Chapter 21 #2
“Because I was trying to be the person he wanted me to be.” Her voice cracks but she pushes through. “I kept thinking if I was perfect enough, he’d finally see me. But then he cheated. And thank god he did, because it woke me up. It made me look at my life and realize I was wasting time.”
I can’t stop staring at her. “He cheated, and you still thought it was on you?”
“Not anymore.” She swallows. “But yeah. Back then, I built everything around him. My days, my choices, my whole damn self-worth. And when it fell apart, I had nothing left except this drive to prove I mattered. I needed to prove it to everyone.”
I grip the counter to steady myself. She’s baring herself to me in a way I’ve never seen. It feels unfair that she trusts me with this when all I’ve done is push her away.
“You’re not wasting time now,” I say.
Her eyes glisten. “I hope not.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The air between us is different now.
Heavier, sharper. My body still aches to touch her, but my chest aches harder.
I want to tell her she deserves more than scraps from assholes like Patrick.
I want to tell her she deserves someone who sees her, all of her, even the parts she hides.
I whisper, “You matter, Juliet.”
Her breath catches. She leans toward me, her fingers brushing my shirt again, but this time we don’t kiss. Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but then her fingers curl in my shirt and she pulls me back in.
We kiss hard this time. Dirty. My hands slide under her shirt, mapping the curve of her waist, the soft skin just above her ribs. She’s warm and perfect and everything I shouldn’t want but can’t stop thinking about.
I pick her up and set her on the counter. She wraps her legs around my hips immediately, pressing against me like she needs this just as badly as I do. The friction makes me groan into her mouth.
We both know this can’t keep happening. We both know it’s going to complicate everything we’ve worked for. But neither of us stops.
We’re supposed to be enemies. So why can’t I stop kissing her?
I hate that I can’t walk away from her. Hate that I’ll be replaying this all night when I should shut her out of my head.
Her hands tangle in my still-damp hair, pulling me closer. I can taste the mint from her lip balm. I can feel the rapid beat of her pulse under my thumb where it rests against her throat.
“This is crazy,” she whispers against my lips.
“Completely insane,” I agree, then kiss her again.
Eventually, she pulls away, lips swollen and pupils blown wide. We’re both still breathing hard, still touching, my hands on her thighs and hers gripping my shoulders.
But reality crashes back in. I step back, putting space between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
She smooths her shirt down, doesn’t meet my eyes. “Food’s going cold.”
I want to kiss her again. Every careful rule she’s written to keep us apart? I want to ruin them all.
Instead, I grab a fork and force myself to sit at the counter. I try not to look at her thighs when she walks past to put things away.
She’s pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending I don’t get under her skin the same way she’s gotten under mine. Fine. If she wants to keep it fake, I’ll keep it fake. I’m good at pretending. Good at keeping things bottled up until they rot.
It’s not like I’m boyfriend material anyway. We both know that.
The salmon is incredible, perfectly cooked and seasoned. The meal that takes time and thought; it’s not something you throw together on a whim.
“This is amazing,” I tell her.
“Thanks. I used to cook for Patrick sometimes when he felt stressed about work.
The mention of her ex makes something ugly twist in my chest. “He was lucky.”
“He never seemed to think so.”
“There are a lot of things I would do differently if I were in his place.”
She gulps, looking down at the table, the back of her neck growing pink.
“Thanks.”
Later, when she disappears into her room, I blast music in mine and try not to picture her in my shirt, legs wrapped around me, eyes full of heat and want.
I fail miserably. I fist my cock and jerk off while I picture her spread out on my bed, still wearing that shirt but nothing else. Think about what she’d taste like, what sounds she’d make when I made her come. It’s so hot that I blow my load after only a minute.
Fuck, she’s driving me crazy.
The orgasm is unsatisfying, so I plow right through, fist working hard against my dick. The whole time, I’m promising myself that after this orgasm, I’ll have had enough. My consuming crush on Juliet will end and we’ll go back to being awkward, distant enemies.
We are supposed to be enemies, after all.
When I come the second time, still quicker than I’d like, I feel empty. If anything, I feel lonelier than I did before.
And Juliet is still on my mind. Damn her.
After everything’s calmed down and I’ve gotten myself together, I’m in my room with the door cracked open, trying to cool off and pretend I have any self-control left.
I hear her padding down the hall in bare feet, then a light knock on my door.
“Sorry,” she says, opening the door just a little without stepping inside. “I can’t find my phone charger. It might be in your car.”
“I have a few extra.” I gesture toward my closet. “If one of those doesn’t work, I can run downstairs soon.”
I watch her cross the room carefully, like she doesn’t want to intrude on my space. She opens the closet slowly and crouches down to a box filled with carefully spooled cables, sitting on the floor next to my hockey gear.
Shit. I glance at the shoebox that I keep pushed back behind my equipment bag. It’s filled with my journals and my unsent letters. It usually has a lid on it to deter any prying eyes. But for some reason, the lid is askew and the contents are easy to reach.
Why didn’t I just get the fucking phone charger for her?
Juliet doesn’t see the box at first. But when she shifts the box of cables to get a better line of sight, the letter slips free from where I’d shoved it inside.
Handwritten envelope. My mother’s name scrawled across the front in my messy handwriting.
I tense, my whole body locking up like I’m about to get hit.
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.