20. Things I Wish I Knew

Juliet

In the corner of the store, Mom picks a pretty dark purple blouse and holds it up. "Perfect for an art gallery date?"

"It is," I say.

"Good. Now I need something for mini golf." Because of course she's going on a mini golf date. As she hunts through a rack, she asks, "How are your dates going?"

Heat creeps up my cheeks. "Great."

I mean, it's not really a lie. I did have a great date last night.

One well-groomed brow rises. "Oh? Will you see him again?"

Yes, in about twenty minutes, and I can't wait. "I will."

Her smile widens. "I had a good feeling a change of scenery would go a long way. So what's he like?"

I don't want to lie. I don't want to lead her on. But I am not going to tell her the truth about Monroe and me. "He's smart and funny. A little reserved, but not afraid to poke fun at me either," I say as she flicks through some short-sleeve blouses.

"He sounds great." She lets go of the clothing hunt, then lets out a mom sigh and squeezes my arm. "I've been worried about you."

I tilt my head. "Why?" I ask.

"Because I worry that your father and I are the example that you and Rachel and Sawyer saw for more than thirty years. And look what happened to Rachel."

Well, she's madly in love with her best friend who adores her, but it took a marriage to a man who lied to her about his secret family, then divorcing him to get there.

"Sure. But how does that relate to you and Dad?"

"We were never very affectionate when you were growing up. We were good friends. We still are. But when we were together, we held each other at arm's length." Mom smiles wistfully and places a blouse back on the rack. "It took me a while to see that, and I just hope it doesn't take you all those years," she says, and someone has definitely been to therapy. Someone is moving quickly through all that self-reflection too.

But my mind whirs with questions that hook into me, that make me think twice about how my parents behaved growing up. Come to think of it, they weren't very affectionate. They were always nice and kind. But they never danced in the kitchen, or kissed in the hallway, or held hands while walking down the street. "You were never in love with him?"

Mom smiles ruefully. "Once upon a time we both were. Then, we became companions more than lovers. Sometimes that works for some. Sometimes it doesn't. But for you and your sister and your brother—I don't want you to just accept the comfort of a relationship. I want you to have sparks and butterflies."

As she heads to another rack, I noodle on that. I like comfort, but Mustache is comforting. I deserve sparks and butterflies.

But something nags at me. What if I'm not picking well for some subconscious reason? What if it's not the algorithm? What if it's me approaching relationships the wrong way?

We're an hour into redoing the walls in the guest room. The windows are wide open, and we're painting to the tunes of Pearl Jam.

His choice. Not mine.

"How much older than me are you?" I tease as Eddie Vedder croons something beautiful but incoherent while I roll dove-gray paint up one wall.

As he spreads paint in a corner with a small brush, Monroe shoots me a look. "Old enough to know you deserve this for that remark," he says, then closes the distance between us and drops a dollop on my nose.

My jaw falls open in mock indignation. "You asked for it, buddy," I say, then grab a brush from the roller pan like we're sword fighters. I slash it down his arm. "A new tattoo. From me."

He grabs my hip, hauls me close, and slides the brush right above my breasts, slow and sensual in a way I didn't know paint could be. After he drops the brush into the pan, he drags his finger through the paint on my cleavage.

I shiver. Then murmur something unintelligible. Maybe I do understand Pearl Jam.

Monroe's eyes are blazing, but he's quiet as he studies me. My eyes, my lips, my chest. I don't mind his gaze on my breasts at all. I don't mind it so much, I shiver again.

"What is it?" I eventually ask, breaking the silence.

"You," he says. "You're so responsive."

My eyes float closed for a moment, and I feel a little lost in him. When I open them, I shrug in a sort of helpless admission. "I just like the way you touch me." Impulsively, I add, "I always have."

I'm tired of never acknowledging that time we had together. We only started to mention it last night, and it's been such a welcome relief.

Monroe takes my brush and sets it down in the pan, then drags me against him, our paint-stained clothes between us. "I've always liked touching you, Juliet. I did then. I do now."

I flash back on the conversation with my mom. Sparks and butterflies. I feel too much of them with him. And since he's willing to talk about the past, I press him more. "Do you ever think about that week?"

He nods, solemnly. "I do. More than I should."

"Me too," I admit.

"I think about how medical school was a mistake for so many reasons. But also because that stupid residency took me away from you."

My heart slams against my rib cage, but then it aches too. Even if circumstances hadn't separated us, what would we truly have become? He's a man who doesn't allow sparks and butterflies outside of the bedroom.

"But wasn't it for the best then? Given everything you said this morning?" I ask, facing that harsh reality rather than avoiding it.

He stares at me with such genuine vulnerability that my throat catches once again. But he doesn't answer me right away. He lets go, grabs a rag from the floor, and drags it down my nose, cleaning up paint, then swipes it across my chest, removing it from there too.

His smile is sad, the scar too. "I wish I knew."

Yeah, me too. "We should get back to painting."

"We should."

But we don't. He kisses me for a good, long time, so long that I stop thinking about painting, and the past, and all the things I wish I knew too.

We take a break from the fumes—even with the bedroom windows open, they're a little strong. In cozy outdoor deck furniture on the back porch, he works on his course, and I answer emails from clients about upcoming parties. Then, we brainstorm new marketing ideas for Heartbreakers and Matchmakers—collaborations we want to pursue with dating experts on social media, guests we might want to bring on, as well as dating trends to discuss. "When Rachel and Carter did that series of five first dates for Date Night, we talked about it on the show," he says.

"I remember that," I say, referring to both the dates they did for Carter's dating app sponsor, as well as the episode. I listened to it during a morning workout since I wasn't one of the hosts yet. "I heard that one and pretty much demanded to be on the podcast."

He laughs. "Yes, you were adorable marching into that board game night at Carter's place and pitching me."

I shrug proudly, owning my gumption then and now. "What can I say? I knew you needed me." I quickly add, "On the show," so there's no mistaking my meaning.

"Yes. I did," he says, fondly, then he stares out at the wildflowers in the yard, maybe at the shed across the grass, his expression turning thoughtful. "We've covered some interesting trends for the podcast, haven't we? I think that's the key. Keep pushing forward in the dating frontier."

Does he mean this and us? And do I even want to talk about it on the show? But as soon as the thought lands, I catch it and hold it close, knowing the answer instantly. I wouldn't mind talking about the experiment. I've mostly been an open book on air. Why stop now? That's my shtick—sharing. "Monroe, would you want to talk about this whole dating coach thing on the show?"

He shifts his focus to me, but it still looks like the cogs are turning in that big brain of his. "I suppose it was inevitable that it'd feel like podcast fodder," he says and I'm pretty sure he's going to say yes. "It's definitely the dating frontier."

"Especially if I ride you reverse cowgirl," I offer since I'm helpful like that.

"What were we even talking about?"

"Exactly."

"We should definitely experiment with that. Tonight."

"Count me in."

"As for the experiment itself…" He blows out a breath and I'm sure the why not is coming. But then he locks eyes with me. "Maybe when we're done with it, we can revisit this. For now, I'd rather this be between us. What do you think?"

My heart stutters. I think I love that the experiment isn't about the show. "Works for me."

"Good. That's very good," he says, then shuts down his laptop. I set my tablet on the table and face up to another inevitable aspect of the experiment.

"You were right about Jared."

"In what way?"

"I ran into him," I say, then tell him the whole story, ending it with, "So I guess we really do need to keep going since you were right. You know men."

He cups his ear. "Say that again."

I narrow my eyes then grumble. "You were right."

He lets out a satisfied sigh. "That's sexy. Now come sit on my lap and say it."

"You're relentless."

"And you like relentless," he taunts, then pats his thighs. "Over here."

"And voracious."

"I'm not seeing the problem. C'mon."

"And bossy," I say.

"You like bossy."

I really do. I scoot over on the outdoor sofa and sit on his lap, grabbing my tablet to show him my new picks. But a funny thing happens as I scroll through Date Night options. Monroe wraps his arms more tightly around me. He growls into my neck a little more. He kisses my shoulders more intensely.

He's marking me even as I pick the next man.

His name is Dashiell; he's thirty-four and he's a brewer. "Even you need to be okay with that," I say to him, doing my best to be undeterred by his possessive affection. "Plus he plays softball in a recreational league. That's giving me Elodie and Gage vibes."

He cracks up. "Yes, he'll be just like our friends."

I nudge him with my elbow. "What do you think about him?"

"Tell me what you like about him," he says, putting on his shrink hat as he turns the question around.

I've given it some thought. And I've considered the lesson I learned from the Jared date, which was not to overlook douche vibes in the name of giving someone a chance. No douche vibes allowed from here on out. With this in mind, I believe this new guy has real promise.

"Brewers must know a little something about chemistry, so there's that. Plus, men not having enough male friends is like an epidemic we address on the podcast a lot, but this guy clearly has plenty, since he plays softball in a rec league. Also, his arms are probably real muscly."

"You like muscles," he says, a little amused, but perhaps a little envious at the same time.

I squeeze his biceps. "Yes."

"Good."

But I want more than a good. I want to know his actual take on this guy. "Okay, serve it up. He doesn't have douche vibes like Jared, so what's your problem with him?"

"That would ruin the integrity of the experiment."

A laugh bursts from me. "You ruined the integrity of the experiment last night when you fucked me."

His arms band around me even more tightly. "Fine," he says, begrudgingly. "If you must know, here's my take. Beer and ball games, really? What would this guy even talk to you about?"

"I like baseball," I insist.

"Do you?"

I huff. "I like going to games with friends, okay? But that's close."

"Sure, in the way cars are close to bikes. You use them to get around. My point is you can put a hipster veneer on it, but it seems this guy still wants to live like he did in college."

I gasp. "No! You're looking at him through your…your…your shrink lens."

"Yes. Yes, I am," he says, laughing, but then the laughter fades and he shoots me an earnest look. "But you said not to role-play too hard, so I'll be more subtle in my character acting when you go out with Dashiell tomorrow."

I suppose that's all I can ask for.

He leans in to kiss me, but before he can destroy my panties even more, his phone chimes with an alarm. With a groan, he says, "I need to go play golf with my dad."

It sounds like he'd rather spend time hanging out with Real Jared than see his father. "Sorry you don't get along with him," I say, my heart hurting for the man.

"Yeah, me too."

We untangle from each other, and he heads into the house. I go inside, too, and resume painting. Fifteen minutes later, he returns, freshly showered and dressed in khakis and a trim polo, looking too hot for words.

Wait. I do have words, after all. "Can you ruin the integrity of the experiment again tonight?"

His eyes flash with dirty thoughts. "I can, and I will." He nods to the room, shifting gears quickly. "I'll finish painting this tomorrow. You should stop and…relax. Enjoy Darling Springs. Or take a nap. Maybe a bath."

I study him curiously. "Why are you saying that? So I'll be rested for you to ruin my integrity?"

"Yes. Also, I feel bad for leaving you to do all this. I'd rather do it tomorrow, so you don't have to."

"Aww, you do have feelings," I tease.

He brings a finger to his lips. "Don't tell a soul. Also, send me dirty pictures of you naked in the tub or something?"

I snort. "I'll take things that'll never happen for five hundred dollars."

He shrugs happily. "It was worth a try."

When he leaves, I dip the roller in the pan and work on the next wall. I'm determined to finish before he returns—a surprise for the man who's maybe not so impervious after all.

I slide the paint up the wall, returning to the conversation with my mother from earlier today. She said she wasn't in love with my dad most of the time, nor was he with her. And yet they seemed happy enough. They were good parents, they showed up for us, and they supported us. I never sensed they weren't each other's big love.

I stop mid-roll. As a kid, would I have even known what a big love looks like?

I finish rolling to the ceiling, dip the brush in the paint, and then stroke against the wall again, answering in my head. No, I don't suppose I would have known that then. Now, though, I wonder—did their arm's length, friendly love inform how I approach romance?

I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of the past and my present as I paint and paint, until my head starts to spin from the fumes and I stagger from the room.