Page 26 of All's Well that Friends Well

My drink doesn’t taste as good as it did before. In fact, I barely notice it going down, and I’m surprised when it’s gone. I blink, looking into the empty mug, and then set it down harder than necessary.

Did Juliet wearheelstoday? To be ajanitor?

The reports I asked for earlier are on my desk, and I need to review them. But I’m standing up before I can stop myself, my mug back in my hand.

It’s a silent excuse. I’m not going to the break room. Even as I tell myself I might, I know I’m not.

Why am I going to the supply closet? What am I going to say when I get there? She might not even be around; she could be anywhere.

My strides are brisk and sure anyway—impatient, even. Because all I can think about is the way those women laughed.

Are they bad people, evil to their cores? Of course not. But careless words can still do damage. And it’s only when the door to the supply closet is in sight that I realize my real purpose in coming: I don’t want to talk to Juliet, or have a conversation with anyone at all. I just want to make sure she’s okay. That she’s not off crying somewhere.

She was excited to get this job. Clearly desperate. And I was…well.

I was already rude to her about it.

So I want to check, that’s all.

My steps are nearly silent as I approach the closet—which is not actually a closet, by the way. It’s more of a small room,unfinished with visible insulation and gray floors. I can hear someone humming quietly, a female voice, but I’m not close enough to tell who, so I inch further, further, until finally?—

Yes. I think that’s Juliet, even though I’ve never heard her sing. But the sound is sweet and bright and pleasant, somehow, even if a bit off-key; her voice is pleasant.

I peek my head around the corner, but not too shiftily, just in case she sees me and asks why I’m sneaking around. I have to look natural. The good news is that she doesn’t seem to be upset, based on her cheerful tune. I don’t hear anyone else in there, either, and my suspicion is confirmed when I lean in further and she comes into view.

She’s alone, her back to me. She’s dressed entirely in pink, from what I can tell—not sensible pink clothes either, but a skirt and blazer. Her blonde hair cascades down her back in a sleek ponytail, and even from here I can smell a faint hint of strawberry and vanilla.

She looks like no janitor I’ve ever seen. Like nowomanI’ve ever seen. And yet?—

Good grief. She’s sitting on an upturned bucket. She joked about it in her email, but now she’sactuallysitting on one.

Why does that make me feel like a jerk? No one is making her sit there. Although, I notice as my eyes dart around the room, there’s not really anywhere else. Why don’t they have any chairs?

The faint sound of buzzing startles me out of my examination, and for one panicked second I think it’s my phone; I slump in relief against the wall when Juliet leans down and grabs her phone from the floor, though.

“Hi,” she says, sounding happy. She listens for asecond and then says, “No, it’s fine. I’m eating my lunch. Did you talk to them?”

There’s another pause, and she deflates slightly. “Oh.” She perks up, though, after a second. “But there’s a test? One they recommend?”

She reaches down as she listens, and for the first time, I notice the sandwich bag full of baby carrots on the floor by her upturned bucket. She grabs it and then says, “Boo. I don’t want to pay for the results. I’m so broke, Cy.”

Cy.I rack my memory, and a faint image comes to mind of a scowling blond man with glasses.Cyrus.The oldest Marigold, I think. He was there when I got hit over the head with that cake pan.

I look back at Juliet as she speaks again.

“Oh, yeah, that would work. Whatever I get from the free version will still be better than what I have figured out now. Can you email me the link?” A little crunch sound filters toward me, and when she goes on, the word is garbled: “Thanks.”

I hear a few more crunchy chewing noises as Juliet then looks around the supply room, and her shoulders curl in a little. She ducks her head, too, but when she talks, her voice is bright.

“It’s great so far!” she says, even as her body language says otherwise. She clears her throat and goes on, “Everyone is really nice and welcoming.”

Liar. If I’ve heard people talking about her, shedefinitelyhas. They’ve likely been snickering about her all day. She draws attention.

“Oh, did you talk to her?” Juliet goes on, still oblivious to my presence. She pauses. “That little snitch.” Her head ducks again—looking down at herself, I think—and then shesays, “There’s nothing wrong with what I wore. I can clean floors in anything.”

Part of me might actually believe this—until she shifts to the side and twists to examine one foot, letting her high heel hang from her toes. The back of her ankle is angry and red; she rubs it gently, her shoulders flinching.

Oh, Juliet,I sigh internally. I’m not sure if I’m feeling pity or exasperation or pure frustration right now; the three of them seem to be warring in my mind as I look at her. But there’s no way she can do janitorial work in those clothes, right? Does she evenhaveanything else? Can she buy something? She said she was broke.

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