Page 24 of The Best Worst Mistake
Patrick exits the driver door and makes his way up to Juliet’s house while I watch from the back seat. I could have just sent a car to deliver her to the airport separately, but I wanted to make sure she didn’t need anything on the way. Plus, if I’m being totally honest, I wanted to be here to talk her out of bailing if she tried to ditch at the last minute. Good thing, too, because it appears that’s exactly what’s happening.
I pick up the coffee I planted in her cup holder about forty minutes ago, gauging the temperature through its thick, cardboard sleeve. It feels cold now but there’s no time to stop for another. I’ll have Andy make her an espresso or whatever else she’d like once we get on board.
I look at my watch, then her door. I hate being late to anything, even if I’m the one paying everyone’s salaries to wait for me, or in this case, to wait for Jules.
Patrick rocks on his heels like he’s about to head back to the car just as Juliet flings her front door open. She has three roller bags behind her, instead of the eight I had dropped off late last night. They exchange a few words before she attempts to juggle three bag handles herself, fending Patrick off from taking them from her by holding up her palm.
I break into a smile as I watch her try to figure out how to get all three bags to the car at once without his help. Patrick stands nearby, hands clasped at his waist, side-eyeing her. I can tell she’s flustered and probably significantly sleep deprived, even from here.
I chuckle, resting my chin on my fist while I watch out the window.
There you are, Jules.
Stubborn as ever. Present as ever.
Beautiful as ever.
After a bit more talking, she gives up with a huff. Patrick grabs two of the bag handles before they briskly make their way toward the blacked-out Escalade idling in her driveway with me inside. She’s wearing dark sunglasses, though it’s not very light out yet, which, I realize, is not a good sign.
Patrick leaves her bags at the tail end of the SUV, then follows her to the opposite side to open her car door for her. Without looking over, she climbs into the captain’s chair next to mine and sits back against the thick leather seat.
“Thank you,” she mumbles to Patrick before he shuts the door and heads to the back.
It’s only two words, but it’s the first time I’ve heard her speak since I left her sobbing in her foyer last year. The sound of her voice hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve thought about her quite a bit since I left her all alone to pick up the pieces of her life, but I knew that me staying away was what she wanted. That and I knew we had this trip together at the end of it.
I exhale a year’s worth of waiting and settle back into my own captain’s chair, smiling to myself.
She’s here.
She’s packed.
And we’re headed to the airport.
A light, floral scent of shampoo and probably some perfume she spritzed on at some point wafts over to my side of the car.
Patrick loads her luggage into the trunk with a few thuds. The car dips beneath the weight each time another heavy bag lands in the trunk.
Meanwhile, we awkwardly hold our breath through the silence that follows. I keep my face forward, but side-eye her as much as I can without making it obvious that I’m watching. She sniffs and shifts her body away from me to look out the window, resting her elbow in the nook of the door.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say deeply, trying to sound casual but it comes out as horribly stiff instead.
“Morning,” she replies, not bothering to face me.
Her blonde hair is piled high in a messy bun with wavy tendrils spilling out the sides. Like she was frazzled upon waking up this morning and it was the best she could do.
Exhaustion and annoyance roll off her, so thick that it might actually be contagious. She grabs one side of her tan sweater and pulls it tightly around her torso, shifting her whole body towardthe window side of her seat. She can’t get far enough away from me.
“I had this made for you, but—” I hold the cold coffee cup out to her — “you might want a new one once we board. It’s probably cold by now.”
“Sorry I made you wait,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. But she takes the cup from me, careful not to let our fingers touch in the exchange.
“That’s not what I meant—” I start to say, but she glances down at the to-go cup before taking a big swig, wincing as she forces herself to swallow.
I make a face, imagining how badly she must need caffeine if she’s willing to drink that.
“Cold?” I ask.
“Very.”
