breaks off expectantly.
“Fiancée,” I say. I hesitate and then add, “Maura. Her name was Maura.”
“Maura,” she repeats. “Tell me what happened that made you so…” She trails off, gesturing at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say. Except I know exactly what she means, and she’s not wrong.
She knows it too. Her lips curl a little, a tiny, sad smile, and I sigh. Then I settle back in my chair.
“Maura and I…” I begin, trying to figure out how to phrase things. “We weren’t good for each other,” I finally settle on. “I was struggling after the death of my parents. She was struggling with some emerging mental illnesses. And we just…” I shrug, jerking my shoulders. “We weren’t good for each other. So I broke things off. Called off the wedding. And right after I did…she died.”