Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He laughs softly. “Pretty sure they’re not for reading, Juliet.”
I groan out loud this time. “Yes, I know.”
Then he climbs up the rest of the way and out of view, settling into the big bunk bed above me.
He’s sliding under the covers, then patting the pillow from the sound of it. He lets out a long sigh, then says, “Yeah, it’s a little weird to look at yourself.”
“Ha. See? I’m right.”
There’s a pause and I have no idea if the conversation is over. But a few seconds later, he says, “But I suppose if I was in here with someone else, that’s not who I’d be looking at. Goodnight, Juliet.”
My skin is hot as I manage a goodnight.
8
THE GOOD THING
Juliet
New day. New chance to be my best self. Just like Badass Babe would say in her podcast. Every day you can be a better version of you.
Today I am the good daughter version as I head to the back door to find Monroe. He woke up early—of course he did—and left a note saying that he’d be in the shed checking out tools and stuff.
I’m jittery, but at least I’m dressed, made up, and ready now, so I wander through the house texting my sister as I go.
Juliet: Wish me luck. I’m going to see Mom in a bit. She said she has news for me. Anything I need to know?
Rachel: Um…is this a trick question?
Juliet: She said it was a good thing. Shit, is she preggers?
Rachel responds with a Home Alone gif of Kevin’s shocked face.
Juliet: Okay, not that :). But what do we think it is?
Rachel: I don’t know, but you’d better tell me after! I demand it. Also, how’s the house?
Juliet: It’s sexy. Yes, that’s apparently a thing.
Rachel: And is it a good thing?
I smile, feeling a little less jittery as I reply with a simple It’s just a thing. Because that is really all it is.
Then, I drop my phone in my pocket, and swing open the back door into the bright summer sunshine of a Monday morning. Across the emerald-green yard teeming with pink and purple wildflowers sits a work shed painted a deep red, like a farmhouse. The wooden barn door is wide open. I can just catch the outline of Monroe’s silhouette, the cut of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms.
“Did you find tools and other manly stuff?” I call out.
Monroe emerges, holding a wrench. Not a bad look at all, especially in those trim jeans and a San Francisco Cougars T-shirt.
“Told you I was handy, and I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Of course you are,” I say, though I’m grateful for the morning distraction of chitchat. I’m still frazzled thinking about Mom. I want to make everything right for her. If only I could. I worry about her more than Dad because she’s always seemed to need him more. “And what is this proof, Mister Handy?”
“I fixed the chain on the bikes.” Monroe waggles the wrench.
“Bikes?”
“Those things that have two wheels that you pedal.”
I huff. “I know what a bike is.”
“Want to ride into town?”
“I thought we were going to drive?” Riding a bike feels like a project, and I’m not sure how many projects I have in me this morning.
“You’re such a city girl,” he says dryly.
“You’re a city boy! You lived in New York and now San Francisco.”
“But bikes are fun, city girl,” he goads.
Maybe. But not when you’re dressed and already nervous. I’m wearing jeans, platform sandals, and a crop top. My hair is blown dry, and I’ve traded out my ladybug necklace for my heart pendant today. Rachel has a matching heart one. Seems fitting for today’s mission, a sign of sisterly support and all, though Rachel’s the better daughter and has already seen Mom post-divorce.
“I’m not really in bike riding clothes,” I say, then I pat my hair, piling on the excuses. “And I did my hair and everything. And I’d have to wear a helmet.”
Ugh. I sound like I’m terrified of riding a bike. But the truth is I’m not one of those girls who looks good after a workout. Pretty sure the women Monroe usually dates do though.
Not that I’ve looked them all up. But if I had looked up a few on Instagram, I could have said with confidence his dates are the kind of women who can cruise along the boardwalk on a mint green bike, singing folk songs in a perfect soprano pitch, and still look fabulous even without a stitch of makeup on.
Me? I don’t leave the gym dewy and rose-cheeked. I leave sweaty and panting. I’m already nervous. I don’t need to add to that.
But Monroe’s in a teasing mood it seems, since he advances toward me, saying, “You can tell me the truth.” He’s striding across the lawn with a sly smile curving his lips, mirth in his eyes.