27. Juliette
JULIETTE
Trouble:
What’d you write about today?
Me:
A girl who’s concerned her friend will be hurt by her family because he’s allergic to blank walls.
Trouble:
You worried about me, Little Rose?
Me:
Yes.
I hit send, and it feels a little better once I get it off my chest.
We’ve been texting back and forth the past few weeks, Roman and me, and every day, I get a text from him asking what I’m writing.
Since the only time I actually get to write is when I’m with him, I’ve started using our messages as an outlet, and part of me thinks that’s why he continues to text and ask.
But seeing his graffiti showing up more and more in the papers, watching my father get increasingly upset at very aggressive speculation being aimed in our direction…it makes everything uncomfortable for me.
I haven’t forgotten Roman implying it was my dad who caused the car accident all those years ago, and I’m not naive enough to think he’s wrong.
Still…I love my dad. And I hate that my brothers are caught in the fray of all this.
It makes me feel awful for continuing to meet with him. To talk to him. To enjoy his company. Like a betrayal to my family in the worst kind of way.
Felicity:
Why are you avoiding me? I’ve been back for over a week, and as penance for your betrayal, you’re coming out with me anywhere I choose. I pick the outfit, the place, and the music.
I make a face as I read her text, but I guess fair is fair.
I avoided her because I don’t know what to say.
I’m not sure how to talk to her without spilling everything about Roman and me, but I’m not sure I should tell her.
Felicity isn’t exactly discreet when she thinks that things should be a certain type of way, and the last thing I want is for her to dip her hand into something beyond her scope and ruffle feathers she has no business touching.
Trouble:
Maybe the guy in your story has no choice. Maybe it isn’t about him at all.
Me:
Doesn’t make it any better.
Trouble:
Does he grow up to be a famous artist with a gallery in Paris in the end?
Me:
Nope. He ends up in prison. Another cautionary tale, just like his much more intelligent friend warned him.
Trouble:
Tough crowd.
Conjugal visits?
I grin.
The couch cushion dips beside me, a heavy silence hitting the air.
“What’s got you smiling like that?” Lance’s voice cuts through my emotions, and my grin drops, my heart hammering as I slide my phone underneath my thigh.
I blink at him, shocked to see him home.
His hazel gaze takes in mine with concern. “What’s wrong with you?”
His question snaps me out of my daze, and I roll my eyes with an audible huff. “Oh, now you care?”
He sits back and flinches like my words were a physical attack.
“Come on, Jules.” He runs his hands over his face, and I don’t miss that the knuckles are split open and scabbed. Worry lights up my middle, but I push it back down. “Don’t be a bitch to me.”
“You know, why is that always the default insult for women?”
“I don’t?—”
“ You …” I point a finger at him, glaring. “Are an asshole. I’m mad at you.”
His entire face drops, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his wavy, black hair ghosting across his eye when he hangs his head. A muscle in his jaw tics.
“And you know what?” I continue. “Maybe you deserve for me to be a bitch to you. Has that thought ever crossed your mind, Lance? Or have you been too busy ignoring me to care?”
He clears his throat, his face drawn like I’ve pummeled him. Like I’m the bad guy here.
“California really did a number on you, huh?” he murmurs after a few quiet seconds.
Now, that pisses me off, and I shoot to a stand. I’m so mad it feels like I could spit fire. I’m not even sure why I’m so angry, other than the fact that nothing feels like it’s been in my control since coming back.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s this fucking family that’s pissing me off?” I hiss. “Maybe it’s only you I’m being a bitch to.”
I shove a finger in his face, and he grits his teeth, his gaze growing dark. “Get your finger out of my face, Juliette, or I swear to God.”
His voice is cold as ice, and so low I barely hear him say it. He’s always had that dangerous quality to him, but he’s never used it against me. It’s always been to protect me. Having it flipped is jarring.
I drop my hand and let out a slow breath. “What happened to you?”
His jaw clenches, and he looks away from me, but there’s something about him that screams of sadness, and it douses my anger, just a little.
Sighing, I plop back down on the couch and stare at him. “Do you know you used to be the only person I could say anything to? Now look at us.”
“You still can,” he claims, turning his head to face me again. The iciness in his gaze has disappeared entirely, leaving behind the soft warmth that I’ve known my whole life.
“I’ve been home for weeks now, Lance.” I try to keep the hurt from my voice, but it cracks anyway. “Where have you been?”
His mouth opens and closes. He runs his fingers through his hair, making the silver chain around his neck rustle and gleam under the living room lights.
I put up my palm. “You know what? I don’t even care at this point. But you don’t get to waltz in here and act like we can chit-chat like old times. You don’t deserve to know why I’m in a bad mood.”
He swallows and nods, crossing his foot over the opposite knee, then resting his hand on top.
My gaze tracks along his cracked knuckles again, that familiar worry surging through me. I want to ask him if he’s all right, but again, I keep the words down.
He doesn’t get to feel like I care.
Not when he doesn’t seem to care about me.
Instead, I stiffen my chin. If he wants to call me a bitch and act like he hasn’t been the biggest jerk on the face of the planet, then I’ll just snub him. Sniffing, I lean forward to pick up the remote and turn on the TV, flipping through the channels.
“Jules,” he murmurs, his voice coated with sadness.
I ignore him.
He shifts on the couch. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I side-eye him. Good job ignoring him, Jules. Real tough.
He huffs, his head angling toward the ceiling before he looks back at me. “For a lot of things.”
I lift a shoulder, swallowing down the emotion. “It’s whatever.”
“It isn’t.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve obviously fucked up with you.”
“Yeah, well.” I flip the channel again, my finger hitting the remote harder than necessary.
“Art’s dating this girl, and she’s not really someone who has anyone on her side. His dad doesn’t approve, and he’s not willing to give her up, so he has me looking out for her.”
“And that means you can’t be around me, why ?” I give him a look like he’s lost his mind.
“It doesn’t. There’s just a lot going on.”
“Mmhm, sure.” I focus harder on the TV.
“Having you gone sucked, okay?” he finally blurts out. “You’re the only family member I can stand to be around, and I?—”
“So, you basically excommunicate me?” I scoff. “Real mature.”
He grits his teeth, his angular jaw flexing. “I thought maybe you’d choose to stay away if we didn’t talk.”
I gape at him, my hand with the remote frozen in the air. “Well, that sucks .”
He shakes his head again. “No, I—do you realize how fucked up our family is, Jules? And you’re so good. The best. You’re the only one worth a damn around here, and if you come back, if you get pulled into the family bullshit, they’ll suck the light right out of you.”
My brows draw down. “Lance, I don’t need saving from our family. What’s wrong with you?”
Even as I say it, I don’t believe the words. Because maybe I do.
His nostrils flare as he stares at me, and then he exhales and grins at me, like whatever he was about to say, whatever has been weighing on him since he walked in, just disappeared. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “I don’t forgive you.”
“Not even if I promise to never do it again?” he asks.
Tossing down the remote, I cross my arms and look at him.
I want to stay mad, I really do. There’s a huge part of me that’s so hurt by his dismissal, and I’m not sure it will ever heal so that we can get back to where we were as kids.
But then my gaze sweeps across his features again, and I really take him in.
His hazel eyes are more pronounced, but it’s only because of the dark circles underneath, proving he isn’t sleeping. His hands look like he’s beat people half to death.
My chest squeezes.
No matter how angry I am with him, if I shut him out, am I any better than how he’s been with me?
My shoulders drop, and I sigh. “Fine. But don’t ever do it again.”
Relief coasts across his eyes, and he beams at me, his smile pulling up higher on the right.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
I sniff. “Depends on what you’re referencing, I guess.”
He waves his arm at me. “Whatever it is that has you like this.”
Another wave of irritation hits me, and I turn toward him, my anger recognizing him as a viable punching bag, regardless of whether it’s truly him who deserves the ire or not.
“No, actually, I don’t want to talk about it.
Maybe when I first got home, and no one even blinked in my direction.
Maybe when you came to that Penngrove fundraiser without a single, solitary ‘I missed you, Jules.’ But now?
Now I’m good . No need to rehash how our parents are trying to marry me off to my ex like a Regency-era fever dream, or how I’m allegedly an adult but still sleeping in my childhood home. ”
I wave my fists in the air while I continue my tirade, and Lance’s eyes grow wider with each spewed word. But I don’t stop, because now I’m on a roll, and if he wants to hear things, then he’ll hear them. “The leash is back on, let’s all pretend like we’re surprised.”
After my rant, I exhale heavily, a little out of breath from how quickly the words left my brain and flew into the air, but I feel a little better.
Lighter, maybe.
“Jesus, I thought you said you forgive me,” Lance says.