Page 90 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Living with Juliet is supposed to make your life easier, but all I see when I look at you is a man under stress.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “You okay, Hux?”
I shrug it off. “Don’t start getting feelings on me.”
But the question digs in anyway, finds a soft spot I didn’t know was there. Is this engagement taking up a larger portion of my mind than it should? Probably yes.
“Get out here and run the drill again or we’re doing bag skates!” Coach Ryan barks from center ice. Groaning, we all get back to work.
Later, in the locker room, Jett and I are the last ones left. Everyone else has cleared out for lunch or whatever they do with their afternoons. I’m sitting in my stall, still in my gear, not ready to face the real world yet.
“Mom showed up again,” I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.
Jett sits down on the bench beside me, frowning. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t push for more information. He just listens while he unlaces his skates.
“She grabbed Juliet,” I add. “Pulled her hair.”
That gets his attention. His hands hover over his laces. “Mom hurt her?”
“Not really. But she scared her. It made me see red.”
“Mom’s vile.” Jett finishes with his skates and looks at me. “You’re not alone in this. And you’re not her.”
“I know.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Seeing Juliet scared by my mom doesn’t make me feel good, though.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what Mom says or does. You know who you are. You know Juliet likes you.”
I give him a skeptical look. “Juliet Monroe hates me.”
“Is that what you call it when Juliet keeps sneaking looks at you when you’re not paying attention, biting her lip like she’s eyeballing some dessert she wants?”
“She doesn’t do that,” I snap. A prickle of irritation runs across my skin. “Mind your own business, Jett.”
“Okay.” His smirk speaks volumes, though. “Maybe she looks at all the men she agreed to pretend to be engaged to that way.”
“Fuck off.”
I leave the rink feeling unsettled. Grateful for my brother’s support, but I don’t need him poking his nose into my affairs.
Juliet hates me. I hate her right back. So why the hell do I catch myself thinking about her when I’m supposed to be focusing on the drive home?
Back at the condo, I walk in still damp from the shower, towel around my neck, hair wet and dripping onto my t-shirt. I expect silence, maybe Juliet buried in her laptop responding to emails and avoiding me like she has been since our encounter in the hallway.
Instead, the kitchen’s warm and filled with music playing low. It smells incredible. Garlic, lemon, something roasting in the oven that makes my stomach remind me I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
Juliet’s barefoot, hair up in a messy twist that’s falling apart, wearing one of my old Havoc shirts. It hangs off her shoulder, exposing her throat and collarbone. She’s humming along to whatever song is playing, moving around the kitchen like she belongs there.
I’m caught off-guard, standing as still as a statue, staring at Juliet.
Sometimes I want to tell her everything. The letters I write but never send. I still see my mother’s face when I close my eyes too long. Hear the echo of her voice making promises she never intended to keep.
But what would that do? Juliet would look at me differently. She’d see me like I’m fragile or broken. Or worse, like I’m someone she could fix if she just tried hard enough.
And that’s not what I want. I want to be seen for who I really am and still be desired. And that’s probably too much to ask from anyone, especially someone like Juliet, who has her whole life planned out.
I stand in the doorway and watch her. She bends to pull a pan from the oven, and the shirt rides up. She’s wearing a short skirt underneath, and I glimpse bare skin that makes my mouth go dry.
For the umpteenth time, I hazard a guess that Juliet isn’t wearing any panties.Again. It’s obvious from the lack of panty lines.
