24. Juliette #2
We sit there, both disheveled, both breathing hard, the windows completely opaque.
My lipstick is a rumor. His collar has surrendered. Somewhere under the seat is one of my earrings, filed for later, and the console between us has the smug air of furniture that has seen things.
“That was six years late,” I say.
“What?”
“Defending me in front of everyone.” I reach over and fix his collar. “Taking a stand. That was six years late.”
“I know.”
“And this-” I gesture at the fogged windows, the obvious evidence of what almost happened. “This also didn’t happen.”
“You’re building quite a list.”
“Shut up, Zachary.”
“Things that didn’t happen. I’m going to need a spreadsheet.”
“Get one. Column A, your back seat outside the realtor’s. Column B, the pantry. Column C, this parking lot. Column D-”
“There’s a column D?”
“There’s about to be a column D if you keep smiling like that.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You’re smiling like a man with a spreadsheet.”
“I said shut up.”
I kiss him once more, hard and fast, then pull back.
“The Stroll,” I say. “We need to talk about it.”
“Now?”
“Now. While I’m still thinking clearly.”
He laughs, rough and broken. “I’m definitely not thinking clearly.”
“Try.” I pull my dress back into place. “Nicole saw us leave. She’ll know we came out here together.”
“Let her. You think I care about the club knowing?” He drags a hand down his face, and the laugh that escapes is disbelieving, younger than he’s looked in years.
“Juliette, an hour ago Whit Prescott asked the whole room whether my marriage was a real estate arrangement, and my wife dragged me into a car. There are men at that raw bar right now who’d trade their boats for my afternoon. ”
“I don’t care what Nicole knows.”
“You should care. Because she’s going to use it.” I meet his eyes. “She’s going to tell everyone about the scene you just made. About the parking lot. About how the Dean heir is defending a woman he’s already divorcing. She’s going to make you look unstable.”
“Then let her.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“My plan is to stand up at that tree lighting and tell the truth.” His voice is steady. “About the email. About the six years. About everything I should have said and didn’t. Let her spin whatever narrative she wants. The truth will be louder.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.” He takes my hand. “Because I’m not going to defend you from the sidelines this time. I’m going to stand next to you. In front of everyone. And I’m going to make it very clear whose side I’m on.”
“And if your mother tries to stop you?”
“She can try.” His jaw tightens. “But I’m done letting her control the narrative. I’m done managing her feelings at the expense of yours. It’s time she learned that some things aren’t negotiable.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.” He lifts our joined hands. “You’re not negotiable. You never were. I was just too much of a coward to say it.”
I study his face. Looking for doubt. Looking for the old Zachary, the one who would find a way to manage this instead of confronting it.
I don’t find him.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“The tree lighting. Together. In front of everyone.” I squeeze his hand. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Rules,” I say. “Rule one: you don’t touch me up there until you’ve said whatever you’re going to say. If you hold my hand first, they’ll read it as me propping you up.”
“Rule one. Accepted.”
“Rule two: if Nicole raises her hand, ring or no ring, you don’t look at her. You keep talking. A raised hand only works if somebody stops for it.”
“Rule two. Accepted.”
He’s holding up fingers as we go, counting the rules off like deal points, and there’s a light in him I haven’t seen since a library after midnight - the look of a man who has finally been handed a negotiation he actually wants to win.
“Rule three.” I look at him. “Whatever your mother does - whatever voice she uses - you finish the sentence.”
His jaw sets. “Rule three,” he says, “is the whole plan.”
“I won’t.”
“If you hesitate-”
“I won’t hesitate.”
“If you let her interrupt-”
“Juliette.” He cups my face with his free hand. “I’m done hesitating. I’m done letting anyone interrupt. I’m going to stand up there and say everything I should have said six years ago, and I’m not going to stop until everyone on that island knows exactly who you are to me.”
“And who am I?”
“Everything.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You’re everything.”
The words land somewhere that hasn’t had mail delivered in years. I put my hand flat on his chest - not pushing away, just confirming, the way you touch a wall you’re about to lean on - and his heart is going like a man mid-negotiation, which, to be fair, he is.
I should have something clever to say. Some deflection, some joke, some way to maintain the careful distance I’ve been protecting.
Instead, I lean into his hand and let myself believe him.
Just this once.
Across the parking lot, Nicole stands watching us.
She has her clutch under her arm. The little beaded one, barely big enough for a phone and a lipstick and a grandmother’s sapphire, and my whole body knows what’s in it the way you know there’s a wasp in the room before you see it.
She’s far enough away that she can’t hear what we’re saying, but close enough to see everything. The fogged windows. The rumpled clothes. The way Zachary’s hand is still cupping my face.
Her expression is composed, controlled. But there’s something behind her eyes that looks like calculation.
“She’s going to try something,” I say quietly.
“Let her try.”
“I’m serious. She’s not going to just accept defeat.”
“Neither am I.” He turns to follow my gaze. “The tree lighting is in two days. Whatever she’s planning, we’ll be ready.”
Nicole’s smile widens, just slightly. Then she turns and walks back toward the club.
Zachary watches her go with the expression he used to save for hostile term sheets.
“She thinks she’s holding cards,” he says.
“She’s holding a ring in a clutch.”
“She’s holding my mother’s confidence, which historically converts to anything.
” He starts the car, and his hand finds mine on the console without looking for it, a reflex six years late and right on time.
“Two days. Stay close to Rosie. And Juliette-” his thumb crosses my knuckles “-wear whatever makes you feel most like the last woman standing. Because you will be.”
The war is coming.
And for once, I’m ready for it.