Page 94 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Juliet freezes too. She picks up the envelope, but doesn’t open it or try to read what’s inside. She just studies it for a beat, taking in the careful way I’ve written “Darla” on the front.
Then she gently puts it back in the box like it’s something fragile that might break if she’s not careful. She closes the lid with the same care she’d use in handling glass. She doesn’t look at me when she straightens up with her charger in hand.
“I didn’t see anything,” she whispers. Not flippant or dismissive. Not pitying either. Just soft and understanding.
She finds what she came for and leaves without another word, closing the door behind her with barely a sound.
I sit on the edge of my bed for a long time after she’s gone, staring at the closet where that box sits with all my unsent letters and half-finished thoughts.
She didn’t make it weird. I didn’t ask questions about what those letters were or why I write to someone that I never want to see again. She didn’t look at me as though I were broken or pathetic for keeping them.
And somehow, that kindness wrecks me more than if she’d just ignored it completely.
Because it means she sees me. The real me, not just the Chainsaw persona or the fake fiancé or the guy who loses his temper too easily. She sees the part of me that writes letters I’ll never send and keeps them in a shoebox like they matter.
And she didn’t run.
That terrifies me more than any fight I’ve ever been in.
Chapter22
Juliet
Iwake up to silence. Again.
It’s been a week since Hunter left for the road trip, and I thought I’d love having the apartment to myself. For the first few days, I did. I could eat cereal for dinner without judgment, watch trashy reality TV without him making sarcastic comments, and work in complete quiet without the sound of him clanking around in the kitchen or grunting through his workouts.
But now? The silence feels heavy. Oppressive. Like it’s pressing down on my chest every time I walk through the living room and see the couch where we’ve been spending our evenings, pretending to be a couple who actually likes each other.
I hate him. I hate the stupid way he invades my space, my life, my head. But somehow I hate the silence without him even more.Ugh. He’s the worst.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, scrolling through the usual morning notifications. Three texts from my mom about LSAT prep courses, two emails about potential job interviews that probably won’t pan out, and one Instagram notification that makes my stomach twist.
It’s a photo of Hunter and some of the other Havoc players at dinner last night. He’s laughing at something Silas is saying, his face relaxed in a way that makes something ache in my chest.
Oh, I definitely have a crush. And that thoughtterrifiesme.
The caption is just a bunch of hockey stick emojis, but there are already dozens of comments from women telling him how hot he looks. Making a face, I screenshot it for our fake relationship Instagram account, then immediately feel pathetic for caring enough to do that.
My phone buzzes with another text from my mom:Have you given any more thought to the December LSAT? Registration closes soon.
I stare at the message, a familiar knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. Law school. The plan I’ve had since I was sixteen. The safe, respectable path that will prove I’m not just a hockey player’s arm candy or some man’s convenient girlfriend.
But sitting here in Hunter’s apartment, wearing one of his old team shirts that Idefinitelydidn’t steal from his laundry, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I don’t want to be safe anymore.
Maybe I want this. Whatever this is.
I type out a response to my mom about needing more time to think, then delete it. Instead, I scroll to Hunter’s contact.
Me:How’s the road trip going?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately regret it. We don’t text each other when he’s away. We’re not actually together. This is all fake, and I need to remember that.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Hunter: Exhausting. I can’t wait to get home.
Home. He called it home.
