Kneeling down, I pet Willy as he eats his special food mixture. He makes a growling sound, so I lift my hand and chuckle.
“So territorial,” I mutter, quickly texting his sitter and thanking her for watching him earlier today when I was at work.
Fennec foxes need a lot of attention, and it doesn’t feel right to kennel him all day long. So I pay a Crestwood University student to come in and play with him for a few hours every day. She also stays overnight if I’m not here, and knows how to feed and walk him.
I look over at Julian, and he’s looking over the notes I have taped to the fridge.
I am worthy of happiness.
I am proud of myself.
I choose positive thoughts.
I am enough.
Fuck, I forgot those were there. Heat pricks the back of my neck, and I suddenly feel exposed in a way I hadn’t braced for. I can’t tell if it’s worse that Julian’s reading them so openly, or that he hasn’t said anything yet. His silence is somehow heavier than words would be.
My instinct is to laugh it off, to make a dry comment about how even foxes need daily affirmations. But the words stick in my throat. I glance down at the tile instead, scuffing it lightly with the toe of my sock like that might magically dissolve the lump rising in my chest.
I feel Julian walk closer to where I’m standing by the island.
“I like them,” Julian says, pointing to the handwritten notes and tapping them with his knuckle.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ve been seeing a therapist twice a week. Her name is Monica. She’s helping.”
I sound casual—too casual, maybe. Like I’m brushing it off before Julian can get any closer to the truth of it.
But itisn’tcasual.
This—all of this—feels like laying out every fragile piece of myself and asking him not to touch anything too hard.
I brace myself for him to make a joke, but he doesn’t.
“That’s good,” he says after a beat, his voice softer now. “Soph and I need to find a therapist here. We had an amazing one in London.”
I blink, head lifting. “You’ve done therapy?”
Julian gives me a look—half amusement, half something else. “What, you think I just magically have my shit together?”
“No,” I admit, cracking the smallest grin. “But I wasn’t expecting you to admit it.”
He laughs, but the warmth behind it isn’t sharp. “You don’t get to be this fucked up in the head and not go to therapy.” He pauses before continuing. “Before I went on medication for ADHD, I just thought I was an anxious, depressed mess. I thought I was simply lazy. Being a viscount didn’t bode well for me. The responsibility destroyed me, and I desperately needed someone to tell me I was going to be okay.”
His bluntness chips away at my awkwardness, but it doesn’t completely erase the way my heart is thudding too hard against my ribs.
Julian shifts, glancing back at the notes again. “I get why it feels weird. I had to do something like this, too. In London, as a teenager.”
His eyes flick to mine, like he’s daring me to press further.
I don’t.
Because Iget it.
My eyes bore into his, and it suddenly feels heavy. Weighted. And for the first time since we were teenagers, I feel like I know my friend again. Not just surface level Julian Ashford—but therealman behind the happy exterior.
He continues. “I’m glad you’re going to therapy. I think everyone should, honestly. My parents especially. They could use years of it, truth be told. Sophie’s parents too, though they might be a lost cause.”
I laugh, and his dashing smile disarms me completely. “Yeah. Monica is having me work on myself. Because I think I realized the reason I pulled away from you and Sophie wasn’t because of anything you did. But because, deep down, I don’t think I deserve the same happiness that my brothers have.”
