Page 34 of The Best of Us

Me: What? Tell me.

Juliette: We’re still strangers. Technically. Kind of awkward.

Me: You had my DNA inside you. Grew my child in your stomach (womb?). We no longer qualify as strangers.

I groaned at how horrible that sounded and quickly deleted the whole thing.

I used to be smooth. What happened to me?

Me: I get it.

I hated that response even more but sent it before quickly following up with a text I actually meant.

Me: You’re not in this alone. Not anymore.

Juliette: Thank you.

Juliette: If you really want to know what he said . . .?

Me: I do.

Bubbles came and went. I could feel her nerves in every bouncing dot.

Juliette: He’s worried you’re blackmailing me with the security tapes from the parking garage.

Me: For?

Juliette: In exchange for . . . sex.

Me: Oh.

Brilliant response. It was no wonder my father had yet to retire and turn over his empire to me. Not that I wanted him to.

Me: So, he doesn’t suspect we’ve already had sex, then? That I’m his dad?

I’d never scrutinized my responses so much in my life, and I’d never deleted so many, either, and I did that one.

Me: I just want to get this over with.

That should have been one to wind up trashed.

Me: That came out wrong.

Juliette: No, no, I get it.

I waited to see if she’d type again, and when she didn’t, I tossed my phone on the passenger seat. I was never one to feel the need to have “closure” at the end of talking over text, but this felt unfinished, and I didn’t like it. I groaned and picked up my phone, doing another new-to-me thing.

Me: Is there anything I can do for you before we meet tomorrow? Anything I can do to help?

Juliette: Yes. Please cancel your Amex. I think he has a backup screenshot of your card.

I smiled. That he does.

Me: Yes, ma’am.

Me: Have a good NOC shift.

Juliette: And you know a night shift is called NOC because . . .?

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