Page 27 of All's Well that Friends Well

“My favorite part of my wardrobe is my office wear, and I never get to use it, Cy,” she snaps now as she straightens back up, and she might as well be answering my silent words. “It makes me feel pretty and professional. Don’t nag me about clothes when you go days without changing.” She straightens up, sandwiching her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she unscrews the top of a water bottle. She takes a drink while listening to her brother, and then she sniffs—a prim, haughty little sound. “Work is not an excuse to be a slob.”

I glance down at my own clothes without thinking, checking to make sure I don’t look like a slob. I don’t, of course; I never do. The brief examination does, however, give me a dose of reality, which is that I am a grown man standing outside a storage closet, eavesdropping on a private conversation I have no right to hear.

Eavesdropping.It’s the exact same thing I scolded Juliet for, mere days ago, a fact that makes me feel not great about myself. I sigh and back away from the open door, my shoulders slumping as a sudden wave of exhaustion hits me.

I’m losing it. Totally losing my mind. So I turn on my heel and stride briskly back down the hallway, nudging my thoughts in other directions.

Juliet Marigold is none of my business—not at work, not at home, and nowhere in between, either.

So why do I feelbadfor her?

JULIET

I will smelllike disinfectant for the rest of my life. This is my perfume now.

I am a walking fire hazard.

My mind throws out all sorts of protests as I bend over a toilet bowl, scrubbing furiously at a mystery stain I have no desire to identify, but I keep my mouth clamped shut. Partly because I want to inhale as few chemicals as possible, but also because I need this job. I basically begged for this job.

Which means I can’t complain.

I can’t complain that my back hurts, or that my hands are cramping, or that my scalp feels itchy from sweat.

I just have to keep scrubbing, and scrubbing, and scrubbing. When I’m done scrubbing, I have to replace the toilet paper. When I’m done replacing toilet paper, I have to move over one stall…and do the whole thing again.

It’s temporary,I remind myself as I work, and a thrill courses through me at the thought of my phone call withCyrus earlier. I’m not sure what that emotion is—excitement, anxiety, nerves? But Cy got recommendations from the counseling office at the university where he works. I would have to be a current or prospective student to go in and meet with them, but they told him about a few career evaluations online.

Most of them require payment for access to the full panel of results, but there are a few that offer a smaller range of results for free. I think that’s where I’ll start. Those links should be in my inbox by now, but my phone is in my cubby in the storeroom.

So, for now, I wait; I immerse myself in the toilet-scrubbing present. At least I’m getting paid—I’m earning money with my own two hands and my sore back and my aching feet. And that?

That feels good. It feels good enough to cancel out the gross toilet smell and the impatience I feel over wanting to check for Cy’s email. So I keep going, and I even manage to hum a little tune.

ABBA, obviously.

I’m halfway through “Mamma Mia” when the door to the restroom creaks open, even though I’ve got theClosed for Cleaningsign propped outside.

“Hi,” I say over my shoulder, the word reverberating in the small tiled room. “We’re currently cleaning in this one.”

“I know,” a breathless female voice responds. “Sorry. I just really have to go and the other one is so far away?—”

“That’s fine,” I say with a shrug, because what else am I supposed to do?

“Thanks,” she says, and then she closes herself in the stall at the end of the row, one I’ve already cleaned.

“No problem.” I turn back to my work and glance at thefloor. I don’t trust it to be clean enough to kneel on, so I remain hunched over. I do what I can with the toilet brush and then get to my feet, after which I wobble out of the stall—just in time to see the other woman reappear.

We stare at each other for a good three seconds, until finally she speaks.

“Juliet? Juliet Marigold?”

The smile I dredge up is weak at best. “Marianne, hi.” I clear my throat. “How’s it going?”

Marianne Florissant has clearly undergone a major glow-up since our high school days, and she looks fantastic. Her hair is long and sleek and auburn rather than mousy brown; her teeth are perfectly white, and she’s curvier than before, too.

“You look amazing,” I say before she can answer my question. “It’s been…what? Five years? Six?”

“Something like that,” she says slowly as her bright blue gaze roves over me—contacts, I’m pretty sure, but a great color on her. Her eyes widen with surprise when she finds the bottle of cleaner in my hand, and then her brow furrows with confusion.

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