Chapter Eighteen

· Eighteen ·

Will

Juliet called it: I was high on adrenaline earlier. But now, hours later, after a damn good brunch and visit with Jules, her sisters, Petruchio, Jamie, and Hamza, then Toni, who came in toward the end, dejected that he’d had to miss the game (“especially the shirtless part!”), I can’t give the adrenaline credit anymore for how good I feel.

In my gut I know what’s responsible— who’s responsible: the woman smiling up at me.

Juliet lifts her eyebrows as I hold open the door to the conservatory, the spot I picked for our next practice date.

“Thank you,” she says, stepping past me.

I let the door drift shut behind me, then fall into step beside her, setting my hand on her back. She nearly jumps out of her skin.

I draw my hand away. “Sorry, I—”

“No.” She waves her hands, shaking her head. “That was all me. I’m sorry.” She takes my hand, then awkwardly tries to set it on her lower back again. “Please proceed.”

“I don’t have to, Juliet.” My good mood’s evaporated, and the familiar sting of getting it wrong echoes through me. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I was just…It was instinct.”

“Exactly,” she says. “And that’s what you’re supposed to be listening to.”

“And you’re only supposed to be receiving the kind of romance you’re comfortable with,” I remind her.

She sighs, her shoulders falling. “I am comfortable with it, I promise. I was just zoned out and it caught me off guard.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Pinkie promise?”

She smiles up at me, pinkie outstretched. “I swear.”

I hook her pinkie gently, then let my hand fall.

Juliet’s smile deepens. “Now, get that hand on my back, Orsino. And let’s go look at some flowers.”

Gently, tentatively, I set my hand on her back again, like she’s asked. I brace myself for her to pull away again, still reeling from that reflex. But she doesn’t. In fact, she does the opposite. She leans into my touch, just the littlest bit, but I feel it—the press of the curve of her spine into my palm, the warmth of her body. I get a whiff of something faint and floral that I already know has nothing to do with the flowers we’re about to be surrounded by. It’s her. She smells so fucking good.

“So many flowers, so little time.” She smiles up at me and rubs her hands together in excitement. “Where do we even begin?”

—

We’ve been walking the place for an hour and a half, seen nearly all of it, and at some point Juliet’s hand found its familiar place curled around my arm. The past ten minutes, I’ve felt her weight more as she leans on me. It makes me feel so good that she does that—that she leans on me. But it also makes me worry that she’s hurting, that walking’s wearing on her and she’s not telling me.

I decide not to bring it up. I’ve learned, since my mom’s diagnosis, not to push, not to act like I know better than someone else what’s best for their body. Instead, I point to a bench tucked into the corner of the native plants room. I’ve saved the best for last.

“Mind if we sit for a little?” I ask.

“Sure.” She sounds distracted as I start to walk us toward the bench, but I think she’s just taking it all in, peering around, a soft smile on her face. “Any reason in particular?” she asks.

“Because I’d like to take some time in here. This is my favorite room.”

She glances my way, her expression curious as we lower onto the bench together. “Why is this room your favorite?”

I ease back and stretch my arm along the bench behind her. Juliet nestles in close against me and sighs. It feels exactly right.

“When I first came to college,” I tell her quietly, “I was homesick. My first weekend after move-in, it was so bad, I nearly packed up everything and took the train home. But I knew I’d be miserable if I went home, too. That I’d feel like I’d failed myself and my parents, who were so proud of me for pushing myself out of my comfort zone, throwing myself into city life and a new social circle. So I did what I always do when I’m worked up. I went for a walk.”

Juliet settles in closer against me, like she’s getting cozy, ready to listen.

I take another deep breath and blow it out. “My student ID gave me free access to the conservatory. I’d seen the place mentioned in my orientation materials, so I walked in, went from room to room, then I ended up…here.” My gaze wanders the space, drinks in the blossoms, shrubs, grasses, and trees surrounding us. All native to the state, tethered to the land and its seasons. “I walked into this room that was filled with every kind of plant that had been the background of my childhood, and I just…felt like I could breathe again, like my heart was beating right, like I wasn’t about to crawl out of my skin anymore. I felt like I was…home.”

Juliet’s quiet, but I feel her eyes on me, like the press of a hot summer sunrise burning through the curtains, warming my face. Finally, I peer down at her.

Her smile is still soft, her eyes fixed on mine. “If it’s anything like this, home must be pretty beautiful.”

I nod. “It is.”

Our gazes hold. Softly, I curl my hand around her shoulder. Juliet lets out a faint, content hum.

“So.” I drag my fingertips over her skin.

She sucks in a breath, eyes still locked with mine. “So.”

“I’ve got a bit of a hang-up with third dates,” I tell her.

She tips her head, confusion written on her face. “Why?”

“Never gotten past one. Been friend-zoned every time. Always the same thing— It doesn’t feel romantic. I think we should just be friends . Some variation on that.”

Her eyes narrow. “What kind of nincompoops were you going on dates with?”

An empty laugh leaves me.

“I’m serious,” she says fiercely. “I want names. I want to key their cars.”

I snort a laugh. “No keying cars. Their names don’t matter, anyway. What matters is that I let them get in my head.”

“Will.” She searches my eyes. “Is that why…you feel the way you do? About romance?”

I hold her eyes as I swallow my pride and tell her the truth. “I just couldn’t keep doing something that kept ending in people telling me I was failing at it. So I just…stopped trying, stopped hoping for it.”

Her hand finds mine and squeezes. But she stays quiet, listening.

I hesitate for a beat, then say, “When I was thirteen, I was diagnosed as neurodivergent—autism, specifically. I’ve got sensory issues, like with sound, as you know, but other things, too. Sometimes, when I’m trying to express myself, I get this traffic jam between my brain and my mouth. I struggle to read people, to parse subtext. I get exhausted socially quickly and when I’m around people I don’t know, my social anxiety is sky-high. I can’t relax, can’t just roll with it, because I’m too busy trying to keep up with a language that it feels like I only half understand.” I swallow, wetting my throat. “I’m not…wired like most people.”

Her thumb swirls gently across my palm. I’m listening , her touch says. Go on.

“I know that doesn’t disqualify me from loving and being loved romantically,” I tell her. “But I also know that I’ve never encountered someone who made me feel like it didn’t. And…I don’t want to see myself that way. I don’t want the person who I share my life with to see me that way, either. So that’s why I figured, maybe if I just asked for less from the person I’m going to marry one day, if she expected less in return, I’d protect myself from that.”

“I understand that,” Juliet says, her voice quiet, “wanting to protect yourself.”

I nod. “But…since you and I started this, Juliet, I’ve been thinking, maybe I don’t need to protect myself…so much as find someone who makes me feel safe enough to try again.”

Juliet squeezes my hand hard, her eyes shining. “Exactly.”

“I mean, I got over that fear of opening up, putting myself out there socially, after being diagnosed. It took a while, but eventually, I realized, yes, I’m weird, but I generally like my weirdness…that’s what makes me me . Because it’s not all hard parts, having a brain like mine. It makes me incredibly capable at diving deep into the things I love and learning every corner of them. My mind’s freedom from preconceived should s and can’t s leads me to think outside the box with the business back home, to see solutions in spaces, possibilities in people, that most might not because they don’t fit the ‘typical’ mold; to identify and leverage those skills and strengths. My system is highly sensitive, but that also means it’s highly observant, that I notice details, pick up on things, that most people overlook, and that makes me damn good at my work, makes my life feel rich and vibrant. In lots of ways, my brain is incredible. And in the same way I overcame my fear of being misunderstood and put myself out there, found people I felt safe to be my whole weird self with, maybe I can find someone safe in romantic love, too.”

A smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Damn right. The woman worthy of you, Will, she’s going to love the hell out of your ‘weird’ and feel loved right in the heart of it.”

“I know,” I tell her quietly. “You’ve been helping me figure that out.”

She smiles, bright and dazzling. “Good.” Her hand squeezes mine. “Thanks for telling me about this, for opening up. I know it’s not easy.”

“You do?”

Juliet nods. “Bea, she’s neurodivergent, too. So is Kate. I’ve seen how it goes for them, that it’s scary to share that truth when people aren’t always kind toward it, to brace for someone to see that part of you as something to put up with, as an in spite of part of you to tolerate instead of simply another part of you to know and love.”

Love. The word echoes in the air between us. I swallow roughly, my hand that’s not held in hers grazing along her shoulder. “Thank you, Juliet.”

She squeezes my hand again. “It’s something I’ve been struggling with, actually. Putting myself out there that way.” She hesitates for a second, like she’s searching for words, then says, “Last year, right after I met you in Scotland, actually, when I got home… I got sick. Well, I’d been sick, but I’d managed to ignore it up to that point. I don’t know if it was the level of stress I was under or some switch in my system that finally tripped, but it became debilitating. I had bloodwork, exams, X-rays. I started working with a great rheumatologist, got a diagnosis of celiac disease and mixed connective tissue disease, a new diet to follow, meds to help, but there’s no cure, for any of it. It’s just…there. It’s always going to be there. And I have so little control over when it gets worse or when my symptoms get quieter. Whenever I get back to dating, I’m scared I’m going to tell someone about that and they won’t want to sign up for that uncertainty.” She sighs heavily, forcing a smile. “And while I know, if they don’t want all of me, they’re not worthy of me, it won’t make possibly getting that reaction any easier, not at first, at least.”

I stare down at her, my heart aching. I want to reach inside her and wipe out every single thing that hurts her. I hate that pain is a part of her life and there’s so little she feels she can do to control that from day to day.

But I do understand it, as a bystander at least, as someone who loves someone who deals with something similar.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, my hand squeezing her shoulder gently, and tell her, “My mom, she’s got rheumatoid arthritis. I see what it takes out of her, the battles she fights on the hard days. I know that it’s probably not the same, that it’s unique from person to person. But just know, Juliet, I think you’re a fucking badass. I catch you muscling through it, dragging yourself forward because you want to even though your body doesn’t. I wish I could take it from Ma, from you. But I know I can’t. And while I wish you never had to hurt, I’ll never wish you different than exactly as you are.”

Her eyes shine, wet with tears threatening to spill over. I squeeze her shoulder again, pulling her close. “I’m in your corner just as much as you’re in mine, okay? On the hard days, I’ll be the arm to hold on to, the pair of hands to do what you can’t, the feet that carry you when yours won’t take another step. And on the gentle days, the feel-good days, I’ll be there, too, grateful that I get to be your friend and see you shine.” I hold her eyes, needing her to hear this, to feel this, right down to her bones. “The man, woman, person, whoever they are that earns your heart…they damn well better do that, too, Juliet. Or I will do much worse than key their car.”

Juliet sniffles, bringing a hand to her nose and wiping it. “Dammit, Will.”

“Don’t cuss me out, woman. I’m being sincere right now.”

“I am, too,” she says brokenly, fishing around in her flowy pants pocket, pulling out a tissue. She blows her nose hard, and it’s loud , an adorably goose-like honk. When she pockets her tissue, she peers up at me. “Thank you.”

I stroke her arm, my fingertips tracing a shape against her skin I don’t let myself analyze, don’t allow to monopolize my thoughts. “Thank you .”

She clears her throat, glancing out at the flowers. “Also, thanks for the way you talked about my future partner. I’m bisexual, and it means a lot that you didn’t assume I was straight.”

I nod. “?’Course, Jules.”

Shaking her head as she gazes at the purple coneflower near us, she sighs. “You’re such a green flag man.”

A soft chuckle leaves me. “I thought that was a good thing.”

She nods, still not meeting my eyes. “It is.”

“Hey.” I squeeze her shoulder.

She peers up at me. “Hmm?”

“We just talked about a lot of hard shit, and it went pretty well, I think.”

A smile brightens her face. “I think so, too.” She lifts her hand for a high five. “We kicked this third date’s ass!”

I meet her high five. “What do you say we celebrate? You an ice cream gal?”

Her eyes light up. “You bet I am. But I’ve got family dinner in two hours. Should I sneak ice cream before dinner?”

“I’d say you’ve earned it.”

She beams. “Yeah. You’re right. I have.”

“Come on.” I stand, offering her my hand. “I know a place not too far from here that has gluten-free waffle cones.”

Groaning, she slaps her hand into mine and lets me tug her up. “Of course you do.”

As we turn, Juliet threads her arm in mine. And then she freezes, her eyes wide. I frown down at her. “What is it?”

“My parents,” she whispers, “are walking into this room right now.”

My head snaps up as I try to follow the line of her gaze. I narrow my eyes, squinting at the middle-aged-looking couple who walk in, the woman’s hand curled around the man’s arm. There is no doubt that the woman walking in is Juliet’s mother. She’s her double, fast-forward thirty years.

A fierce, terrible ache slices through me. I won’t know Juliet like that. Won’t see lines deepen at her eyes, threads of silver start to streak her lovely dark hair. I’m so caught up in these unexpected, unsettling thoughts, it takes me a minute to register that Juliet’s tugging at my arm hard .

“Come on,” she hisses. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” She glances around frantically, realizing what I already know—we’re cornered, no exit but the one her parents have just walked through, no path but the one they’re walking down as we speak. Her eyes dart around. She tugs me with her one way, then the other.

“Jules,” I say, calm and quiet. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Oh, I’ll find somewhere,” she says.

“Swear to God, Juliet, if you shove me into another shrub, I’ll—”

“Jules!”

We both freeze. And then we turn slowly, facing the woman who just called her name, the man beside her, holding her hand.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot.