Chapter Twenty

· Twenty ·

Will

“Sending a message to Juliet?” Mom asks.

I hit the button on my phone to turn the screen dark. I was about to, but now I sure as hell am not.

Pushing off the fence penning in our two milk cows, Daisy and Buttercup, I throw a stick that Hector sprints after across the grass. “Just checking the weather,” I tell her.

Mom leans against the fence beside me, massaging her left hand’s knuckles. “I still can’t get over it. Of all the small-world connections.”

I decided to get ahead of whatever story I knew was going to make its way to Mom, between Fee seeing us at the pub and Juliet’s mom sounding so excited to share the news, by telling her and Dad first thing Monday morning over coffee about befriending Juliet, meeting her parents, making the connection between our families.

All week long, Mom keeps dropping by, asking questions, pressing me for details on our “relationship.” I’ve told her the truth each time: Juliet and I are friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.

I’ve tried not to dwell on the sadness that’s come each time I’ve said it, knowing even our friendship will likely have to end when our paths diverge again, mine toward my life here, finding the woman I’ll spend my life and run the business with, hers toward her life in the city and her hope of falling in love again. I’m able to move beyond the sadness not because I won’t miss Juliet or because saying goodbye won’t hurt, but because I know that every ounce of sadness I’ll feel after leaving her behind, no longer having what we’ve shared, will have been worth it. Because it gave me the chance, even just this sliver of time, to know Juliet. And I’m a better man for it. I hope she’ll feel her life is better for having known me, too. I’m trying so damn hard to be sure that’s the case.

My mom’s shoulder gently knocks mine. “Where’d that lovely mind of yours wander off to?”

I peer down at my mother and wrap an arm around her. “All over the place.”

She grins, setting her head against my chest, quiet for a minute, before she says, “Are you happy, Will?”

I stare out at the land as the dying sun spills blood orange across the fields and the tops of the trees, gilding their green leaves as they sway in the wind. At Dad, who stands on the back porch, hands on his hips, head thrown back, as he laughs with Fest. At Miranda, perched on the swing hanging from the massive oak tree beside the house, sketchpad in her lap. At Hector loping my way, ears flopping, stick wedged in his mouth.

Breathing in deep, I nod. I am happy. I am happy and —happy and carrying this ache that’s been with me since my weekends began with Juliet, sharper when I think about her and miss her, when there’s so much I want to show her and share with her here but don’t, because that would only make it harder when I have to stop, when I have to move on and face what can never be: my world and her world becoming our world. Because soon we’ll have to say goodbye.

“Yeah, Ma.” I squeeze her gently against me. “I am.”

“Good,” she says.

Hector drops the stick at Mom’s feet, panting, his big pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. She picks it up and chucks the stick as far as she can, which is pretty damn far for a sixty-three-year-old dealing with rheumatoid arthritis.

She arches an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised. I used to be a dynamite softball pitcher.”

“Like I could forget sitting on the first-row bleachers, watching you kick butt in the local league? That no-hitter you pitched against the Capulettis in the family tournament?”

“Those cankerblossoms,” she mutters darkly. Ma’s strictly against swearing; I’ve always loved what she uses in place of cuss words. “Buttercup got out once , barely tromped through their disease-ridden cabbage patch, and they try to say at the town hall that she’s a ‘threat to local agriculture.’ Trying to take away my son’s beloved cow because of a ridiculous hundred-year-old family feud that my child had nothing to do with? Your poor father and I had to shell out—do you know how much? I can’t even stand to say it—to replace their ‘prizewinning’ cabbages. ‘Prizewinning,’ my backside!”

“Easy does it.” That was a mistake, mentioning our neighbors, the Capulettis, who’ve had a gripe with Mom’s family for generations, something Mom had hoped they’d get past when she moved here after having inherited the land from her aunt. Her hopes were swiftly, brutally dashed, and she’s never forgiven them for it. Bringing up the Capulettis is guaranteed to get Ma fired up.

She shakes her fist to the east, toward the Capulettis’ property, which begins a mile away, past a thick grove of trees very intentionally planted to block our view of them, and says, “Just try and mess with Isla Montag Orsino or anyone she loves, and see where it gets you!”

I give up trying to calm her down and figure I’ll join in instead. Turning east beside her, I raise my bent arm, hand fisted, and slap my other hand down on my biceps, honestly my favorite way to say fuck you , which I learned from Dad’s grandfather. My great-grandpa, Pap, was already as old as God when I was born, but he hung in there long enough to teach me the art of skipping rocks and the proper use of every colorful Italian hand gesture he knew.

“William Campbell Montag Orsino!” She swats my arm down. “That lewd Italian gesture is not permitted on my property.”

I shrug. “I’m a quarter Italian, and those ‘cankerblossoms’ have been mean to my mama. I can’t help it.”

“A quarter Italian,” she mutters, rolling her eyes, but a smile sneaks out. “It’s less than that, sweetheart.”

“Not according to Pap.”

“Your great-grandfather, God rest his soul, might have been Italian and brave enough, when he married a very fiery Scottish woman, to try his hand at producing her family’s whiskey rather than his family’s wine, but after that, not another Italian has joined the Orsino family, all the way down to your father—”

“Who met you ,” I say sweetly, “another fiery Scottish woman who’d inherited the land that ran right along his, and then he wooed you, and you lived happily ever after.”

“Eventually,” she says softly, as she leans back against the fence, staring out at the land. “We found our way to happily ever after, eventually.” She turns and faces me. “The takeaway is, you are at most, eh, twelve percent Italian?”

“Still Italian enough to give our neighbors l’ombrello.”

She rolls her eyes and pats my cheek. “I do love you, my stubborn one.”

“Love you, too, Ma.”

Wordlessly, she pushes off the fence, then starts to walk back toward the house.

I wait until she’s far enough away that I’m not worried she’ll be able to look back and see what I’m doing, then yank out my phone and open up my messages. Every evening, after work, I’ve been texting Juliet, and I don’t want to miss a day, before I head back to her tomorrow morning.

I’ve been trying my best with the flirty texting, but I still feel awkward as hell. I’ve reverted to cheesy, silly pickup lines more often than not, but at least they always seem to get a laugh out of her. Starting yesterday, though, I threw out the idea of rapid-fire questions, just about the small personal stuff I’d want to know about someone I’m trying to learn well enough to figure out if I can build a life with them. The right or left side of the bed? Favorite kind of music? Early bird or night owl? We didn’t get too far before we both crashed for the night, and I want to pick up where we left off.

I tell myself I want more practice, but I know the truth: I want more from her . I want to know Juliet, to learn more every time I talk to her.

Will: You up?

Juliet: What romance! Nothing makes my heart race like a booty call pick-up line.

A laugh leaves me. Hector drops the stick Mom threw at my feet and barks when I don’t throw it for him. I’m typing my response to Juliet instead.

Will: Fine, I’ll send a better one.

Will: How’s the evening treating you, beautiful?

Juliet: Yeah, like that a lot. 10/10.

Juliet: Evening’s been pretty relaxing. Weather’s gorgeous, so I’ve got the windows open and some candles lit. Wrapped up a couple writing projects, and now I’m just unwinding. How about you, handsome?

My heart jumps. Handsome . She’s never called me that.

She’s practicing, you ass. Just like you.

Except it doesn’t feel like practicing, texting her, wanting to know how she is, how her day is ending, getting texts from her that feel like she wants that, too.

I drag a hand through my hair and tug, frustrated. It’s getting harder to keep it separate inside myself—what’s practice with Juliet and what’s real. Over and over again, I’ve had to remind myself that fixating on that distinction is futile, because even if every second of it were real, she’d still be off-limits; nothing else can ever come of it beyond this month of practice that we’ve promised each other. Shaking my head, I push those thoughts away and type back.

Will: Good day of work. Getting ready to roll out this new whiskey, the one I’ve been giving samples of to clients in the city, so it’s busy right now, but productive. Had dinner with my parents, and now I’m just throwing a stick for the dog because if I don’t make sure he burns off this energy, he’ll get the zoomies later on and wake me up tearing around downstairs.

I finally chuck the stick again for Hector, then snap a picture of him streaking across the grass, a splotchy blur of blue-gray and white. When he runs back and drops the stick at my feet, I crouch, then snap another photo, this one a close-up of his goofy dog face tilted sideways, ears flopped forward, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Will: Meet Hector

Juliet: OH. MY. GOD!!

I stare at her response, nervous. I’ve mentioned I have a dog but not his breed.

Will: Is that a good “OH MY GOD” or a bad one?

Juliet: Will, I’m literally kicking my feet right now & making the most ridiculous noises! He’s the sweetest boy! I want to kiss his squishy face! I need to scratch behind his velvety little triangle ears! OF COURSE IT’S A GOOD “OH MY GOD” I LOVE HIM!!

My heart’s thudding in my ribs, a ridiculously wide smile lighting up my face.

Will: I just wasn’t sure. Not everyone likes pit bulls. A lot of people don’t.

Juliet: Well, that’s their problem. The bad rap pit bulls have is so unfair. Any dog, no matter their breed, that isn’t socialized well, that’s neglected or mistreated or bred in an environment specifically for aggression (looking at you, dogfighting), is potentially dangerous. That’s not on the animals. That’s on humans to do better.

Will: I know we’re talking about my dog, & this is probably going to sound very weird, but the fact that you feel that way & just went off about it is very hot.

Juliet: Is it? Going on a tirade isn’t necessarily the definition of being flirty.

I smile down at my phone, then throw the stick for Hector and lean back against the fence.

Will: Well, that tirade did it for me. 10/10.

Will: I want to ask some more rapid-fire questions, if that’s okay.

Juliet: I liked doing that yesterday . Ready when you are!

Will: Road trip or flight?

Juliet: Road trip!

I grin at her response. I love driving, enjoying not just my destination but the journey to get there. I’ll fly places when it’s the most practical way to get there, but otherwise, it’s the open road, for me.

Will: Same here.

Juliet: Favorite cheese?

I snort. This woman. My favorite cheese ?

Will: Gouda & if you hate it, don’t tell me. I can’t handle the pain.

Juliet: I LOVE GOUDA. It’s smoky! It’s creamy! Shit, now I want some.

Will: It’s the smokiness for me. Peat-smoked whiskey. Chargrilled veggies. Anything that makes me taste a bonfire in my mouth is a win.

Juliet: Yesss. When you’re here this weekend, we’ve got to stop by Nanette’s, my favorite pastry shop. They’ve been slow on rolling out gluten-free treats, BUT they recently added an ice cream booth & holy shit, their smoked chocolate caramel ribbon is TO DIE FOR.

Will: Sold.

Will: Next question’s mine: What’s the best thing that happened to you today?

She doesn’t respond right away, and I’m about to poke her with a reminder that these are rapid-fire , when her text comes in.

Juliet: This bath.

And then a picture pops up. I nearly drop my phone.

A sea of bubbles. Candles flickering golden in the corners against the white subway tiles. Her knees breaking the water’s surface, ten pink toenails peeking out farther down. It’s a very tame photo, objectively speaking, but I’m just so fucking hungry for this woman, seeing a sliver of her legs, the suggestion of her naked body in warm, sudsy water, is turning me rock hard.

I know I’m breaking the rules, that I’m supposed to rapid-fire respond back, but I’m speechless, white knuckling my phone. Her next text comes through and startles me so badly, this time I do drop it. I scoop my phone up from the grass, brush dirt off the screen, and beg the blood that rushed south to come back to my brain, so it can process what my eyes are reading:

Juliet: What about you? Best thing that happened to you today?

Well, that’s easy to answer. I type my response back, then hit send.

Will: This photo. Obviously.