Page 63 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

I stroke her arm, my fingertips tracing a shape against her skin I don’t let myself analyze, don’t allow to monopolize my thoughts. “Thankyou.”

She clears her throat, glancing out at the flowers. “Also, thanks for the way you talked about my future partner. I’m bisexual, and it means a lot that you didn’t assume I was straight.”

I nod. “ ’Course, Jules.”

Shaking her head as she gazes at the purple coneflower near us, she sighs. “You’re such a green flag man.”

A soft chuckle leaves me. “I thought that was a good thing.”

She nods, still not meeting my eyes. “It is.”

“Hey.” I squeeze her shoulder.

She peers up at me. “Hmm?”

“We just talked about a lot of hard shit, and it went pretty well, I think.”

A smile brightens her face. “I think so, too.” She lifts her hand for a high five. “We kicked this third date’s ass!”

I meet her high five. “What do you say we celebrate? You an ice cream gal?”

Her eyes light up. “You bet I am. But I’ve got family dinner in two hours. Should I sneak ice cream before dinner?”

“I’d say you’ve earned it.”

She beams. “Yeah. You’re right. I have.”

“Come on.” I stand, offering her my hand. “I know a place not too far from here that has gluten-free waffle cones.”

Groaning, she slaps her hand into mine and lets me tug her up. “Of course you do.”

As we turn, Juliet threads her arm in mine. And then she freezes, her eyes wide. I frown down at her. “What is it?”

“My parents,” she whispers, “are walking into this room right now.”

My head snaps up as I try to follow the line of her gaze. I narrow my eyes, squinting at the middle-aged-looking couple who walk in, the woman’s hand curled around the man’s arm. There is no doubt that the woman walking in is Juliet’s mother. She’s her double, fast-forward thirty years.

A fierce, terrible ache slices through me. I won’t know Juliet like that. Won’t see lines deepen at her eyes, threads of silver start to streak her lovely dark hair. I’m so caught up in these unexpected, unsettling thoughts, it takes me a minute to register that Juliet’s tugging at my armhard.

“Come on,” she hisses. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” She glances around frantically, realizing what I already know—we’re cornered, no exit but the one her parents have just walked through, no path but the one they’re walking down as we speak. Her eyes dart around. She tugs me with her one way, then the other.

“Jules,” I say, calm and quiet. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Oh, I’ll find somewhere,” she says.

“Swear to God, Juliet, if you shove me into another shrub, I’ll—”

“Jules!”

We both freeze. And then we turn slowly, facing the woman who just called her name, the man beside her, holding her hand.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot.

•Nineteen•

Juliet

Mom wraps me in a gentle hug, always gentle these days. The sting of that gentleness fades when she says, “Hi, birdie,” a nickname she and Dad use for me and my sisters that always makes me feel loved.

---