Page 60 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She exhales what might be a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You always get flustered when you picture me naked? Or is that a new thing?”
A pillow thumps against my side. “Go to sleep, Huxley.”
I grin into the dark. “Not until you admit you’ve thought about it.”
She goes quiet for long enough that I think maybe I pushed too far. Then I hear her swallow.
“I hate you.”
“Sure you do.”
She shifts on the bed. “Hunter?”
I look over at her. She’s sleepy, which is adorable. “What is it, Monroe?”
“Thanks for this weekend.” Her lips pucker for a moment. “We didn’t have to come.”
Turning onto my side, I consider her words.
“I’m glad we’re here. It might be a shade awkward…” I motion to the wall of pillows between us. “But it’s nice to be… friendly. Friend-adjacent.”
“It’s nice.” A dreamy smile tugs at her lips. “A lot better than going on vacation with Patrick. He almost never took me anywhere. And on the few times he did, he made his mom and dad tag along. They loathed me.”
“What? Why would they do that?”
She groans and stretches on her back, her camisole riding up, giving me a glimpse of her belly button.
“Apparently, I wasn’t good enough for him. The Delacroix family is old money, you know. I wasn’t blue-blooded enough for them. I wore the right clothes, went to all of Patrick’s games, and was perfect wifey material. But because my mom worked for a living, Patrick’s mom always made the most cutting remarks at my expense.”
“And what did Patrick have to say about that?” I tense, already knowing that it’s going to be awful.
“He blamed me for being oversensitive. He said she was just looking out for him.” Juliet stares off into space, her lips parted. Seeing a memory, maybe. “You know, the first Christmas I spent at their house, she made me cry.Twice. And Patrick never said a word in my defense. I wish to hell I had headed for the hills right then and there.”
I stare at her, the pillow barrier between us suddenly feeling like a wall I want to tear down. “You deserved better than that. Way better. I wouldneverlet anyone talk down to you. Especially not my mom.”
She gives me a tiny shrug, pretending it doesn’t matter anymore. But I can see the way her throat works as she swallows. It hurts more than she lets on.
I clear my throat, searching for something to say that won’t sound clumsy. What do I say? That I wish she had dated me in college? That both of our lives would be completely different if I’d had the balls to ask her out?
That would be absurd. So instead of saying any of that, I reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand. My notebook is lying just beyond that. Of course, her eyes catch on it.
“What’s that?” she asks, tilting her head toward it.
“Nothing.” My hand shoots out to cover it, but she’s already pushing up on an elbow, curious.
“Hunter…”
I take a sip of water. Are we both baring our souls tonight? I wish that having a fake fiancée came with an instruction manual.
“It’s just sketching,” I mutter. “And some journaling. I used to draw all the time back when I was a kid. Darla thought it was a waste. Told me it made me look weak. So I stopped.” My jaw tightens. “She found some old sketchpads once and ripped them up in front of me. Said no son of hers was going to be a starving artist.”
Juliet’s eyes widen, glinting in the dim light. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make a joke. She just looks at me like she sees something I thought I’d buried. “You’re good, aren’t you?”
