Page 158 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I’m sweaty, tired, and distracted when I get home from practice. Coach Cross ran us through drills until my legs felt like jelly. Now all I want is a shower and maybe some of whatever Juliet’s making for dinner, because it smellsamazing.
But as I open the door to the condo, I hear her voice carrying from her bedroom. She sounds tense, tight in the way she only gets when she’s talking to someone unpleasant.
I slow down, dropping my gear bag quietly by the door. The bedroom door is ajar and I can hear every word.
“I don’t understand why you’re being like this,” Juliet says. There’s something strained in her voice that makes my chest tighten.
I should keep walking and give her privacy. But something about her tone stops me in my tracks.
“When are you going to get serious about your life, Juliet?” Her mother’s voice comes through clearly from what must be a video call. “You’re twenty-six years old. You should have your juris doctorate by now. Instead, you’re screwing around with some hockey team.”
“I am serious about my life, Mom. This is my career.”
“This is a distraction. You need to be thinking about your future. Law school, marriage, children. Now, before you’re too old to enjoy them properly.”
I hear Juliet take a shaky breath. “I am in a relationship, not that you’ve made any effort to get to know him.”
She says it like it hurts. I haven’t put a moment of thought into it, but that her parents haven’t bothered to really meet me, really get to know me, might be a wound she’s been carrying.
Her mom huffs. “The hockey player? Come on.”
“I told you I wanted to marry him. What don’t you get about that?”
“Juliet, be realistic. This is a phase. Eventually, he’ll get bored and leave. You need to be focusing on law school, something to fall back on. You can mess around with him if you want, but you need to be improving yourself.”
My hands clench into fists. The casual cruelty in her mother’s voice and the way she dismisses what we have like it’s nothing makes me want to punch something.
“Why won’t you just see that I’m happy?” Juliet’s voice cracks. I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back.
“Happy?” Her mother sounds genuinely surprised. “Juliet, happiness is a luxury. You needsecurity, darling.”
“I’m trying to be happy,” Juliet whispers. “For the first time in my life, I’m trying to be happy instead of just successful.”
My throat tightens. Because I can hear the truth in her voice. Unfortunately, she’s sharing it with her mother, who clearly doesn’t deserve it. Juliet glances toward the door and sees me standing there. Her eyes widen, and she waves me away sharply, embarrassment and something like panic flashing across her face.
I move, giving her the privacy she wants. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. A minute later, I hear her end the call, and then she comes out of her room. Her face is tight, eyes wet, and I can see her shutting down in real time.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know your mom was wrong about everything.”
She squeezes her fists, her hands are trembling slightly.
“Between her and Patrick, I feel like everyone from my past is coming out of the woodwork to tell me I’m making a mistake.” Her voice breaks a little on the last word. “Why are they doing this? What did I do to deserve it?”
She turns like she’s about to lock herself in the bathroom.
“Hey,” I say, catching her arm gently. “You’re not alone. Not unless you want to be.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She stares at me, throat working, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach for her, walking her back to her room, sitting us both on the bed. I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest.
She curls into me and cries. Not the pretty, delicate tears you see in movies, but real, ugly sobbing that shakes her whole body.
I hate it. Feeling powerless is something I truly hate. I want to fight someone, fix everything, make all the people who’ve hurt her disappear. But I don’t know how to do any of that.
So I stay, holding her. I breathe with her until her sobs turn to hiccups and then to shaky sighs, rubbing small circles into her back and wishing I could do something.
