Page 11 of All's Well that Friends Well

“Barely at all,” a gruff voice responds as a faint shuffling of feet comes closer.

“It was a definite stumble,” I say—kindly, because the guy in there is clearly a million years old and possibly as crotchety as Luca.

“So…what?” Luca says. “You snuck around my house and peeked through the windows, like a Peeping Tom?”

I gasp. “I wouldnever.” I straighten up, smoothing myhand down my lacy top. “I was just looking for my earring near the back. The kitchen windows are open, you know. So I couldn’t help overhearing that you need an assistant or whatever. Just that!” I add quickly. “I didn’t hear your conversation or anything. Also I wanted to make sure that guy was okay.” I hesitate, clear my throat again, and then call past Luca, “You’re okay, right, sir?”

From behind Luca’s towering frame in the doorway, a faint grunt of assent filters out. I nod, my cheeks heating.

Because there’s a voice piping up in my head, one that sounds suspiciously like Aurora, full of disapproval at this clear invasion of privacy.Juliet,that voice says.You can’t go sneaking around just because you’re curious.

The Aurora in my mind is correct, I realize. I might have crossed the line on this one.

“Do you remember me telling you that if you came here again I would report you?” Luca says, his attention back on me. He seems taller than he did two seconds ago, now that he’s glowering down at me with even more force than usual.

Even hishairlooks darker, and messier—wilder rather than crisply tamed. It’s the Kitchen Incident all over again.

“I remember,” I say, my voice small. There’s a knot in the back of my throat, one I try to swallow past. It doesn’t shift. Still, I force myself to hold Luca’s gaze, dark and penetrating and so, so annoyed.

Luca nods slowly, but he doesn’t go on. He just stares at me.

“So…?” I say when I finally can’t stand the silence between us. “If I promise to never ever ever?—”

“You already promised!” he cuts me off. His glasses glint in the afternoon sun as he jerks hishead at me. “And here you are again. So you see why I’m hesitant to even speak to you?”

“I do,” I say as something sinks in the pit of my stomach.

And I finally, finally understand.

I am a mosquito to this man. A gnat. And no matter how much I buzz around his face, it won’t make him enjoy my presence.

“And I guess you probably aren’t going to hire me, either,” I say. The words are heavy as they fall off my tongue, and I squeeze my eyes shut to ward off the stinging tears.

“Oh, no,” I hear Luca say with something like slow realization. “You’re not—are you going to cry again?”

“No,” I snap. I hope it’s true, because crying is the only thing that could make this situation worse.

“Because you look like you’re going to?—”

“I’m not!” I say with a stomp of my foot, even as one hot tear trickles down my cheek. I whirl around so that all Luca will see is the back of my stupid blonde head.

And when someone speaks again, I’m momentarily confused—it takes half a second for me to realize it must be the old man.

“You need a job?” the rough, aged voice says. I hear aharrumphthat sounds like Luca, but he doesn’t say anything.

I glance cautiously over my shoulder to see the old man in the doorway, Luca pushed to the side. The man is stooped and faintly sagging—he’s definitely the one who stumbled up the stairs—but his gaze is sharp, keen.

So I nod, just once.

He studies me for a second. Then, finally, he speaks. “What’s your degree in?”

There it is—the question. The question I have to answer,the one I’m so sick of I could scream, because I feel like everyone looks down on me for the answer.

I can’t tell if people reallydolook down on me, or if it’s my mind playing nasty tricks. My brain does that sometimes, and reality can be an elusive, hidden, fluttering thing—a moth, not beautiful enough to be a butterfly but worthy of grasping all the same.

“I didn’t graduate college,” I say finally. There’s no point in lying; he would want my résumé anyway. I pause and go on, “But I really,reallyneed work.” I swallow and then straighten up, turning around to face them once more. I keep my voice steady as I say, “I excel at on-the-job training. I can even clean. Do you need any janitors? I could clean toilets or mop floors. They would be so clean you could see your reflection.”

It’s all I can think to offer. And I know I’m not imagining the look the old man gives me, skeptical but somehow curious too.

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