14. Juliette
JULIETTE
I ’m a mess.
I couldn’t sleep last night. No matter how many times I tried to tell myself that Ryder isn’t important, that he’s nobody to me, my brain wouldn’t shut off.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me.
In me.
His mouth.
His voice.
Part of me is glad we were interrupted, even if it was by his mother who acted like I was a cockroach infesting his home.
I’m not a virgin by any stretch of the imagination.
I lost it sophomore year in the back seat of Preston’s Mercedes.
It was awkward, painful, and over before it even really started.
And over the years, I’ve had my share of flings full of random guys and forgettable nights, so I know how to stay detached.
But thinking about Ryder that way feels cheap. Hooking up with him didn’t feel casual. It felt raw, like I left pieces of myself behind when it was over.
And that’s probably why I’m back at this same coffee shop again, hoping he shows up.
Because apparently, I’m a sucker.
I glare at my to-go cup, fingers picking at the brown paper sleeve that has The Em-Tee Cup printed on the side, hating how vulnerable I feel waiting here like a sitting duck.
My phone pings.
Felicity:
Tell me you’re on your way to get absolutely wrecked by Hot Artist Boy because if you’re just getting coffee like a coward, I SWEAR TO GOD.
I tilt my phone like the angle might make her message less aggressive. It doesn’t.
Me:
Obviously I’m here for the ambiance.
My teeth sink into my lower lip, and I type out another one.
Me:
And to tell him I want to be friends. Heavy emphasis on that last word.
Felicity:
BOO. You’ve been a buzzkill ever since your parents went full Romulan and sabotaged your graduation trajectory.
I roll my eyes at her calling my parents a fictional alien species. She’s dubbed my mom a Romulan for years. Something about being manipulative, cold, and probably capable of war crimes.
Me:
Are you watching Star Trek right now? Quit using your weird obsession to psychoanalyze me.
Felicity:
Let him rearrange your spine and restore balance to the galaxy. Live long and prosper.
Me:
Sometimes I genuinely wonder if you even like me.
Felicity:
I love you. That’s why I support your journey toward personal growth via orgasm.
Me:
Supportive is a word for it, definitely.
Felicity:
Just remember that horny girls make bad decisions, but they also make great stories. Call it a character arc and write it into your next book.
I smirk at my phone and toss it on the table, picking up my coffee and taking a sip.
Someone slips into the seat across from me, and I jerk out of my thoughts, my eyes softening when I see Ryder, grinning at me, cocky as hell, like he knew I’d be here.
“Fate strikes again,” he muses.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I clear it. “You’re surprised?”
“Not really. Like every good creeper, you’ve got a pattern. I show up…you follow.” He stirs his drink with a wooden stick, somehow making it feel like foreplay. “You’re not glaring at me. Should I be concerned?”
A small smile tips up my mouth, and I hide it behind my cup. “You’re right. I’ll try harder.”
He grins, but there’s an edge to his expression that wasn’t there yesterday. Tension in his shoulders. A question simmering in his gaze.
“I’m glad you came to see me,” he says.
“Little full of yourself, Trouble. How do you know I’m not here all the time?”
He leans in, a lock of his hair falling across his brow. “Not likely.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve been coming here for years. If you had been around, I’d have noticed.”
“Maybe you just didn’t see me.”
He takes a slow sip of his coffee without looking away. “Impossible.”
“Is it?”
“There’s no world that exists where I wouldn’t see you.”
Butterflies explode through my stomach and warning bells ring in my ears.
One arm is draped across the back of his chair; his legs are sprawled in front of him like he owns the floor. He seems relaxed, but there’s something off about him today. Not that I’m going to ask him about it. That would involve feelings , and in my world, we pretend those don’t exist.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible flirt?” I ask.
“Only the ones who end up liking me anyway.”
“I think everyone probably likes you,” I grumble.
He leans in slightly. “Well, I only care if you do.”
Our eyes lock and my stomach flips.
“So why did you show up here again?” He reverts into that casual, leaned back pose. “And no lies this time.”
I toy with the edge of my sleeve. “Because I wanted to see you again before I left.”
He purses his lips. “I wanted to see you, too, so I’m glad you gave into that obsessive little habit of finding me wherever I go.”
“You’re not hard to find, Trouble. All I have to do is follow the stench of your ego.”
He chuckles.
“Why did you want to see me ?” I ask.
His gaze sweeps over me. “Purely artistic reasons, of course.”
I swallow another mouthful of coffee to hide the effect he’s having on me. “You didn’t finish that sketch already?”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.” He shrugs. “I have something for you, actually.”
I quirk a brow. “What are the odds?”
He gives me a half smile and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.
When he hands it over, our fingers brush. It’s a light touch. Barely there, really, but it feels like a spark scorching up my arm and down the length of my spine.
I try not to show it.
“Don’t open it,” he orders. “Not yet. Wait until you’re alone.”
His eyes are on my mouth as he says it, and something thuds out of rhythm behind my ribs. The tension hums, thick enough I can reach out and grab it.
“Okay.”
There’s a pregnant pause and then I ask, “We’re friends now, right? Even if we never see each other again?”
Something that looks like disappointment settles over him, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone.
“Yeah, Little Rose,” he rasps. “We’re friends.”
“Okay. Good, that’s…good.”
“When do you leave?” he asks.
“Soon. Tomorrow.”
I try not to dwell on how much it hurts now. How it’s somehow worse than when I first found out.
Before it felt like a leash re-collared to a life I was trained to live. Now it’s more jagged, like broken pieces ripping down my middle and digging into my sides.
It feels like…a door closing.
A missed opportunity.
Ryder hums, his eyes flashing.
“You done?” He nods to my now empty coffee.
I don’t want to admit that I am, because I don’t really want this to end, but I nod anyway.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Okay.”
The word barely leaves my mouth before he downs the last of his own coffee and stands, pushing his chair in with one hand and moving to my side.
From this angle, I’m directly facing his waist, and my eyes drop to his zipper, my stomach flipping when I notice the bulge behind it.
Memories of how it felt under my hand, twitching as I stroked its impressive length, make my mouth dry and my legs tense.
When I drag my stare away, he’s giving me a filthy grin.
“You can touch it, if you want.”
I blanch, half yelling, “ What ?”
He gives me a look like I’m the unhinged one, and then I realize he’s holding out his hand, trying to help me up.
Mortified, I slip my fingers in his. “Oh, right. Yeah, let’s go.”
His head tilts as he pulls me upright. “What’d you think I meant?”
“Exactly what you said.” I lift my chin. “Why? What did you think I thought you meant?”
His smile grows, eyes dancing. “You’re blushing.”
“It’s hot ,” I snap, ripping my hand from his.
His gaze skims down my body, from my flushed cheeks to my shoes. “No argument there.”
I burn even more.
Awesome. Love that for me.
“Where are you parked?”
It takes me a second to reply because his palm is hovering on the small of my back, and it feels like static crawling under my skin, zapping me in slow, torturous pulses until I might drop dead on the floor.
“I walked,” I finally get out.
He nods, maneuvering us out of the café and onto the sidewalk. Cars zoom by so closely my hair whips around my face. He glances both ways, then shifts us without a word, putting himself between me and the street.
“Rude.” I arch a brow. “What if I want to walk on your left?”
He doesn’t look at me when he replies, “Then you’ll have to be mad about it from the safe side.”
A tiny smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
It’s silly, really. Simple. Barely a thing at all.
But my heart does this ridiculous little flutter anyway, and I step a little closer, letting our arms brush as he threads our fingers together.
That feeling stays the entire way to my apartment, where we say goodbye and joke again about fate.
It’s still there the next day as I pack up the rest of my boxes, Felicity crying fat tears and cussing out my entire bloodline, promising to have her minions key every Calloway car and write “Free Juliette” across the country club sign in glitter glue.
I almost dare her to do it, but nothing stops the inevitable.
And somewhere between the airport and the silence of my childhood bedroom, I finally open up the piece of paper Ryder gave me.
It’s the sketch.
He did finish it.
It’s gorgeous, and intricate, and looks nothing like how I see myself in the mirror. He drew me like I’m a story worth telling. A character worth remembering.
I slide it between the pages of my notebook, careful not to bend the edges because I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but at least I can keep this.
I open to a blank page and begin to write.
Once upon a time, in a city too big for a small-town girl, she met a stranger who reeked of trouble. He drew her like he knew her secrets, and she let herself believe she was something more than just her name. For a moment, she was art.