Page 41 of If This Was a Movie

NATE

I’m sitting at the kitchen island when there’s a jingle of keys at the front door. The locks click before it opens, Jules slipping in nearly silently before locking it behind her.

After we packed up all of Jules’s things, I helped her bring them back to the cottage before she headed out to teach a couple of classes at the community center.

I texted her two hours ago, telling her that I forgot to give her the key to the cottage and that she could come into the house tonight to grab it from the kitchen island. It was Sloane’s idea, one that was confirmed by Claire, Sutton, and my mom to be a good one. An easy way to convince her to come into the house and see me after her classes.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice low so as not to scare her. Clearly, I fail at that when she jumps, putting a hand to her chest and gaping at me.

“My god! You scared the shit out of me,” she says before walking further into the kitchen. She’s wearing a puffy winter jacket and a pair of tight pants that leave nothing to the imagination, not that it would stop me. She could be wearing baggy sweats and an old tee, and what lies beneath it would still be burned into my mind.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you,” I say simply, and she stops moving, the duffel bag on her shoulder slipping down onto the floor.

“What?”

“I was waiting for you. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.” I love how that sounds. Home, as if this is Jules’s home instead of some temporary solution to a problem she has. “You’ve never driven here yourself.”

“You…you waited up for me?” she says, seemingly in shock.

“Well, yeah.”

Softness moves through her eyes as she tips her head at me. “You didn’t have to do that, Nate.”

“It’s not like it’s midnight, Jules. It’s barely past nine.” Something flits over her face, but her mask goes back in place before I can grasp it. That softness of hers, the one she let out that first night, trusting me with her vulnerability, is now hidden behind armor.

“I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. I’m already intruding on your life here.”

“You’rehelpingme,” I argue.

“I have yet to see that happen. All you’ve done is be incredibly kind and generous with your time and your home, and I feel like I’m causing more trouble than I’m worth.”

“Well, tomorrow, if you’ll be around, it would be great if you could help Sophie off the bus and keep her busy until I get home. Though if you have?—”

She nods, cutting me off. “Yeah, absolutely. I don’t have a class tomorrow.” I look at her with a smile because the way she jumped on the smallest opportunity to help with Sophie is cute. “I’m just feeling like this deal is very much unbalanced. You don’t need me at all, Nathan Donovan.”

I need you more than you could ever know, Julianne,is what I want to say, but I don’t.

“Well, helping with Sophie will be a huge help with Claire gone.”

“I’m excited to hang out with her. I like her a lot from the little time I’ve spent with her.”

“She’s the best,” I say, then turn to the oven, opening the door and pulling out a plastic wrapped plate. “Dinner if you haven’t eaten.” I place it on the island between us, the plate still warm, and we both stare at it.

“You cooked for me?” she asks, shocked but stepping closer to me.

“It’s nothing fancy, just pasta and meatballs. But I figured you may not have eaten and…” The words trail off as I suddenly feel silly, like a kid trying to get the popular girl to give him the time of day. What if she had already eaten? What if this makes her uncomfortable, if it’s too much too fast? What if she developed some kind of gluten allergy in?—

“No, it’s great. I didn’t eat,” she says with a small smile. “So this is really kind.” Finally, she sits on one of the barstools at the island, pulling the plate toward her and undoing the plastic. I move, grabbing a fork and sliding it her way.

“I’ll.. uh,” I start, once again self-conscious as I stand here, watching her eat. “I’ll leave you alone. You?—”

“You…” she starts, then bites her lip. “You can stay. Keep me company.” I take her in, trying to read her face and determine if she’s saying that because she feels like she has to or if she really wants that. “Unless you?—”

“No, no. I’d love to,” I say, pulling out a chair. “How were your classes?”

A smile lights up her face as she starts to tell me about the classes she taught today, the upcoming recital, and the parents of the kids she teaches while she eats, and I realize I would give just about anything to do this every night: have dinner waitingfor her, sit with her after Sophie has gone to bed, and hear all about her day.

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