Chapter Ten

· Ten ·

Will

My hands are clammy. My heart’s racing. I take a deep breath, then hit the buzzer for Juliet’s apartment.

“Hey!” Her voice is as warm and bright as sunshine. “Come on up!”

I yank open the door when I hear the lock disengage, then take the steps up to the second floor two at a time. If I move any slower, I’ll lose my courage and turn right around.

I can do this. I’m not too wiped from peopling, after making the rounds at two bars that stock our whiskey, but that’s only luck—they’re two of our oldest customers and I’ve known the owners since I was in grade school, so they’re always easy to talk to. If it had been a newer client, I’d be fried. Still, my social battery isn’t at full capacity, and I have to hope that what’s left is going to be enough.

On my drive over, I talked myself through my anxiety about it. This is just game night with a handful of Petruchio and Juliet’s friends and family. They’re people those two like being with, which means they’re good people. They’ll meet me where I’m at.

Taking a deep breath, I cross the landing to the door and remind myself what Juliet said:

We’re all a bunch of weirdos. Fun weirdos. I think you’ll have a good time.

“I hope she’s right,” I mutter to myself. Then I knock on the door.

The door almost immediately swings open, revealing Juliet smiling wide. “Hey, you!”

I feel like I did the time Ma’s miserly old donkey, Iago, kicked me right in the chest. Breathless, shock slamming through my body.

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Juliet stands on the threshold of her apartment, dark hair piled on top of her head, a few soft tendrils caressing her collarbones. She’s wearing a rose-pink crochet sweater, a white tank top visible beneath it. The sweater lists to one side, clinging to the edge of her shoulder. My gaze dances down. She’s got on a pair of cut-off jean shorts that hug her wide hips, their fringe kissing her thighs. Bare feet, toenails painted the same pink as her sweater.

I snap my gaze up as fast as I can and swallow roughly. “Hi.”

Stepping back, she opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

I do as she says, stepping across the threshold. “Petruchio here yet?”

“Yep,” she says quietly as she shuts the door. “When he told me you were coming, I said that was great, then I casually dropped that I’d met you in the backyard the morning after the party, said we had a cup of coffee and talked a little.”

“Good.” I hand her the bottle of Orsino whiskey that I brought. “Here.”

She takes the bottle, inspecting it, and lets out a long whistle. “Wowee, thirty years? This is so generous, Will, thank you!” Smiling up at me, she says, her voice softer, “How you doing? Got the earplugs ready to go?”

I pat my pocket, where my earplugs case is stashed, attached to my keys. “I came prepared.”

“Great. We can get loud, for game time, at least.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Juliet’s smile deepens. Our gazes hold.

I want to kiss her. Badly. I want to cup her face and take her mouth with mine, make her melt into my touch. I want to show her that I might not be the smoothest talker or the most capable romancer or the life of the party, but I’m plenty capable in other ways. Ways that could make her feel so damn good.

But that’s not what friends do, and friends is all we are. Especially tonight, around these people.

The sweater slips farther, revealing the slope of her shoulder, a stretch of satin-smooth skin.

Heat roars through me.

She catches her sweater and shrugs it back up. It helps nothing. That sliver of her skin, the dip of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, are imprinted in my brain.

“Here we go,” she whispers.

I take a deep breath and follow her toward the crowd.

—

Beer in hand, I glance around her place. Warm candlelit white walls. Gleaming dark wood floors softened by a large rainbow-striped rug. At least a dozen matching jewel-tone throw pillows on the sofa and on the nearby club chair. Framed abstract art on the walls, surrounded by countless photos. Smaller frames with more photos and art crammed cheerfully across the mantel beside dried flowers that plume from vases decorated with colorful velvet ribbons. It’s welcoming and warm and lovely.

Just like Juliet.

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?” Petruchio says.

I nod. “Real nice.”

He grins, gaze traveling the apartment, landing on a door down the hallway. “I have some good memories here.”

I’m not often great at reading subtext, but from the heated, wistful look on his face, it’s not hard to see that he’s thinking back to a very specific kind of “good memory,” one that I’m assuming involved Kate when she lived here.

The exact door he was staring at swings open, and out walks a man, just about my height, but that’s about where our similarities end. He’s lean like a long-distance runner, clean-shaven, tidy dark blond waves, tortoiseshell glasses, in a button-up shirt whose sleeves are rolled crisply to his elbows and dress slacks.

“Jamie!” Petruchio calls. “There you are.”

The man smiles our way and offers his hand, which I’m startled to realize is damp. “Sorry,” he says. “I came straight here from the clinic. Just washed them.”

Which means Jamie came from the bathroom, where Petruchio was just gazing fondly, reminiscing. I glance at him, confused. He has fond memories of a bathroom?

“No worries,” I tell Jamie. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jamie says.

“Jamie,” Petruchio says, “this is my good friend, Will Orsino.”

“From college days,” Jamie says, smiling warmly. “I’ve heard some good stories about that chapter. Glad to finally put a face to a name.” He drops his voice. “I’ve also heard you’re a fellow introvert.”

I’m taken aback at first, but my brain catches up a second later. Fellow introvert, he said, which means he’s in my boat. “You heard right,” I tell him.

Jamie nods and offers a wry smile. “From one introvert to another, while I love game night, it can be a lot. I’ve found the balcony off the office is a good place to go for a bit of fresh air and quiet. Should you ever need it.”

I nod, feeling my shoulders drop a little. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one here who likes being with people but also gets overwhelmed by them. “I appreciate that, man. Thank you.”

Jamie nods. “?’Course.”

“Need a drink?” Petruchio asks Jamie.

“I do indeed.”

“Orsino’s brought his family’s whiskey with him. A real nice bottle.”

Jamie’s eyebrows lift as he directs himself at me. “Really?”

“Really.” I nod toward the kitchen. “Opened and ready to be enjoyed. You’re a whiskey drinker?”

“Love it,” he says. “In fact, I’m going to be honest and admit I’m fanboying big-time, just been trying to play it cool so far, but now the cat’s out of the bag, I’ll level with you: when Christopher mentioned you and your family owned a distillery, I ordered an Orsino fifteen-year the next time I was at the pub just out of curiosity, and”—he slaps a hand over his heart—“I fell in love. It’s my favorite now. I’ve got every one of your whiskies in my liquor cabinet.”

I grin. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says. “If I had known you’d be here ahead of time, I would have absolutely brought my twenty-year bottle for you to sign.”

Petruchio smiles into his drink.

This guy is a damn delight. “Well, there’s always next time. I’ll be here next weekend. Happy to do it then.”

Jamie lights up. “So soon? What’s bringing you back? You live upstate, isn’t that right?”

“I do, but I’ll be down in the city on the weekends the rest of this month.”

I tell Jamie about the work I’m taking over for Imogen, and before I know it, I’m answering his questions about our aging and distillation process, debating with him which age is best, Christopher excusing himself with a wry grin and leaving us to our conversation.

“Now, here’s a question for you,” Jamie says, nodding to my beer. “Spending all this time with it, do you find yourself ever getting sick of whiskey?”

“Nah.” I tip my beer a little, inspecting the bottle. “I just like a cold beer in the hot summer, especially one from a local brewery, one town over from mine. I love whiskey, always will.”

“Look at you two,” Juliet says, sidling up to us. “Is this a bromance in the making?”

“I’m smitten,” Jamie tells her. “We talked whiskey; he answered all my esoteric questions. I’ve learned so much about their aging process. Of course, I fell hard and fast. Will, however, might need to take things slower.”

“You kidding? Talking whiskey is my love language. I’m a goner.”

Juliet smiles up at us. “Well, that’s adorable.”

Juliet’s twin sister Bea, whom Juliet introduced me to when I walked in, darts past us and opens the apartment door.

“Thanks, BeeBee!” Juliet calls.

When I saw Bea at first, it was a bit shocking to meet someone who looked so much like Juliet. But then I saw all the differences, and not just the obvious ones like her thick bangs, the blond tips of her hair, the many tattoos covering her body. I glance at Juliet, cataloging those differences I noticed, her heart-shaped face as opposed to Bea’s oval, her wider mouth and deeper dimples.

Juliet gives me a smile but her eyes are big with warning. I get the hint. I’ve been staring, and I might give us away. Then again, even if we were new friends, I’d be staring at her. I’ve got eyeballs in my head and she’s beautiful.

“Hi!” The shorter of the two women who just walked in, with tight dark curls and a bright smile, yanks me in for a hug. “I’m Margo. You’re Will! I’m so glad to finally meet you!”

I blink down at her, taken aback. I had no idea Petruchio talked about me this much. “Uh. Hi. Good to meet you, too, Margo.”

“Nice to meet you, Will,” the taller woman says, giving Margo a dryly amused look. She’s got buzzed hair dyed hot pink and a feisty smile on her face. She offers me a firm handshake, which I take. “I’m Sula.”

“Good to meet you, Sula.”

“Okay,” Margo says, looping her arm through mine, walking me toward the kitchen. “I’ve been so excited to meet you, because you’re the Orsino whiskey guy, and I’m a mixologist.” She pulls back just enough to look at me. “I’m going to make you my famous custom cocktail that uses your spirits! That is, if you don’t mind.”

Sula rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’ve made it real easy for him to say no, dear.”

Margo waves her away. “He’ll tell me no if he wants. He’s a big boy.” Her gaze travels up me. “A real big boy. My goodness. And oh so cute. You single?”

I turn bright pink.

“Not for me,” she says, jerking her head back toward Sula. “I’m hitched to that one.”

“Oh. I’m, uh…” I glance at Juliet, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it, turning to her for guidance. She’s smiling still, though it seems a little tight as she gives me an encouraging nod. I glance back down at Margo. “I’m single, yes.”

“Not local, though, right?” Margo presses.

“Upstate,” I tell her.

“God, I love it up there,” Sula says, walking past us to the kitchen. She cracks open a can of beer and takes a sip. “It’s so gorgeous, so idyllic. I want a little house in the middle of nowhere upstate someday. That’s my retirement dream. A house in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, until then,” Jamie says, “you’re always welcome at the cottage. Bea and I barely get up there these days.”

I turn toward him. “You own a place there?”

He nods. “My aunt left it to me. Been in the family for a long time. I have good memories there.”

“Where at, exactly?” I ask.

“It’s in Illyria.”

I grin. “That’s where I am.”

“Oooh,” Margo squeals. She claps her hands together. “I just love a good small-world connection.”

Conversation carries easily through the topic of life upstate, more questions about the distillery, the farm, and then it moves on to Petruchio telling some of our tamer college stories. It gets a bit loud, but not to the point that I want my earplugs. Juliet was right: they are fun people. Talking with them doesn’t feel so hard.

Margo’s custom drink is a spritzer riffing on the classic penicillin cocktail—she added ginger beer, lots of ice, a splash of Cointreau, a twist of lemon and orange—and it is incredible . I sip it slowly, savoring the drink almost as much as I’m savoring Juliet and her sisters animatedly telling us the story of when Petruchio got his top half stuck under his house’s crawl space during a rainstorm in an effort to save Puck—that animal really does seem to have a mischievous streak—and how it took all five Wilmots to yank him out. Just as they’ve finished, Jamie jogs past us toward the door and opens it for two new people who step in, one with a tight dark beard and short hair, the other with dark hair tugged into a ponytail at the nape of their neck.

“Hamza!” Juliet smiles. “Toni! You made it!”

“Game time!” Bea hollers.

Everyone starts to disperse, but I let myself hang back for the moment. This is a new part of the evening whose choreography I don’t know. I bring Margo’s custom drink to my lips and take a sip just as a soft hand settles low on my back. I startle so badly, I nearly slop half my drink out of the glass. I catch it at the last minute, righting the glass in my hand as its waves settle.

“Sorry!” Juliet whispers.

I peer down at her, my heart hammering. “That’s okay.”

She slips her hand from my back and slides it into her shorts pocket. “How’s the drink?”

Wordlessly, I offer it to her. “Damn delicious.”

Wrapping her hand around my fingers as she cups the glass, Juliet brings it to her mouth. Her bottom lip brushes my thumb as she sips, and heat bolts down my body, tight in my groin.

She darts her tongue out and wets her lip, smiling up at me. “That’s phenomenal.” Juliet tips the glass toward her mouth again and steals another sip. “Game time’s going to start now, and it can get rowdy in here. If you need a little peace and quiet, there’s—”

“The balcony off the office,” I tell her. “Jamie mentioned it. Gave me the introvert’s guide to surviving game night.”

She smiles. “Of course he did.”

I nod, my gaze fixed on her. God, I’ve got it bad. I keep watching her walk around, that sweater slipping off her shoulder, the tight fit of her little shorts on her round ass. I want her, and I can’t have her. Not now. Not ever. I need to get that through my head.

“JuJu!” Bea calls. “Which game first? Guess Who or Chronology?”

“Chronology!” she yells back. Her smile fades as her gaze travels my face. “You doing okay?”

I tip back my drink instead of answering her and take a deep swig. I promised not to lie to her, and I won’t now. “Let’s do this.”

—

Since game time started, I’ve met Toni, Juliet’s friend through Bea, and Toni’s husband, Hamza, plus two late arrivals, Bianca, Juliet’s cousin, and her boyfriend, Nick, a friend of Petruchio’s from work.

But I’m not focused on any of these people right now, even though they’re all settling in around the table, tucked in close. All I see is Juliet.

“Excuse me, excuse me.” She squeezes between Kate and Hamza, easing onto her seat, a fresh drink in hand. “I’ve got this guy’s butt to kick.”

“Juliet.” I shake my head, my expression pitying. “You are in for a devastating loss. Do you know how many games of Guess Who I’ve played since becoming an uncle? I’m an expert.”

“Last time I checked, I beat half these people at the same game to get myself to this championship round,” she says. “ And I just so happen to be undefeated at Guess Who myself, so I suppose we’ll see who the true expert is, won’t we, Orsino?”

I drain my glass and set it on the table. “Bring it on, Wilmot. Bring it on.”

Everyone gathers in close at the table like we’re the last two players in a high-stakes poker match, a breath away from ruin or riches. The game starts simply enough. I’m relaxed as we ask our first few questions.

Juliet stares at her Guess Who board, frowning. “Does your person…have brown eyes?”

I don’t glance at my board as I tell her, “No.”

A groan of unease from those behind her. Juliet gives them a scathing look.

“Does your person,” I ask, “show their teeth with their smile?”

Juliet sighs. “Yes.”

I flip down half my doors, covering faces that don’t apply.

“Goddamn,” Toni whispers. “You’re good.”

The buzzer goes off, making everyone startle. “Okay,” Bea says, slapping off the buzzer. “Subjective prompts begin now !”

The buzzer made me jump, but I’m mentally prepared for this. I’ve played five different people at this wacky blend of traditional Guess Who and a goofy-ass way that kicks in halfway through the ten-minute window they set for a match. It involves asking each other ridiculously subjective personality-based questions that are somehow supposed to make it clear whom we’ve picked.

“Does your person,” Juliet says, “when they get a little tipsy, lecture people on the validity of a long-term investment in cryptocurrency?”

“Definitely not,” I tell her.

Petruchio’s friend Nick sighs. “Will I ever live that down?”

Juliet smacks down two doors. “Shit.”

“Oooh,” her side of the table says.

“Does your person,” I ask her, “make themselves poached eggs for breakfast every morning?”

Petruchio gives me the middle finger from where he stands behind Juliet. Junior year, when Petruchio, our other roommate, Grumi, and I finally had a place with our own kitchen, I woke up the first day after moving in to Petruchio in his boxers, poaching himself eggs. He did it every single morning after that, no matter how late he was running or how hungover he was. Always poached eggs. Grumi and I gave him shit about it nonstop.

Juliet snorts. “Hell no.”

I sigh, only shutting two more doors.

“Does your person,” Juliet says, “tell unsuspecting strangers about the digestive benefits of regularly drinking kombucha?”

I frown, thinking. “Yes.”

“That was one time!” Toni yells from the kitchen as he tops off his drink.

Hamza snorts a laugh. “One time they saw you do it, hon.”

“Excellent,” Juliet quips. Without breaking our stare-off, she flips down a door.

I sit back, examining my options. “Does your person…teach at a small liberal arts college?”

Juliet sighs bleakly. “Dammit.”

“I need a yes or no, Wilmot.”

She gives me a glare. “Yes, okay? Yes!”

I knock down one more door triumphantly. I have two people left who give me vibes of academics with wide smiles who don’t bother with an involved breakfast. I can risk guessing, but if I’m wrong, she wins by default.

I sit back and let Juliet take her turn.

“Does your person…” Juliet bites her lip and smiles up at me. “Look like someone who is…petrified of pigeons?”

I stare down at my chosen character, Daniel, with his burly shoulders, his reddish hair and beard. He barely looks like me, but he’s the closest resemblance she’s going to find for me on this board. My shoulders start to shake. I bury my face in my hands, wheezing, I laugh so hard. “Yes,” I croak hoarsely.

Juliet cackles, snaps down her final two doors, and yells, “I win!”

To a roomful of applause, including mine, she pushes up from the table and starts humming a tune I don’t recognize right away. Now she’s jogging her way around the table, arms raised in triumph.

“JuJu,” Bea says, “are you humming Chariots of Fire ’s theme song?”

“You bet I am!” she yells.

I snort a laugh as she jogs by me and finishes her lap around the table. Everyone starts to disperse from the table, but I linger, reaching for the box of games Guess Who was stashed in.

Juliet stops across from me, smile wide, eyes bright, and offers me her hand from across the table. “Well played, Will.”

Her smile widens as I take her hand and shake it. “Same to you, Juliet.”

Our gazes hold for a moment before we let go. Juliet tries to wedge her Guess Who board in the box, but it’s not fitting, the other games having fallen in a haphazard heap in the box after we took out Guess Who. I circle the table so I’m beside her, able to help. Lifting out some games, I start to stack them neatly. Juliet reaches for my Guess Who board, latching it onto hers with the little clips that hold the two boards together. I steady the games in their stacked tower within the box, so there’s room, and just as Juliet’s about to set Guess Who into the space I’ve created, she freezes.

I frown, confused, and follow her gaze, which is pinned at the bottom of the box.

At first I think it’s just a speck of dirt on the cardboard.

But then it moves.

That’s when we both scream, “Spider!”

Guess Who clatters to the table as Juliet leaps back, inadvertently knocking the game box sideways onto the floor. I wrench backward, crashing into the wall behind us.

An inhumanly high shriek leaves Juliet as she spots the spider crawling across the floor from the box. She leaps onto the table, dragging me with her. I stumble onto the chair, crouched low, frantically searching for the spider so I can track its path. In sheer panic, our arms wrap around each other, Juliet’s around my neck, mine around her waist. Our eyes dart around wildly, searching the floor.

“Where did it go?” Juliet whispers.

“I don’t know,” I hiss back.

“Right there,” Kate says, stepping our way.

As she points toward the floor, I see it—we both do—a burst of small, dark movement scuttling toward us. Juliet and I scream again.

I used to have a soft spot for spiders. They were a reality on the farm that made them feel safe and familiar; I’d read and loved Charlotte’s Web . I felt spiders were misunderstood creatures. But then I got a brown recluse bite. They’ve been on my shit list ever since.

I’m trying to summon up the courage to move past my fear of them, to stop this spider in its tracks, when Kate drops a plastic container right over the spider and crouches, slipping a paper beneath it.

“It’s just a harmless little spider.” Kate stands with the container and its makeshift paper lid.

Juliet and I rear back, clutching each other tight.

“Harmless,” Juliet mutters, turning toward me as I turn toward her. Suddenly, we’re nearly nose to nose, our mouths a scant inch apart. We spring away from each other, Juliet landing with a plop of her butt on the table, me tumbling back onto the floor.

I brush myself off, trying to recover my dignity. Juliet seems to be doing the same, easing slowly off the table and standing beside me. Both our eyes are fixed on the container as Kate walks with it.

“Kill it!” Juliet yells.

Kate glances over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Absolutely not. This is a good spider.”

“The only good spider,” Juliet mutters darkly, “is a dead spider.”

I snort a laugh and offer her a high five, which she meets with a resolute smack .

“It’s harmless—not killing it!” Kate calls over her shoulder. She opens the small window in the kitchen, lifts the screen, then dumps the spider from the container into the window box of flowers. “Off you go, little guy.”

Kate shuts the screen and dusts off her hands.

“I’m never opening that window again,” Juliet whispers.

“I support that decision.”

“You guys going to make it?” Petruchio asks from where he and everyone else has been standing a few feet away, clearly entertained by this, judging by how every one of them is trying and failing not to laugh.

I glare at him.

Bea steps beside Juliet and pats her sister’s back. “At least now you’re not the only one freaked out by spiders. Strength in numbers, and all.”

“No one else here hates spiders?” I ask the room.

Everyone shrugs, nonplussed.

“Fools, every one of them.” Juliet blows out a breath and peers up at me. “I need a drink after that. You?”

“Hell yes.”

“Margo!” Juliet calls. “Can we get an emotional support drink, please?”

Margo salutes us as she walks toward the kitchen, barely holding in a laugh. “Two emotional support cocktails, coming right up!”