Page 86 of All's Well that Friends Well
My breath whooshes out of me as my chest retracts, like I’ve just been hit in the solar plexus. Juliet’s gaze is concerned now, darting over my features with a furrowed brow, and before I can stop her, she’s lifted one hand to my cheek, cradling my face with a soft touch.
“Are you all right?” she says gently. Then she moves her hand to my forehead, pressing lightly. “You don’t feel warm.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice is rough. “Just—tired.” I step back, out of her reach, and then turn on the spot as my heart continues to race. I round my desk and all but collapse into my chair.
“Mmm,” she hums, still looking skeptical as her arm falls to her side. “You’re always tired, aren’t you?”
I grimace, looking at my computer screen. “Yes.” My pulse is more normal now, and I inhale deeply, trying to get a grip on my thoughts. On myfeelings.
Juliet hums again and then returns to her spot on the couch. She pulls out the silver notebook and fluffy pink pen once more, and then she’s scribbling who knows what. Her hair falls in sheets around her as her body curves forward, leaning over the little journal and continuing to write.
I don’t even ask. I assume she’s just making more notes,and quite frankly, I need a moment to myself. A moment to breathe.
Because I truly could, if I wanted to. I could date her. Love her. She would be able to coax those emotions from me. And as much as I protest, I know Rodney is right about this too; the excuses I make are just that.
Excuses. I could find a way to be with her if I really wanted.
The thought haunts me long after it appears, and I know it’s because deep down I’m wondering if I do want to be with Juliet. The idea should be absurd—we’re as different as it’s possible to be. She’s bright and bubbly and outgoing.
And yet…despite those things, she’s serious and grounded in the most important places. She puts her heart into whatever she decides to do—whether it’s working as a janitor or pursuing a relationship with me—and she doesn’t let failure stop her. If she falls down, she simply gets back up.
She doesn’t wallow. She clearly gets sad sometimes, but she doesn’t linger in those emotions. She feels them, and then she sets them aside and moves forward.
I can’t help but admire those traits in her. I envy them, too. I want to be like that. And sometimes, when I look at her…
I think I might be able to leave Maura behind. Stop dragging mud through my life and wallowing in self-pity.
Sometimes, I think I might be able to change.
LUCA
By the endof the workday, I think I’m finally starting to get used to Juliet’s presence. She’s been on my couch more or less all day, every now and then flitting off to get a drink or go to the restroom or who knows what else. I’m even getting used to feeling her eyes on me, although that’s partly because the experience is not new.
It’s not entirely unreciprocated, either. I find myself looking at her when I shouldn’t be, and for no reason at all. Usually she’s writing in her little notebook, but every now and then her eyes are on me too, and instead of looking embarrassed, she just smiles.
Like she’s delighted that I’m giving her even a minuscule bit of attention.
One hour before it’s time to leave, I hang up the phone after finishing a call I’ve been on for the last fifteen minutes. The man I’ve been talking to is the head of product managementin the Denver office, and he’s exhausting to talk to; I’ve slumped down in my chair, my head resting on my fist. But I think we’ve gotten a decent amount sorted. Our office has received and compiled the reports on what Lucky really wants from a company like ours; we’ve sent those reports to Denver. I’ve just received Denver’s feedback, including their approval for several candidates we should invite for the first round of interviews when the time comes for me to leave. Starting now, we can move forward, especially where it comes to our on-the-ground sales and marketing.
I glance over at Juliet where she’s still scribbling in her notebook on the couch. Her legs are crossed, one foot bobbing, and the tip of her tongue peeks out between her lips as she dedicates all her attention to whatever she’s writing. I can still smell strawberry shortcake, and I think that might be the permanent state of my office going forward.
I should be more upset by that, but at this very moment, I’m finding it difficult to care. In fact, I’m even hoping the scent will stay, lingering with every movement she makes.
And there are alotof those movements.
I wonder if she’s ever looked into fidgets. Even now as she writes, that foot is still bobbing—and, I notice, the toes of her other foot are tapping rhythmically. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know the ins and outs of her mind. But it’s possible she could use some sort of outlet for her extra energy, right? She might just enjoy it.
Would it be offensive to ask?
No,I decide immediately. I open my mouth to speak, but then I close it again. I’m not sure how to start a conversation like this.
“Miss Marigold,” I finally say, my voicehoarse. It feels strange, interrupting the comfortable silence we’ve fallen into.
“Hmm?” she says, not looking up from her writing.
“You like to move, I’ve noticed.”Because I’ve been staring at you like a weirdo,I add in my head.
“I do,” she says. She looks up at me, and there’s a note of apology as she goes on. “And even if I try to stop, it won’t work. I move without thinking about it. It’s ironic, I know, given the control I have to have over my body when I’m dancing.”