17. Juliette
JULIETTE
T he sheets in my bed are so soft they feel like cashmere. I stretch slowly, muscles tensing and releasing as I luxuriate in the feel and listen to the birds chirp in the early morning air outside. It’s dark in my room, but that’s thanks to the blackout curtains that cover the private balcony.
I grab my phone from the end table and swipe it open. There’s a text from Felicity, grinning like a fool, decked out in her cap and gown. She has a cardboard cutout of me propped proudly at her side, her arm slung over it.
It’s possibly the worst picture of me in existence, and she swore that she deleted it. I’m mid-glare, wrapped in my fuzzy all-pink onesie, fresh off a forty-eight-hour NyQuil bender and looking like I’ve just clawed my way out of a crypt.
Even worse, she’s added some fake lashes and drawn a giant margarita in my hand.
Felicity:
Since you bailed, I brought your cardboard twin instead. She’s stiff, but at least she didn’t argue. Total doormat. Either way… WE DID IT! Happy Graduation Day, Jules! Wish you were here.
I chuckle, but the ache in my chest creeps in fast, and I attempt to rub it away. I wish I could be there, and her text only reminds me that we didn’t get to close this chapter of our lives together.
Me:
If I’d known you had that cutout, I wouldn’t have shown up to half the shit you dragged me to.
Sighing, I toss my phone down and yank the comforter over my head, sinking into the pillows, and resisting the urge to grab it so I can search Ryder’s name again. I’ve been trying to find him ever since I opened that sketch, and I’m so mad at myself for not at least getting his number.
I give in, grabbing my cell and tapping it awake, opening a browser.
Just to check.
Burrowing my head beneath the covers again, I type: Ryder, brownish-black hair, artist
Nothing.
I chew on my lip, brows furrowed, and add: hot.
Rolling my eyes at myself, my stomach tightens as the results load.
Nothing.
I delete that and try: Ryder. Artist. Rosebrook Falls.
My teeth tear into my lip as I wait.
Still no Ryder, but one headline grabs my attention.
Breaking: Preston Ascott Says He’s Back…for Her?
Sources say Rosebrook’s former golden boy Preston Ascott is telling close friends he’s “ready to try again” with none other than his high school sweetheart Juliette Calloway, who just landed back in town.
Coincidence? We think not.
But will Juliette take the bait? Or is Prescott going to become the next most eligible bachelor of Rosebrook Falls?
#JulietteReturns #PrestonAscott #SecondChanceSwoon #CallowayWatch #RosebrookRag
I stare at the screen, pulse ticking in my throat.
Perfect. Just what I need.
Seconds later, my door opens, footsteps scurrying into the room followed by the squeaky wheels of a rolling tray.
I got in late last night, so I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I’d know the sound of that gait anywhere.
Beverly.
She flutters about the room, and even though I can’t see her, I can imagine exactly what she looks like. Long blond hair in a tight bun on the top of her head and a sharp jaw that makes her perma-frown more pronounced. Cool brown eyes that can communicate any emotion with a single look.
I can feel her glaring at me right now through the blankets.
Picturing it makes me grin. Growing up, she’d always stand at the foot of my bed with her hands on her wide hips and a practiced look of exasperation on her face as she’d try to get me up for school. She’d smack my feet and tell me to stop playing dead or I’d get stuck like that one day.
Morbid, but it always got the point across.
She’s the closest thing to a real mother that I’ve ever had, and since I barely came home over the past four years, I’ve missed her something fierce.
There was never a day of my life growing up when Beverly wasn’t taking care of me. She showed up in town asking for a job right before I was born, so I’m closer to her than any of my brothers, but we all love her.
“Rise and shine, you faker.”
Her voice is sharp but melodic, and joy infuses my chest. Still, I don’t move from under the covers.
I can’t make it that easy on her after all this time.
“Enough.” A slap on my foot jolts my body. “I can see the light from your phone, liar.”
“Ouch,” I whine as I toss the comforter off me. “Still violent as ever. You know, I think they have therapy for that.”
She narrows her eyes. “Do they have therapy for how to get the pain out of my ass, too? Or is that something that’s a Juliette special, forced on me for the rest of my godforsaken life?”
I beam at her. “I missed you, too, Bevie.”
Beverly gives me a soft look that contradicts the harshness of her words. “We don’t have time for dramatics, child. Get up and act like you didn’t forget all the manners I’ve taught you.”
She throws a robe at me, and I grab it, standing and slipping it on, knotting the tie around my waist. “I could never forget you, Bevie. Your screeching voice is forever burned into my memory.”
“Good.”
She walks away from me and over to a pale-green rolling cart parked near the doors to my balcony, grabbing a mug and making me a cup of coffee. “Either get up now or risk the wrath of your mother when she sees you still in bed.”
My grin drops, and I groan audibly, walking to the chaise next to her and falling down on it with a huff. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to see my mom right away. “She’s coming in here ? Now?”
“Enough of that,” Beverly chides softly as she hands me the cup.
“You do love me.” I sit back up and grasp the coffee, inhaling the fresh aroma. I take a sip, relishing the heat as it scorches my tongue.
Beverly’s already moving somewhere else, throwing open the door to my large walk-in closet that sits to the right of my en-suite bathroom.
“Say it,” I demand. “Tell me you love me, or I’ll think you don’t.”
She snorts from the other room, and then she’s sticking her head around the doorframe. “Your constant need for verbal affirmation is exhausting.”
Laughing, I move to the wall, hitting the keypad that opens the automated curtains, revealing the pool out back and the grassy area of the backyard just beyond it.
My room is on the second floor, and if I step out onto the balcony, I can see beyond our personal tree line to the hills that surround the valley of Rosebrook Falls.
It’s a gorgeous day, the sun shining brightly and reflecting off the water, creating prisms of sparkle that ricochet into the air. There are a few people milling about down there, and my stomach twists, knowing they’re setting up for the Penngrove fundraiser.
I pout, sitting back down on my chaise and resting my chin in my hand. “How am I supposed to know about your love if you don’t say the words?”
“You’re an adult, Juliette. Act like it.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I know you do, anyway. Don’t forget that I know all about your secret phone calls and art tickets.”
Beverly’s in my closet, so she doesn’t respond.
“I need to find my own place. Being here makes me feel like I’m twelve again,” I say to myself as I sip my coffee.
My eyes float over to my phone that’s still on my nightstand, wanting to continue searching for Ryder.
Now I’m annoying myself.
I will not be that girl.
Beverly walks out of my closet pulling a rack on wheels bursting with colorful garments.
“So, why exactly is Mother Dearest planning to come accost me today?” I ask.
Beverly gives me a disapproving look. “Your mother would like to help you prepare for today’s festivities.”
I make a face.
“Stop that,” she admonishes. “She’s going?—”
Footsteps sound from outside the door, and my spine stiffens. Beverly’s eyes hint at panic, her mouth forming a tight line as she turns fully to the dresses she’s sifting through.
The bedroom doors swing open, and in walks my mother, her arms out at her sides and her chin lifted like nothing can touch her.
Cold and aloof. The same way she’s always been.
“Juliette.” She barely even glances at me as she says it.
“Hello, Mother.” Nice to see you, too.
She looks every bit the proper socialite and queen of Rosebrook Falls that you would expect.
Bespoke clothing that whispers its luxury like the passage of time hasn’t come close to aging her.
Brown hair slicked back into a classic French twist, so tight it pulls at her temples.
Red lips and nails that contrast starkly against her fair skin.
A perpetual frown that proves she is the pioneer of resting bitch face.
Her eyes soak me in—not with the gaze of a loving mother, but with the perusal of someone who’s judging what they see.
She’s always judging what she sees when it comes to me. You’d think after so many years, I’d have built up an impenetrable wall that makes me immune to her stare, but as much as I hate to admit it, her opinion still affects me.
It always has, and it always will.
“Hmm.” She crosses her arms, and her fingers are so bony that the oval shapes of her nails make her look like she has claws. She taps one against her sleeve, and I imagine her digging those talons into my chest and ripping out my heart like a she-devil.
That would make a good fantasy story.
She tilts her head and then frowns before she spins around, her navy-blue pencil skirt clinging perfectly to her physique, one that she’s honed with daily Pilates and a very regimented diet.
I know because she always expected the same of me.
She clicks her tongue as she walks toward the rack of clothing. “Beverly, these outfits are atrocious.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Beverly replies, inclining her head. “They were sent by your personal stylist yesterday.”
Mom makes a face of disappointment while she holds one of the dresses and slips her other palm down the side of it like she’s inspecting it for imperfections.
If there’s one thing that Martha Calloway is good at, it’s finding the flaws in everything.
I should know.
“She has to look flawless,” my mom continues, proving my point.
Then she turns toward me.
“You have to look flawless,” she reiterates.
Swallowing another mouthful of coffee, I nod and beam at her. “Should be easy since I’m naturally perfect.”
The joke falls flat.
My eyes fling from her to Beverly, who’s now standing in the corner of the room with her head tilted down and her fingers clasped together like she’s waiting on my mother’s next command.
That’s what’s expected at the Calloway estate, but it still irritates me to see it.
“Juliette,” my mother snaps, and my stare slingshots to hers. “Are you paying attention?”
“Yes, Mother. Unfortunately, you make it impossible to ignore you.” Sighing, I place my coffee down on the tray table and walk toward her.
Her lips pinch tight, small vertical lines from years of smoking in secret becoming more pronounced around the shape of her mouth.
I stand straight and wait for her to pick me apart. There’s no use fighting her; arguing with my mom is like banging my head against a reinforced concrete wall. One with spikes. It does nothing but fuel her, yet somehow, I always end up broken and bloodied.
A blue dress is in her hands, and she holds it up to me, frowning, stretching out the sides like she’s trying to make it fit against my front. “You’ve gained weight.”
My jaw tenses, and I stiffen my back, not responding.
This is the type of bullshit I did not miss.
She shakes her head, tossing the gown haphazardly into Beverly’s hands.
“You’ll come with me to Pilates tomorrow,” she states.
Another dress. This time a light pastel pink. My favorite color. “Sure, Mom. Whatever you want.”
We both know she won’t make me actually go. I’m sure this is the only time this month we’ll have one-on-one time. She’s a virtual ghost in my life, only appearing when absolutely necessary.
Any extra energy she does have goes toward my brothers.
“I guess this is as good as it will get.” She holds the pink gown to my front, her head tilting, lips pursing in distaste. “We’ll need an entirely new wardrobe for the Founders’ Gala. I had given measurements based off what you should be, not where you clearly are.”
“I think it’s pretty,” I reply, ignoring her jabs about what I’ll be wearing to the most obnoxious event of the town.
The dress for today is knee length and sleeveless, the pink fabric flowing like a waterfall.
My mother’s eyes meet mine. “Preston will be here.”
I frown, remembering that stupid tabloid post earlier. “Preston, as in my ex -boyfriend?”
“He’s the governor’s son.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.” My voice is flat. “Who invited him? I don’t want to see him.”
She looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “His father’s up for reelection, and you know how important it is for whoever holds that seat to be someone your father backs. Preston is an upstanding gentleman, and he’s eager to see you again.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Is all that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Don’t be ungrateful,” she snaps. “You can hardly blame a man for wanting to go out into the world and make something of himself. It’s knowing he always comes home that’s important, and Preston is ready to come home, Juliette.”
Her hand runs along the length of the dress, tilting her head to the side as she keeps it pressed to my front.
“Your father and I always liked the two of you together. He was a fine boy, and he’s turned into a powerful man. You’d do well to be on his arm.”
She gives me a severe look, and I get the message loud and clear.
Play your part.
Suddenly, the main reason for me being at this fundraiser instead of graduation makes perfect sense.
“Bevie,” I say over my shoulder. “Can you open the window? It’s feeling a little seventeenth century-ish in here.”
My mother’s frown deepens, and I grin at her, wide and obnoxious. “Just joking.”
She sighs again, looking at the pink dress a final time before giving a sharp nod and handing it off to Beverly.
“Is anyone else home?” I ask her, hoping she says my brothers are here to see me.
I’m not naive enough to believe my father would be. Busy men don’t have time to spend at home with their families; that’s another life lesson my mother taught me at a young age, and it’s one that’s proven true.
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re all living their lives. You’ll see them later today at the party.”
I suck on my lips to keep from saying something out of turn.
“Try not to cause any trouble in the meantime, hmm?” My mother watches me with an unreadable expression, her hand cupping my cheek.
My chest pinches, and I lean into the touch, surprise flowing through me.
“And don’t eat that breakfast Beverly brought in.” Her eyes trail up and down my form. “We’re trying to make you fit in that dress, dear.”