Page 26 of Forbidden Girl

“She knew you were going to meet me, and she still let you come here?”

“Yes. She told me to. She gets it. She loves my dad and he’s a total shitbag compared to you.”

“Shitbag,” I repeat. I can’t stop myself from sniggering. “My old man, too. Shitbags, plural. Does that make us Shitbag Juniors?”

“I hope not.” Jules sneers. “Come on. I’m dry enough and getting hungry. You promised me lobster; I demand you make good on that promise, post haste.”

How she manages to be so forgiving and accepting, I can’t understand. But it makes me love her more and feel even more undeserving of her at the same time. “Post haste? Alright, college girl. Let’s post the fuck outta here with haste.”

I grab her sundress and clutch from the edge of the towel. She relieves me of them, replacing them with her hand in mine.

“Babygirl, you wanna save some of that for the lobster?” Jules has melted butter all over her fingers, and a little dribbling down the plastic bib that was provided with her meal. “I heard tales of how graceful and elegant the Calloway Princess is. They were all enormous lies. Everyone back home is full of shit!”

“Don’t believe everything you hear. I heard Rowan Monaghan was the most stone-cold badass bitch in the history of stone-cold badass bitches”—she leans across the table—“but it turns out she wears lace panties and likes to cuddle.” She winks as she grabs her napkin.

The way she challenges me… She may be the only person I’ve ever met who has the stones to do that. I don’t intimidate her in the slightest. Meanwhile, I didn’t understand the concept of true fear until I met her. I never let anyone get too close—closeness, bonding, caring is risky. If I never cared, I could never be hurt by the loss of anyone. I care about her in a profound way—bigger than the word “lover” could encompass. There’s a sense of duty to the way I love her. She’s not a damsel in distress, and I’m not a knight in shining armor, but regardless of whether it’s infantilizing or antifeminist or what-the-fuck-ever, I can’t shake the need to protect her like we’re living some King Arthur shit. We sort of are. It’s the battle for Boston. I don’t give a fuck about winning or losing it, but losing her would be intolerable.

Is this what all those cheesy romance novels drone on and on about? Finding someone who makes you feel whole when you hadn’t realized you were half—until they walked into your life at a kid’s birthday party.

Anything less than forever with her wouldn’t be enough.

“Am I that big of a mess?” she asks.

“What?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You are a mess. A perfect mess. My perfect mess, and I hope you never change.”

Her head tilts, kind of like when a puppy sees something it’s confused by. “You being so openly sweet is going to take some getting used to.”

“Pfft. You like it.”

“I love it. You’re a complete mush for me.”

“Well, you’ve seen me cry, so it’s either be a mush for you or destroy you.”

“Mush please.”

“You got it.” I take a handful of moist towelettes from the plate in front of me and slide them over to her. “For the love of God, use these.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She puts on an obedient face as she tears open one of the sachets.

People in Maine are unnervingly friendly, evidenced by how chatty our waitress is at the close of our evening. I’m used to servers checking in once during the meal, because that’s their job, then handing over the check all careless and fake nice at the end. This woman asks questions: Are you here on vacation, where are you from, blah, blah. At my best I am not chatty. I have a shit ton of words in my head, though they rarely leave my mouth. Juliet, on the other hand, is a schmoozer. Charming and delightful. She could do this professionally. We complement each other in the best ways because we’re opposites in all the right ones.

Jules says something cute about us taking a couple’s long weekend. The waitress replies, “That’s nice,” and asks how long we’ve been together. It stops Jules. Right. My turn.

“It’s pretty new, but when you know, you know.” I place three hundred-dollar bills into the red check presenter and give it to her. “We don’t need change.” It’s a nice tip for good service, but also a bribe to get her to go away. It’s close to sunset and I was dead serious about watching it from the beach with Jules, a fire, and some fucking s’mores; my soul needs all of that.

“That’s very generous! Thank you.”

Yeah, yeah, I’m generous. Let me leave. “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

We’re up and at the exit post haste. I hold the door for Jules. She smiles to herself. I’m curious about what. “What’s that grin for?”

“You’re a badass bitch who opens doors and pulls out chairs. You must have learned that from your dad, so maybe he’s not a total shitbag.”

“I didn’t learn that from my dad; he doesn’t know anything about manners. I learned it from Alistair. It’s how he treats his wife, and most people, actually.”

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