Page 106 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She gives me a look that’s half amusement, half warning. “It wasn’t a rebellion. It was survival. Have you seen my body? I’m five feet tall and have big boobs. From the second I turned thirteen, everyone treated me like a full-grown seductress.”
That makes me go quiet. There’s something in her voice, something sharp and painful that I recognize. The sound of someone who learned early that the world wasn’t going to be kind.
“You think that made you guarded?”
“How could I not be?”
She sets her food down completely now, looking at me, sucking in her lower lip. I can tell we’ve shifted into deeper territory. The conversation that usually makes me want to run.
“Patrick told me once that ambition makes women ugly,” she breathes.
My stomach knots up at the mention of her ex. I’ve heard enough about him to know he was a piece of shit, but hearing the specifics still makes me want to punch something.
“He said that I focused too much on my career and that I was too driven. That men want someone who makes them feel important, not someone who’s always trying to prove herself.” Her voice gets smaller. “I believed him. For years, I felt that if no one respected me, at least I could make myself lovable. Until I walked into Patrick’s hotel room to surprise him and found him with a nineteen-year-old blonde. Then I realized he didn’t love me. He kept me, which is different.”
I shift toward her on the bed, every instinct telling me to say something, to fix it somehow. But she’s not looking at me, staring at her hands like she’s remembering her bitterest moments. I get the feeling that interrupting would break whatever spell is letting her talk about this.
“You know what the worst part was?” she continues. “The first time he cheated, I took him back. I started believing his lies. He had me thinking that maybe if I were smaller, quieter, less… then he might actually want to stick around.”
The pain in her voice is like a physical hit. I want to tell her that Patrick was wrong, that any man who can’t handle her ambition is a fucking idiot who doesn’t deserve her. But I also know that’s not what she needs right now.
So I just stay there, silent, grounded, letting her know I’m listening. She goes quiet for a moment, then her attention shifts to me.
“You’re not who I thought you were. I mean, you’re still awful. But not how I thought. You’re… something else.”
I don’t know what to say about that. Part of me wants to ask what ways do matter, to dig deeper into what she thinks of me now versus what she thought before. But mostly I’m just grateful that she doesn’t think I’m a complete waste of space anymore.
“Thanks?” I say finally. She gives a brittle little laugh.
“That wasn’t really a compliment.”
I shrug. “I’ll take what I can get.”
We lapse into comfortable silence after that. The TV keeps playing its muted baking show. I watch her more than the screen. The way she absently touches her hair when she’s thinking. The way her entire face softens when she’s not actively managing something.
Eventually, exhaustion catches up with her. Her eyes drift closed, and she lies back on the bed without really meaning to. Still in her sweats, still on top of the covers, lipstick still firmly in place, but clearly done for the night.
I should probably go to my bed. Or at least move to the chair. But I gently pull off her socks, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly but doesn’t open her eyes.
I tug the blanket over her, then lie down next to her, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling.
I tell myself it’s just pretend. That I’m being decent. That it’s not real.
But that’s bullshit, and I know it.
Juliet acts like this is just another job, just another box to check off her list. She’s professional and efficient and keeps everything neat and compartmentalized. But the way she leans into me when we’re in public, the way her breath catches when I brush her waist during photo ops? That’s not nothing.
She’s not as immune as she pretends to be. And neither am I.
She keeps playing it off like none of it means anything. Like I’m just a client. A puppet to be cleaned up and repackaged for public consumption. A project with a deadline.
If she knew who I really was, the things I needed to fulfill my fantasies, she’d run. They always do. The moment people see past the surface, see the mess underneath, they decide it’s not worth the effort.
She shifts in her sleep. Her hand lands lightly on my chest, right above my heart. And I think,God help me, I might be in trouble.
This isn’t supposed to feel real. It’s supposed to be five months of playing house, helping each other get what we need, then walking away clean.
But lying here in this hotel bed, listening to her breathe, feeling the weight of her hand on my chest, I’m starting to think clean might not be an option anymore.
