5. Juliette
JULIETTE
T he gallery is louder than I expected, buzzing with voices, clinking glasses, and the moody hum of elevator music echoing from hidden speakers.
Felicity is already two steps ahead, scanning the room like she’s searching for someone. That douchebag Keagan, probably.
I nudge her. “So, what exactly are we looking for here? Emotional growth? Mystery artist reveals himself and turns out to be a hot billionaire with a tortured past?”
She sticks out her bottom lip. “You promised not to be an asshole tonight.”
“I promised to try and have fun,” I correct. “I just don’t know why this is the place you dragged me to for my ‘let loose and live’ moment.”
She smiles now, almost guiltily. “Well, I’d tell you, but you’d get pissed, and I’m trying to keep you light and happy.”
I raise a brow. “Name one time that’s ever worked out for you.”
Felicity loops her arm through mine, tugging me through the maze of art snobs and champagne trays.
“True.” She sighs. “But you’re like my sad little emo puppy, and it’s my moral duty to drag you into the sun and pump dopamine into your cold, dead heart.”
“I feel like I should be offended.” I glance around. “But I see no flaw in your logic…other than picking an art show to do it.”
“I didn’t just randomly decide to drag you here, I actually talked to Bevie last week.”
“Bevie.” I falter. “Why are you talking to my childhood nanny?”
She shrugs. “She checks in on you from time to time.”
Warmth spreads through me. I love Beverly. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mom.
“She called me the other day and said your mother had that look in her eye.”
“A look,” I reply flatly.
“Yeah, and don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s that twitchy, soul-snatching stare, like she’s already picked out the earrings you’ll wear at your funeral.”
I cringe, because honestly, I could see my mother doing it. “That’s morbid.”
“Bevie was worried,” she continues. “Especially once I told her how mopey you’ve been lately.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have told her that, then.”
She shrugs. “Agree to disagree. Anyway, she’s the one that hooked a girl up with these art show tickets.”
“You want me to believe Beverly got tickets to this? An art show. In California.”
Felicity knocks her shoulder into mine as we stop walking. “You can believe whatever you want, but I’m telling you the truth. I guess she used to visit here or something. She also told me about some coffee shop around the corner, The Em-Tee Cup.”
I stare at her. Beverly never—not once—mentioned she knew the area when I talked about coming here for college.
“How’d she get the tickets?”
“Have you met Bevie? She’s terrifying. Obviously, I didn’t ask.”
That’s true. Beverly is not known for her soft edges.
“Why’d she pick an art show?” I muse, mostly to myself.
“She said you used to draw pictures with sidewalk chalk when you were little and then make up stories to go with them. Made Alex act them out with you. She probably thought you’d like it.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips.
“I miss that girl,” I admit, glancing at the wall beside us.
One of the pieces is all jagged lines and burnt orange chaos, signed RMO in the corner.
“Me too,” Felicity says quietly.
It feels like a moment happening here. Like we’ve stepped into the past just enough to remember who we used to be, before we grew up and had to start thinking about things like our futures, and what we’d allow in them.
Or in my case, what my parents will allow.
Felicity perks up, body straightening as she spots Keagan.
“There he is, come on.” She tries to tug me with her, but I let my arm slip from hers, grimacing.
“You go ahead. I’m gonna look around. Try to find some sidewalk chalk or something.”
She smirks. “Yeah, fine, but don’t get lost. And remember : stranger danger…unless he’s volunteering that good dick we talked about.”
I wave her off.
“I put condoms in your purse, FYI!” she calls out, way too loud.
A man in a suit looks at me appalled, like I’m about to choose someone to fuck in front of him.
I grin and roll my eyes. “Some people, right? Never met that woman in my life.”
Then I keep walking until I hit the farthest wall and stop in front of the nearest painting.
My professor in an art history course I took sophomore year talked about the importance of different mediums. How he could go to a museum for hours and just stare at a singular piece hung up, losing himself to the way it made him feel.
Back then, I never understood what he meant.
Honestly, I figured it was him talking out of his ass, trying to give a deeper meaning to something that was just paint on a canvas.
But now… I marvel at the art, wondering how it’s possible to create such intricate designs from a can of spray paint, and while I walk along to look at the different pieces, it feels like an itch being scratched in my brain.
It isn’t until I physically bump into a girl from one of my college classes that I recognize I’ve been wandering in a daze.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Amanda, right?”
She tilts her head, her bleached-blond hair falling effortlessly over her left shoulder before she says in a clipped tone, “That’s right.”
Her cold demeanor throws me off, but I’m nothing if not adaptable. I was born and bred to shine and sparkle in uncomfortable situations.
“Juliette.” I point to myself.
She looks me up and down and then scrunches her nose as if I don’t quite measure up.
“I think we had poli-sci together.” I try again. “Are you a fan of the artist or just art in general?”
She takes a sip of her champagne. “My summer art foundations course is offering extra credit if we attend shows around the city.”
Her eyes float from me to the framed slab of concrete in the middle of the room.
I turn back to the piece. There’s a small child on her knees at the base of concrete steps that lead to a large building with the word Health across its top.
Money and pill bottles are falling from the sky, but as they float closer to the girl, they catch fire until there’s nothing but ash and soot surrounding her on the ground.
The letters RMO are signed in the corner in all black, with sharp edges and overexaggerated lines. “What’s RMO stand for?”
Amanda sighs. “It’s obviously a signature.”
“Ah, that’s right. An anonymous painter.” I wiggle my brows conspiratorially.
“People call him Romeo. Because of the ‘passion in the work.’” She says it like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
“You disagree?”
“I think people like to see romanticism in even the most…pedestrian pieces. This is his first official art show, anyway; normally, people just find his stuff on the sides of buildings randomly. I don’t know that we should encourage that type of illegal activity by giving them platforms.”
“Hmm.” I nod along. “Even if they send a message?”
That’s clearly what this mural is doing. It’s intricate and hauntingly beautiful.
I’ve never experienced anything like what’s depicted, so it’s hard to relate to personally, but it still makes the center of my chest feel tight. I tilt my head as I look at the art again.
“I think it’s poetic,” I declare, bringing up my glass for another sip of bubbly.
“Some people can see poetry in anything, I guess.”
My heart stutters, and I choke on the champagne, coughing until my eyes sting.
That is not Amanda’s voice.
It’s low and rough, and threaded with dark amusement.
I suck in a deep breath, but nearly forget how to breathe at all when my gaze catches on icy blue eyes.
Familiar icy blue eyes.
Trouble.
He’s standing there, half shadowed beneath the gallery lights, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
A silver ring glints on his first finger, and ink coils along his forearms—more than he had four years ago.
But it’s him . The same messy brown hair, same lazy confidence, and that same damn smirk with those obnoxious dimples.
His stare finds mine and doesn’t waver.
Amanda’s voice barely cuts through the static in my brain. “Ry, this is?—”
“Princess,” he cuts her off.
I bite back a small grin. “Hi, Trouble.”
His lips twitch, and Amanda scoots closer to his side. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. His attention is locked on me.
And just like the first time we met, it tilts me off balance.
“You two know each other?” she asks sharply.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares. And I stare back, even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though it feels like the air between us is thinning with every second.
I don’t know why, but this feels important.
“Hello?” Amanda snaps her fingers. “I said?—”
“Yes,” he answers.
“No,” I reply at the same time.
There’s a beat of silence and then my grin widens, impossible to hide.
“We met once,” I say finally, dragging my eyes away from him to look at her. “A long time ago.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” he murmurs.
“The length of time doesn’t matter,” I argue. “Once is still a small thing.”
“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
I purse my lips, thrown by the response. “That’s oddly profound.”
He nods solemnly, his hand to his chest. “Winnie the Pooh said that.”
“Of course he did.” I laugh. “Leave it to a stuffed bear to make you sound enlightened.”
“There it is.” He grins. “That mean streak of yours. Still incredibly hot, by the way.”
My cheeks flush, and Amanda stiffens next to him.
“I’m just saying it’s irrelevant,” I barb back. “That’s not how I remember our first meeting going.”
It’s exactly how I remember it.
I haven’t stopped thinking about him since that night, no matter how many stories I’ve written trying to erase him from my mind.
“I’d love to hear more about your version,” he says, a slow smile curling up his lips. “ My memory is that you thought I was the sexiest guy you’d ever seen, and it made you…unreasonably cranky.”
I balk, tapping my nails against my glass. “I told you not to let that give you a big head.”
He shrugs, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Well, it has, unfortunately. It’s huge now. I’m almost impossible to be around.”
“So, you’re the same as before, then.”
Amanda’s voice slices through the tension. “Okay, I’m confused. Do you two know each other or not?”
“Not,” I say firmly. “It was so brief, I thought maybe I dreamed him up.”
“Do you dream of me often?” he asks, eyes glinting.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Ry,” Amanda warns under her breath.
And it’s only then I realize that maybe they’re here together. Maybe he’s hers .
“Like I said, we met once. It was nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that ,” he says quietly.
Sighing, I face him again. “You know, you’re even more irritating now than you were back then.”
His grin turns magnetic, and I feel like I’m being sucked in by a vortex of gravity where he is the center.
It’s weird, and I kind of think I hate it.
Amanda’s glare yanks me back to Earth. Regardless of who he is to her, I’m clearly trespassing on her territory.
“Well,” I begin, already stepping back. “This has been…a time.” I point vaguely over my shoulder. “I’m just gonna…yeah.”
And then I spin on my heel and walk away like my sanity depends on it. Because I’m pretty sure it does.