Chapter Twenty-Five

· Twenty-Five ·

Juliet

My white dress is off, as are the nude bra and panties I wore beneath it. I could still wear them beneath my dominatrix outfit, but I don’t want to. I want to embrace my character tonight as fully as possible. That calls for a slinky pair of black lace underwear and a matching demi-cup bra.

After I’ve got the bra on, I ease onto the edge of the bed and grab the panties resting there, then slide them up to my knees. I stand from the bed, and just as I’ve shimmied them over my butt, my left knee gives out. I fall with a plop back down to the bed.

Well. At least it wasn’t the floor. Still, frustrated tears sting the backs of my eyes.

I’ve certainly made progress on finding a way to accept my body, rather than constantly resent it; to work with it, love it, even when it hurts. But sometimes, it still upsets me when my body reminds me of these new limitations.

After a deep breath, I stand slowly and take a step, testing my knee. This time, it stays steady, but I feel the wobble in the joint, the looseness I’m learning to pay attention to, warning that stability is not in the cards. Taking my time, I walk toward my closet and open the door. From the hook on the back, I lift the loop connected to the foldable black cane that I ordered online a few months ago, that I almost packed the day I first met Will at Boulangerie, when I woke up feeling that threatening wobble in my knee. Sure enough, it gave out later on, and I fell into him.

But I don’t want to fall into Will tonight. Not because he wouldn’t be sweet about it, or because I’d be embarrassed when it happened—after having told him about my diagnosis, I’ve learned that he understands, from his experience with his mom, how to be supportive without smothering—but because I want to stand on my own two feet tonight. I want to feel like I can go and be wherever I am, and keep myself up on my own.

Tonight, if I wrap my hand around Will’s arm, it will be because I want to, not because I need to, because I want to enjoy touching him simply for enjoyment’s sake.

I lift the cane off the hook and unfold it, popping the metal catches into each section until they slide into the holes and lock the cane’s joints in place. Once it’s assembled, I set the cane in my opposite hand from my wobbly knee and take a few steps back until I can see myself in my full-length body mirror. My gears start to turn with ideas about how the cane can work with my costume. The hair, the makeup, the daring outfit.

When I decided on this costume, I told myself, tonight I was going to channel my inner badass—a woman empowered in her desires and unafraid of embracing them.

I take a long look, examining myself, imagining my transformation. I don’t even have all of that costume on yet, just its slinky, sexy beginning. But as I stare at myself, I realize something—I don’t need that costume to reclaim the woman who owns her desire for love, romance, intimate passion; the woman I’ve been reaching to become in these healing months isn’t a far-off hope anymore.

She’s already here, looking me right in the eye.

—

Margo and Sula, who picked me up in their cab, Toni and Hamza, and I are gathered outside the club, huddled together not because it’s cold—it’s a thick, muggy July night—but because we’re jittery with excitement as we wait for the rest of the group to show up, giddy with the anticipation of letting loose and having fun.

I glance down the sidewalk, spinning my cane beneath my hand, hoping I’ll spot Will, but I don’t.

What I do see is a cab pull up, the door thrust open. Kate and Bea step out first and clock me immediately, then beeline my way. Kate lets out a loud whoop and claps her hands. Bea wolf whistles.

I pivot on my cane, doing a jaunty circle so they can get a three-sixty view of me—my hair swept severely back into a high bun that came to life after lots of hairspray and patience, my black cat eye and bloodred lips, my black suit with its plunging blazer, nothing but my bra beneath it, my tight black suit pants, the shiny patent leather boots with a sensible two-inch heel.

“You are a fucking smoke show!” Kate says.

Bea shakes her head admiringly. “ Damn , JuJu.”

I smile their way, proud and satisfied. “Why, thank you. So are you two!”

Kate bows in her ringmaster outfit, complete with a long leather whip tucked under her arm—a scarlet coat over a black bustier and matching tight black pants. She’s wearing sky-high heels and a black top hat, so she towers over me. Her hair is down in long, soft brown curls sparkling auburn under the streetlights, falling nearly to her waist. Bea smiles from behind a black mask pluming with inky feathers, her eyes rimmed smoky and dark, making her irises pop vividly. She wears a long black coat but beneath it is a tight black leotard with a full, stiff matching tutu, black tights, and black ballet flats. A black swan.

“I love these outfits,” I tell them. My gaze drifts past them to Christopher, who’s in a lion’s costume. I laugh.

Bea glances over her shoulder and sighs. “I’m still grossed out that we’re going to have to see Kate play-whipping Christopher all night, but it’s a pretty damn good couple’s costume.”

“And Jamie?” I ask, frowning as I glance around.

“The name’s Holmes,” his deep voice says behind me. “Sherlock Holmes.”

I spin around, my mouth falling open. Jamie is dressed perfectly in a sharp three piece tweed suit and overcoat, a houndstooth-print deerstalker on his head, an old-fashioned pipe clutched tight in his teeth. “Wow,” I tell him. “Step aside, Benedict Cumberbatch. There’s a new Sherlock in town!”

Bea beams up at him. “While we don’t match themes,” she says, “we are embodying our hidden desires—mine, as the epitome of grace.”

“And mine,” Jamie adds, “being remotely capable of sleuthing cold-blooded murders from anywhere except in cozy murder mysteries from the safe confines of my couch.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Margo yells, drawing Jamie from our little circle toward the rest of the group. “I need to see that tweed up close and personal!”

Christopher’s got his back to us, his phone out as he takes a picture of Toni and Hamza striking a seductive pose—Toni in a sexy floor-length black gown, holding a red pitchfork, and matching red horns on his head, Hamza, angelic in a tight white suit that fits him like a glove, a glittery halo headband on his head.

Kate asks, “And who are you, JuJu?”

I stand taller, drawing my shoulders back. “A persona of my own creation, Viola Cesario. By daytime, a heart-eyed writer of swoony historical romance. By night, a heartless dominatrix.”

My sisters know I have a dream of one day writing and publishing romance. They know I’ve been trying to find my way toward reclaiming romance in my own life, too. They read between the lines of this hidden-desires persona. I feel them step closer, a small moment of sisters closeness.

“Viola Cesario,” Kate says, “sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

Bea wiggles her eyebrows. “And I’d like to read her stuff. You know I love me a good spicy hist-rom.”

“Maybe you will, one day,” I tell them, before I break into a laugh. “Well, minus the dominatrix part.”

—

Inside the club is absurdly loud, even from my seat at the round booth Margo reserved for our group, farthest from the dance floor and the DJ. If Will were here, I have zero doubts he’d have those earplugs in.

But he isn’t here. I’m not worried yet. He’s not late enough for me to worry about him—we only walked in ten minutes ago.

I’m worried about me . Because I miss him. Because I’m already having so much fun with everyone, and I still can’t stop feeling like all of this would be even better if he were here.

And that does not bode well for just over a week from now, the end of our last practice weekend, when I’ll have to say goodbye.

I try to push aside the missing as I sip my whiskey sour and watch my friends and sisters, dancing, laughing out on the floor. I don’t feel like dancing just yet.

When I take another sip of my drink, I get only a burble of liquid through the straw. Somehow, I’ve already sucked down my cocktail. I don’t feel the buzz yet, and I’d like that right about now, to quiet my racing thoughts.

Time for another.

Slowly, I stand, clutching my cane, and wend my way toward the bar with a few swats of the cane at stubbornly obstructionist legs to part the way. Mobility aids are great for getting through a crowd.

Sidling up to the bar, I hook my cane on the ledge and safely wedge it between my chest and the bar top. I’ve just flagged down Margo’s friend and coworker, Aila, who takes a look at my empty glass and winks to let me know they’ve got my refill underway, when a hand delicately wraps around my wrist.

“Basti?” a smoky voice says. “What are you doing here?”

I turn toward the voice and jolt. The woman holding my arm is gorgeous. Like, one of those people who is so beautiful, her features so perfect, it’s almost freakish. Lush, rosy lips. Wide green eyes and thick dark lashes. Long, golden hair falling in waves, accented by thin braids bearing tiny blue and green flowers.

She’s in what looks like a ren faire–type outfit—a flower crown of blue and green flowers that look honest-to-God real, a thin white shift falling off her shoulders, tight across the swell of her breasts, her waist cinched beneath a green corset that matches her eyes, and a sky-blue skirt beneath it.

For a second, I stare at her, wracking my brain. Something about her feels familiar. Where do I recognize her from?

“Oh.” She drops my wrist as she gets a good look at my face, and her stunned expression dissolves to what I’m pretty sure is disappointment. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I could have sworn you were someone else.”

“That’s okay.” I smile politely, still trying to pinpoint where I know her from. I hate when this happens. “No harm done.”

She smiles back, a little hesitant, and cocks her head to the side. “It’s uncanny, though. Like I would have bet my entire wardrobe you were Basti. From behind, you could be her twin!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. As long as you tell me she has a great ass.”

She throws back her head and laughs. “She definitely does.”

“Then consider me flattered.”

Her eyes hold mine for a beat.

I’m about to ask her if we’ve met before, when she says brightly, “Let me buy you a drink.” She clasps my hand. “To make up for this?”

“Oh, no need!” I nod toward the bar, where Aila is, as we speak, making me another whiskey sour. “I’m all set.”

“You sure?” she says.

I smile. “Totally.”

“All right.” She playfully rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m out of here, then. Have a great night!”

It must show in my expression, my confusion that she’s leaving an event that literally started fifteen minutes ago.

She laughs a little sheepishly, then leans in. “I’m only here for a brand partnership. Get in, take pics, get out, ya know?”

My eyes widen. That’s when I finally figure out how I know her. I’m talking to Olivia Tobias. A huge social media influencer. I don’t follow many influencers, but I’ve always liked her posts because they’re so damn beautiful—lots of shots of her in nature, flowers in her home, meals she’s cooked, pretty dresses she’s been gifted. I know it’s all heavily curated and she’s paid left and right to promote things, but it gives me a little serotonin hit, the same way reading historical romance does. Even though I know it’s not remotely close to reality, I still just enjoy the beautiful escape.

“Olivia Tobias?”

“That’s me!” she says.

“I follow your account!”

She sets a hand on her chest. “Stop it. You do?”

The feigned surprise is a bit much. She’s got more than a million followers. It would be more surprising if I didn’t follow her. But maybe she’s just trying to be humble and kind.

I smile. “I do. You take gorgeous photos.”

Her expression shifts to something softer. “Wow, thank you. Most people just say I’m really pretty or they love my clothes in my pictures, or they made that recipe I shared that I didn’t even come up with, I just got paid to cook and post about.” She sighs, her eyes holding mine. “It’s like the only part of my social media that’s actually me is invisible to people.”

I frown in sympathy. “I’m sorry, that has to feel like shit.”

“It really does! I’m a trained photographer. I love photography, and…nobody sees that.”

“Well…what if you…” I bite my lip to shut myself up.

Who am I to give her advice? She didn’t ask me for it. I have a bad habit of elbowing my way into people’s business when I’m concerned for them that is part inheriting Maureen Wilmot’s high-handed nurturer DNA, part growing up the protective oldest sister, part bad strategy for handling my anxiety that’s triggered when I see people struggling.

“What if I what?” she asks, stepping closer. “Say what you wanted to say.”

I hesitate. “What if you…posted about that ? A lot of people don’t understand how hard photography is. I only know because my sister is a photojournalist, and she’s had a camera around her neck for as long as I can remember. But most people have no idea what all is involved, how much of an art it is. If you shared what photography means to you, what goes into these gorgeous images you create, if you opened up and showed that part of yourself to people, you might realize it’s not that they’re dismissing that part of you, it’s just that they haven’t known how to see it.”

She smiles at me, but it seems tinged with sadness. “Basti said the same thing.”

“Well, I’d say Basti and I are onto something.”

Her smile fades a bit. She peers down and pulls out her phone. “What’s your handle?” She smiles up at me again. “I’d love to connect.”

It wasn’t that long ago that I had a killer social media presence for my PR consulting business. It’s all been archived since last November, since I stopped consulting to take care of myself and get my life back together. If there were ever a moment to resurrect my business, it would be to tell Olivia Tobias my handle, reactivate my profiles, try to leverage a connection with her, even try to take her on as a client.

Nothing sounds less appealing.

Because I don’t ever want to go back to working the way I did. I want this quiet, cozy life I’ve built for myself over the past almost year. I want to crank out enough articles to pay the bills and then spend every other minute of my time reading what I want, trying to write, cooking for fun and planting flowers and being with the people I love. I don’t want the grueling long days I used to pull, the constant pressure I put on myself to lock in more clients, the nonstop events and networking and schmoozing. Sure, I’ll always love helping people when I can; I’ll always be an extrovert and love to throw parties, to bring new people together and enjoy seeing the connections they make.

But just because I can do it as my job doesn’t mean I should .

“I actually don’t have any public social media presence,” I tell her. “Just a private account.”

She freezes, phone in hand, her brow furrowed. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Of course.” She pockets her phone and sighs.

“Let me guess,” I venture, “Basti’s the same way?”

Olivia throws up her hands. “You two really could be twins!”

I smile. “I’ve already got one of those, actually.” Aila slides my drink onto the bar. I tell her thank you, pick it up, then lift my cane off the bar. “Nice to meet you, Olivia. Enjoy the rest of your night, and…good luck, with Basti.”

She blinks at me like I’ve surprised her. “What?”

“You just seemed so disappointed I wasn’t her. I assumed it meant…” I grimace. “I shouldn’t have assumed, though. If I misread, I’m sorry.”

“No…” She sighs miserably. “You didn’t misread.”

“Friends first?” I ask gently.

She nods, looking glum. “She wanted more. And I didn’t want to risk our friendship.”

“Friends to lovers. It’s not the low-stakes trope everyone makes it out to be.”

A laugh jumps out of Olivia, but I catch her quickly dabbing the corner of her eye, like a tear snuck out that she doesn’t want anyone to see. “I fucking love a friends-to-lovers romance.”

“Me, too.” I nudge her gently with my shoulder and give her an encouraging smile. “Good luck. I hope, however your and Basti’s story ends, it’s happy.”

She squeezes my arm. “Thank you.”

After a beat, I turn, starting back through the crowd, swatting more legs with my cane that come too close to bumping into me. I’m only focused on the two feet in front of me, making sure my path stays clear, so it’s not until I’m right at the edge of the booth that I notice the only people there are mermaid Margo and Sula in her villainous octopus dress, thoroughly making out.

I take a step back before they can notice me and turn toward the dance floor, where everyone else is—

And then I run right into a hard chest swathed in a loose white shirt that looks straight out of a regency novel, a sweep of plaid tartan drawn down over one shoulder. My gaze drifts down that beautiful blue plaid of sky blue and grass green checked with charcoal gray, and my eyes go wide. I’m looking at a kilt held tight at his hips by a black belt, a matching black sporran slung across it. I take in two scuffed black boots that slouch at two very sexy knees—holy God, who knew knees could be sexy. The Highlander of my dreams stands before me.

“Sorry I’m late,” Will says. “Turns out, kilts are a lot harder to put on than preliminary YouTube research led me to believe.”

I peer up at him, dazed, delighted, smiling ear to ear.