Chapter 15 Juliette
JULIETTE
I wake up to the worst headache of my life and Rodriguez’s arm firmly around my waist.
For a second I just lay there, trying to piece together how I even ended up here.
Then last night comes back in vivid fragments that feel way too clear for how hungover I am, the club, the dancing, Garrett being predictably awful, the kiss on the dance floor that turned into two kisses that turned into us basically stumbling back here and me completely failing to say what I actually meant.
Is this real for you?
It could be. I think it could be.
I said “it could be” like some kind of asshole. Like someone who’s so used to performing that she literally can’t commit to something she wants. He stood there and admitted he’s been falling for me since September and I gave him “it could be” like I was hedging my bets.
My head is pounding. There’s a dull throb behind my eyes that makes even the dim morning light feel too bright. And Rodriguez is curled around me like we do this every night, his arm heavy and warm across my stomach, his breathing deep and even against my shoulder.
Maybe he does have the right. After last night, after everything, maybe this is exactly where we both belong.
Except I don’t really know how to think about that without spiraling, so I focus on more immediate problems. Like the fact that my bladder is screaming at me and my mouth tastes like I licked a dive bar floor and if I don’t move soon this is going to get way more embarrassing.
I try to extract myself as carefully as possible. Rodriguez makes a sound of protest in his sleep, this low rumble that I feel more than hear, and rolls onto his back. His hair is everywhere, dark against the white pillowcase. One arm flung across the space where I was just lying.
I freeze, waiting to see if he’ll wake up.
He doesn’t.
In the bathroom, I crank the shower as hot as it will go and then immediately regret looking in the mirror. My hair looks like I lost a fight with a wind tunnel. I look exactly like someone who spent last night making out with her fake boyfriend and then panicked when he asked if it was real.
I should have said yes. Should have been brave enough to just tell him the truth instead of hiding behind qualifiers and maybes.
But the words stuck in my throat because what if I’m wrong?
What if this feeling is just adrenaline and proximity and the heady rush of someone actually paying attention?
What if I let myself fall and he realizes I’m not worth it?
I brush my teeth, swallow two Advil with a handful of water, and try to pull myself together. We have Niagara Falls today. Two hours on a bus with my entire family, followed by a full day of playing the happy couple while it seems like we might not be playing anymore.
Or I don’t want it to be playing. I don’t even know.
Rodriguez is still awake in bed. Propped up on one elbow, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Morning,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep, deeper than usual.
“Morning.” Mine comes out barely better, scratchy and weak. “How’s your head?”
“Fucking awful. Yours?”
“Like someone’s drilling through my skull.”
“Yeah.” He sits up, running a hand through his hair in a way that makes it stick up even worse.
He should look terrible, hungover and rumpled and half-asleep.
Instead he just looks warm and soft and I really need to stop staring.
“Coffee should be here in ten minutes. I ordered it right after you woke up.”
He ordered coffee. Of course he did. Because apparently Rodriguez is the kind of person who wakes up hungover and immediately thinks about what other people need.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He swings his legs out of bed, arching his back and stretching with his arms over his head, his shirt rides up a bit and I have to remind myself to breathe properly. “But you don’t seem like a morning person. There’s water on the nightstand if you need some.”
He disappears into the bathroom before I can even think of how to respond.
I sit on the edge trying to wrap my brain around everything that’s happened since last night.
He ordered coffee because he knew I’d need it.
Because he pays attention to details like that.
Because apparently at some point in the last two days, taking care of me became something he just does without even thinking about it.
The knock on the door comes exactly five minutes later. I tip the delivery guy and bring the cups inside, setting them on the small table by the window.
Two paper cups. Both with the hotel logo. Both steaming.
I stare at them for a second, debating which one is mine, then give up and call toward the bathroom. “Rodriguez? Which coffee is mine?”
The water shuts off. “The one that qualifies as dessert.” His voice carries through the door, and he sounds amused. “Isn’t that how you like it?”
I freeze with my hand hovering over the cups.
He remembered. One offhand comment at the airport, me joking that I liked my coffee with as much cream and sugar as physically possible, and he remembered. Not just remembered, but ordered it that way without me having to ask or remind him or explain it again.
Garrett never did that. In three years, he never once remembered how I took my coffee. I’d have to remind him every single time, and even then it was fifty-fifty whether he’d get it right. But Rodriguez heard it once and made it happen without thinking twice.
“Yeah,” I call back, popping off the lids to check the color, the lighter one almost beige with cream. “That’s how I like it.”
I take a sip and it’s perfect. Exactly right. Sweet enough that it’s barely coffee anymore, just the way I’ve always preferred it even though I know it’s objectively ridiculous.
Oh boy. I’m in trouble.
Real trouble. The kind that doesn’t go away when we fly home Monday. The kind that’s going to hurt when this ends.
If it ends.
No. When it ends. Because it has to end, right? This isn’t real. We’re just pretending. We’re opposites who make no sense together.
I’m still spiraling when the bathroom door opens and Rodriguez emerges in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair and running down his chest.
“Coffee good?” he asks, grabbing his own cup.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“No problem.” He takes a long drink, then checks his phone. “What time do we need to leave?”
“Bus is at nine. We should probably be downstairs by eight forty-five to be safe.”
“Got it.” He’s already moving toward his suitcase, pulling out clothes. “That gives us forty minutes.”
I should start getting ready. Should do my makeup, fix my hair, make myself look like someone who has her life together.
Instead I’m sitting here holding my perfectly-made coffee and trying to figure out when exactly I stopped pretending to have feelings for Rodriguez and started actually having them.
My makeup bag is on the vanity by the window where I left it last night. I need to at least start foundation if I want to be ready on time. I open it and start pulling out what I need.
That’s when I notice it.
Another note, tucked between my foundation and concealer where I’d definitely see it first thing.
My hands aren’t quite steady when I unfold it.
You’re even more beautiful when you’re not trying. -R
He sees me. Not the perfect version I perform for everyone else, the one who smiles on cue and says the right things and never lets anyone see her struggling. Or even the skater who landed triple axels before her ankle gave out, or the straight-A student, or the responsible older sister.
He sees the version underneath all of that. The one who’s messy and uncertain and so tired of being perfect. The one who fake-smiles through family dinners and holds herself together by sheer force of will.
And he thinks that version, the real version, is more beautiful.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into the side pocket of my makeup bag. Right next to yesterday’s note about my fake smiles. The one I told myself I’d throw away and then couldn’t. I’m definitely keeping these. All of them. However many he writes.
“You okay over there?”
I look up. Rodriguez is dressed now, watching me with that expression that means he knows something’s wrong but he’s not going to push.
“Yeah. Fine. Just caffeinating.”
“That’s not a real word.”
“It should be.”
He grins and goes back to his phone, and I start on my makeup with hands that are still slightly unsteady.
Two notes in two days. Both seeing straight through me. Both making me want things I’m not sure I’m ready to want.
The bus ride to Niagara Falls is as boring and slightly miserable as expected, two hours of Olivia’s voice carrying over everyone else’s, my dad dozing against the window, my mom asking Rodriguez a million questions about hockey and his family.
I end up pressed against Rodriguez’s side, his arm around my shoulders, half-listening to him charm my mother while I stare out the window at the highway rolling past. The bus hits a bump and I shift closer, and he adjusts his arm to pull me in tighter.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs against my hair when my mom finally turns to talk to someone else.
“Tired. Hungover.”
“Thinking too much?”
“Always.”
His thumb traces circles on my shoulder through my coat. “Stop thinking so much. Just be here.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one whose entire worldview is currently imploding because someone remembered how she takes her coffee.
The Behind the Falls attraction is busy even in February. Tour groups crowd the entrance, everyone bundled in winter coats and scarves. The cold air bites at my face, my eyes immediately start to water.
Our tour guide explains the history as we descend 125 feet by elevator. The space is small, we’re all smooshed together, Rodriguez’s chest is against my back, his hands on my waist to steady me as the elevator lurches downward.