Page 83 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

I glance between the costume I’m about to put on and my unfamiliar reflection. The Old Will wouldn’t be caught dead with his beard shaved down to only a faint scruff or wearing an outfit like the one he’s about to put on. But the Old Will hadn’t met Juliet.

None of this would be, if it weren’t for Juliet. This time with Juliet hasn’t changed me, but it’s challenged me, and rather than dig in and double down, like I would have in the past, I’ve reached and grown in ways I was so sure I would never want to, ways that are turning my preconceived notions, my sensible plans for my future, right on their head.

I turn back to the clothes hanging on their hooks and reach for the shirt.

“Yeah, Fest,” I mutter. “It is.”

•Twenty-Five•

Juliet

My white dress is off, as are the nude bra and panties I wore beneath it. I could still wear them beneath my dominatrix outfit, but I don’t want to. I want to embrace my character tonight as fully as possible. That calls for a slinky pair of black lace underwear and a matching demi-cup bra.

After I’ve got the bra on, I ease onto the edge of the bed and grab the panties resting there, then slide them up to my knees. I stand from the bed, and just as I’ve shimmied them over my butt, my left knee gives out. I fall with a plop back down to the bed.

Well. At least it wasn’t the floor. Still, frustrated tears sting the backs of my eyes.

I’ve certainly made progress on finding a way to accept my body, rather than constantly resent it; to work with it, love it, even when it hurts. But sometimes, it still upsets me when my body reminds me of these new limitations.

After a deep breath, I stand slowly and take a step, testing my knee. This time, it stays steady, but I feel the wobble in the joint, the looseness I’m learning to pay attention to, warning that stability is not in the cards. Taking my time, I walk toward my closet and open the door. From the hook on the back, I lift the loop connected to the foldable black cane that I ordered online a fewmonths ago, that I almost packed the day I first met Will at Boulangerie, when I woke up feeling that threatening wobble in my knee. Sure enough, it gave out later on, and I fell into him.

But I don’t want to fall into Will tonight. Not because he wouldn’t be sweet about it, or because I’d be embarrassed when it happened—after having told him about my diagnosis, I’ve learned that he understands, from his experience with his mom, how to be supportive without smothering—but because I want to stand on my own two feet tonight. I want to feel like I can go and be wherever I am, and keep myself up on my own.

Tonight, if I wrap my hand around Will’s arm, it will be because I want to, not because I need to, because I want to enjoy touching him simply for enjoyment’s sake.

I lift the cane off the hook and unfold it, popping the metal catches into each section until they slide into the holes and lock the cane’s joints in place. Once it’s assembled, I set the cane in my opposite hand from my wobbly knee and take a few steps back until I can see myself in my full-length body mirror. My gears start to turn with ideas about how the cane can work with my costume. The hair, the makeup, the daring outfit.

When I decided on this costume, I told myself, tonight I was going to channel my inner badass—a woman empowered in her desires and unafraid of embracing them.

I take a long look, examining myself, imagining my transformation. I don’t even have all of that costume on yet, just its slinky, sexy beginning. But as I stare at myself, I realize something—I don’tneedthat costume to reclaim the woman who owns her desire for love, romance, intimate passion; the woman I’ve been reaching to become in these healing months isn’t a far-off hope anymore.

She’s already here, looking me right in the eye.

—

Margo and Sula, who picked me up in their cab, Toni and Hamza, and I are gathered outside the club, huddled together not because it’s cold—it’s a thick, muggy July night—but because we’re jittery with excitement as we wait for the rest of the group to show up, giddy with the anticipation of letting loose and having fun.

I glance down the sidewalk, spinning my cane beneath my hand, hoping I’ll spot Will, but I don’t.

What I do see is a cab pull up, the door thrust open. Kate and Bea step out first and clock me immediately, then beeline my way. Kate lets out a loud whoop and claps her hands. Bea wolf whistles.

I pivot on my cane, doing a jaunty circle so they can get a three-sixty view of me—my hair swept severely back into a high bun that came to life after lots of hairspray and patience, my black cat eye and bloodred lips, my black suit with its plunging blazer, nothing but my bra beneath it, my tight black suit pants, the shiny patent leather boots with a sensible two-inch heel.

“You are a fucking smoke show!” Kate says.

Bea shakes her head admiringly. “Damn, JuJu.”

I smile their way, proud and satisfied. “Why, thank you. So are you two!”

Kate bows in her ringmaster outfit, complete with a long leather whip tucked under her arm—a scarlet coat over a black bustier and matching tight black pants. She’s wearing sky-high heels and a black top hat, so she towers over me. Her hair is down in long, soft brown curls sparkling auburn under the streetlights, falling nearly to her waist. Bea smiles from behind a black mask pluming with inky feathers, her eyes rimmed smoky and dark, making her irises pop vividly. She wears a long black coat but beneath it is a tight black leotard with a full, stiff matching tutu, black tights, and black ballet flats. A black swan.

“I love these outfits,” I tell them. My gaze drifts past them to Christopher, who’s in a lion’s costume. I laugh.

Bea glances over her shoulder and sighs. “I’m still grossed out that we’re going to have to see Kate play-whipping Christopher all night, but it’s a pretty damn good couple’s costume.”

“And Jamie?” I ask, frowning as I glance around.

“The name’s Holmes,” his deep voice says behind me. “Sherlock Holmes.”

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