Page 35 of Backhanded Compliments

Luca steps back and clears her throat. She doesn’t want to intrude, especially because Juliette doesn’t look great. There is a barely there tremble to her shoulders as she gazes up at Luca, her cheeks are ruddy, and a pillow line slashes across her cheekbone. She’s wearingan oversize T-shirt that exposes the long column of her throat and the edge of her collarbone.

“Are you all right?” Luca asks softly as her gaze roves over Juliette’s face.

Juliette shrugs. “Why are you here?” she asks, equally quiet.

Luca glances into the room. “Can we talk?”

Juliette blinks at her, slowly, as if she’s processing the words at half the speed. “What about?”

Her knotted stomach lurches. It’s now or never. “Are you still hurting from earlier?”

Juliette narrows her eyes and shrugs.

Luca slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out a slender gold glass bottle. Juliette’s brows furrow. “Erm, it’s massage oil. I read online this morning that a soulmate’s touch can help heal superficial cuts and bruises. My back is almost entirely fine from the sunburn, so I thought I’d return the favor.” As the words pour from her mouth, she realizes how strange this must seem. “It’s fine if you don’t want—”

“Sure,” Juliette says, turning around and vanishing into the room, leaving Luca slightly openmouthed.

She did not think that would work.

Fear and desire fight in her stomach, and she is suddenly very aware of how scratchy her breath is in her throat. She tries to swallow around the dry lump and follows Juliette into the room, gently shutting the door behind her.

“Luca,” Juliette starts, and it sounds like her name is punched out of her. The sound of it on Juliette’s lips brushes down Luca’s spine, and she shivers.

“Yes,” Luca says as the silence stretches awkwardly.

Juliette’s arms wrap around her middle, and she shifts on her feet. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, looking up. Her expression is a mix of guilt and tenderness, her big dark eyes flickering in the low light from the amber lamp.

Luca hadn’t expected that, hadn’t prepared a response for an apology. There is too much space between them, too many unspoken words that Luca doesn’t know how to say, so she swallows them.“Okay,” she says finally, because it’s the only thing she can make herself say.

“It’s not okay,” Juliette says, her arms falling loose at her sides. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “The other night, on the beach, I—I…” She stutters, pauses, and collects herself before resuming. “It was cruel and insensitive. I know we’re rivals, but you didn’t deserve that.”

Luca picks at the label of the massage oil bottle, still entirely baffled as to what she should say. She should be used to this. She’s never been anyone’s first choice. Not as a kid, not as an adult, not even with Vladimir. The only reason Vladimir even considered being her coach was because the kid he was supposed to train with was sick that day at the club in Zadar.

But Luca can’t tell Juliette any of that. She doesn’t know how to voice how badly it hurts to not even be chosen by the one person who was supposed to choose her. “It’s fine,” she lies.

Juliette’s eyes cut through her, and she shakes her head. Her curls tumble around her jaw. “It isn’t.” She moves another half-step closer, and a cramp of longing spasms across Luca’s chest. “It isn’t fine. It was horrible, and I had no right to say that to you.”

“Was it true?” Luca asks, because apparently, she’s a masochist.

Juliette’s gaze drops, and she heaves out a rattling sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she murmurs, looking up at Luca, her eyes shining. “I think I may have been wrong about you.”

Luca’s breath hitches, and she can’t breathe. “About what?”

“I’ve watched you, Luca. I see you,” Juliette says with such sincerity that Luca’s eyes sting. “I think we understand each other, even if I don’t know how to feel about you. About us.” She looks down again.

“We don’t need to know,” Luca whispers, latching on to the sliver of hope that maybe they don’t have to hate each other and exchange scathing words. “We can try to be ourselves. Try to be friends.”

“Friends?” Juliette asks, tasting the word as if it’s foreign to her.

“Yeah, friends,” Luca repeats.

“I’m messed up, Luca.” Juliette chews on her lower lip. Lucasuddenly has the urge to reach out and brush her thumb against Juliette’s lips to stop her from adopting that nervous tic.

“Me too,” Luca says instead, and she gives Juliette a half-smile. “But that’s okay.” Regardless of—and perhaps because of—who they are, their relationship will never be storybook-perfect.

Juliette stares at her, as if searching her face for something, and Luca is suddenly certain Juliette can see through her skin and bones to the wriggling mass of anxiety in her chest.

“So,” Luca says, inhaling deeply, “how about that massage?” She holds up the bottle again, and Juliette gives her the barest hint of a smile before she nods.

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