22. Just You

Monroe

There's still no dirty bathtub pic from Juliet, but that's no excuse for me to show up empty-handed when I return. I take a detour to Main Street on the way home, pulling over at The Slippery Dipper.

Grateful the store is still open at eight in the evening on a Wednesday, I hustle inside, scan the offerings, and grab a bath bomb. The scent is honey and cinnamon. Sounds good enough to eat and that describes Juliet, so I grab one. As I'm checking out, I spot a vanilla body spray.

When in Rome and all.

I snag that too, then set them down on the counter. The man at the register has a young dad vibe, tired but affable with red hair and fair skin. "How's your evening going?"

"Great," I say, choosing to answer how it will be rather than how it was. "And you?"

"Not so bad." He glances down at my purchases. "Good picks. My wife loves this bath bomb."

"Good to know."

He lifts a curious brow. "Want them wrapped?"

Dude is brilliant. "Sure. Good call."

He gives an easygoing smile. "Had a feeling."

I'm not usually this chatty with anyone but close friends. But I'm damn curious about something. "Do I give off buying a gift for a woman vibes?"

His smile widens and he nods knowingly. "Big time, man. Big time."

Yeah, I'm a little obvious, but I don't mind. When he's done, I take the wrapped gifts, and thank him.

"Hope your—" he stops, perhaps rethinking girlfriend or wife, understandably, then shifts to, "Hope she likes them."

Out of nowhere, my chest aches for a few seconds with the unsaid words. With a wish. But there's no time to linger. "Me too."

The bell chimes as I leave, and I'm about to hop back in the car, when I make a game day decision and rush into the bougie gourmet market next door. Juliet likes food, so I head to the deli counter and order a veggie grinder to go. With Gouda cheese of course. Then, a second for myself since it sounds good.

I don't call first and ask if she's hungry. If she cobbled together a meal while I was gone, this will keep till tomorrow. It's more of a gift this way.

At the self-checkout, the man in front of me is buying a pretty bouquet of flowers and a box of cereal. That's a good idea. I spin around, head to the floral section and grab some orange, peach and yellow roses that look like firecrackers. I grab one more thing for tomorrow's date with the brewer then I'm done and out of there.

But once I've returned to the house and punched in six-nine-six-nine, the home is eerily quiet.

Hmm. That's odd.

With the bags and bouquet in hand, I scan the living room. It's dark. The kitchen looks dark from here too. It's only eight-thirty. Maybe she conked out early? I toe off my shoes and pad quietly, just in case, but the hair on the back of my neck prickles with worry.

Fuck quiet.

"Juliet? Honey? Are you okay?"

I turn down the hall. No answer.

I pick up the pace, my heart skittering ridiculously with worry. Where is my Juliet and is everything okay? I turn into the bedroom, and my shoulders relax. She's here. But she's curled up on her side, hands tucked in prayer under her cheek. "Hey," she says, groggily.

My heart goes too soft. "I didn't mean to wake you up," I say, then close the distance and sit on the bed, snapping into practical mode. "Are you tired? What's wrong? What can I do for you?"

She winces, her hand coming to her forehead gingerly. "I think I have a migraine."

I set down the gifts on the bedroom floor, and take her hand, rubbing it. "Did you take Tylenol? Do you get migraines regularly? If so, do you have headache meds with you and where are they?"

She shakes her head. "I think it was the paint. The fumes got to me after a while."

"Paint is the devil. But I thought you were supposed to leave it for me," I say, sternly.

"I wanted to finish it. To surprise you."

My heart tries to fight its way out of my chest. "You didn't have to do that for me. You weren't supposed to."

"Bossy."

"Yes. Because I wanted to finish it. For you."

"Don't worry. I won't fight you for the last wall. The paint tried to kill me. I had to lie down. I fell asleep for a couple hours."

I rub her hand more, unable to stop touching her. "Does it still hurt? It's good that you're lying down in the dark."

"It does still hurt."

Her small nod breaks my heart. "Let me get you some Tylenol."

She doesn't fight me on this either. "Thanks. I need it."

I reach for the sandwich in the bag, brandishing the brown paper. "If you're hungry, I got you a sandwich."

"I love sandwiches," she says.

I drop a kiss to her forehead, then whisper. "I know."

I take off on a mission to do whatever I can to make her feel better. Back in town, I rush into The Slippery Dipper, which is closing in five minutes. The man greets me with a curious smile. "Hey there…"

But there's no time for details. "I need a lavender eye mask."

"Gotcha," he says with a crisp nod, recognizing a spa emergency when he sees one.

Next, I'm back in the gourmet store, buying the world's most expensive Tylenol, then I'm zipping back to the house. The lights are still low, but this time, one shines dimly from the bathroom. The door's open, so I follow the soft glow, and…

Holy shit.

She is in the tub. She smiles at me. "Took the doctor's advice."

I drink in the sight of her in the claw-foot bathtub, draped in bubbles, with only the faintest lights on. It smells like warmth, of honey and cinnamon. Her hair's piled high in a bun, wet strands framing her face.

I'm strangely glad she never sent me a photo. Not that I'd wish a headache on her. But there's no picture that would compare to how it feels to see her here, like this, in the flesh.

I could stare all night, but I shake off the clutching feeling in my chest, filling a cup of water from the sink and offering her some Tylenol. She swallows them, then hands me the cup. I set it down on the vanity.

She gestures to the bubbly tub. "Hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of opening the gift."

"It was for you," I say, and I can't take my eyes off her.

"I had a feeling."

"I'm glad you opened it."

"Me too. I feel a tiny bit better." She nibbles on the corner of her lips, giving me an apologetic look. "But not integrity-ruining better."

I roll my eyes. "Woman, there is no integrity being ruined tonight. I want you to feel better. I want you to feel good again."

She looks at me, her gaze holding mine. "I do now."

I close the toilet seat, sit down on it, and hang out with her as she relaxes in the hot water. When she's done, I get her a big, fluffy towel, and wrap her in it, pressing a chaste kiss to her neck. "Let's get you back in bed."

A few minutes later, she's in her jammies and settling into bed. "I put the sandwiches in the fridge. I'll have mine for breakfast," she says.

"Sandwiches for breakfast sound good."

"It's a date then."

I can't wait for it. I dart out to the kitchen, heat up the eye mask for twenty seconds in the microwave, so it's warm, then return to the bedroom and hand it to her. "Got you this just now. It should help."

She takes it and sets it on her eyes as she lies down. "You must be The Slippery Dipper's best customer tonight."

I sit on the bed with her. "I think I am." Then, impulsively, I add, "I thought of you when I was there."

I can't see her eyes twinkling, but her playful smile tells me they are as she asks, "Yeah? What did you think about?"

Maybe it's easier to say this when she can't look at me. When she can't disarm me with those bright green eyes. Or maybe she's already disarming me. I lie next to her. "The day I saw you there," I admit, my stomach fluttering annoyingly.

"Hmm. I don't remember that day," she says, her lips twitching.

"Evil woman."

"Is that where I ran into you?"

I dip my face, nip her shoulder. "You know you did."

She wiggles. "Maybe you should remind me."

I can see it so perfectly. I can feel it too. "You were reaching for a heart-shaped soap. I was grabbing the one next to it. Maybe, possibly, I let my hand slide so it touched yours."

"And here I thought you were good with your hands."

"I was. It wasn't accidental, Juliet."

A tremble moves through her body. It's beautiful to see. "Fine, tell me more about this un-accidental touch."

I close my eyes too. I can't look at myself in the mirror as I tell this story. "I recognized you. I hadn't seen you in a few years, but there you were. My good friend's sister. And none of that mattered. All I thought was, I have to see her again."

"I'm starting to remember this," she says, but then tilts her head closer to me, tapping her chin. "Did we see each other? It's a little fuzzy with this headache."

I laugh softly. "We saw each other. At the arcade, at the movie theater, the beach. The tent."

"Ahh. It's coming back to me now."

But so's the ending too. That's the problem. We'd only spent a week together, but I wanted more. Only, it wasn't feasible. Hell, it's not feasible now. We have too much at stake. But more than that, I don't trust myself to be the man she needs. One failed marriage and a handful of short-term relationships that fizzled, too, are proof that my skills lie elsewhere. If I even tried, I'd probably turn out just like my dad, which means I'd be just as unworthy of her as the other guys she's met. I won't do that to her.

I can't have a future with her, but maybe I can rewrite the past. "I wanted to see you again, Juliet."

She inhales, exhales, like she needs more breath for this. "Yeah?" There's hope in her voice. Such a dangerous thing.

"I did," I say, with regret in mine. "But what could we do? I was moving across the country to New York."

"And I wasn't," she says, wistful.

I could stop this conversation, but maybe we need this—an admission that it ended too soon, before either of us wanted it to. Since we reconnected when I returned to San Francisco, we've been friends and co-workers, but we never truly acknowledged that week.

"I couldn't string you along," I add.

She says nothing. Just sort of hums thoughtfully.

"I wanted to though. Not string you along. But see you more. Again and again," I say into the reflection, forcing myself to face the truth of how I felt back then. I felt so much more than I told her. Than I told anyone.

"Me too. I wanted that too."

My heart thumps, missing what never happened. But at least that week no longer hangs unspoken between us. I squeeze her hand tighter. "How's your head?"

"A little better. You mobilized quickly to heal me."

"I hated to see you sick. I want to make it better."

She smiles. "The doctor in you."

I shake my head. "It's not the doctor in me," I say, firm and clear.

She takes off the mask, sets it on the pillow, turns her gaze to me. "No?"

My breath hitches. Her bright eyes on me are turning me inside out. "It's just you."

She sighs softly, then curls up in my arms. "How was it? Seeing your dad?"

I snort. Then scoff. "He wants me to give a speech at his retirement party this weekend."

"Will you?"

"I said yes," I say. "And he invited everyone. All our friends." Wait. She probably knows that. He said his assistant invited her. But what if I could do it first? "Have you checked your email?" I ask with some urgency.

"No."

"Good." I don't want him to be the one to invite her. That RSVP belongs to me and me alone. "He's going to invite you, but I want to instead."

"So you're beating him to the punch?"

"Yes. Will you go with me?"

She hums, then shoots me a quizzical look. "Will you be pretending to be one of my dates?"

I growl. Then knit my brow. Then breathe hard through my nostrils.

She laughs. "That's a no."

Damn straight. "Go with me. Just me."

"I'll go with you. Just you."

I wrap my arm more tightly around her, tugging her against the crook of my neck. "I got you flowers too."

"I saw. I put them in a vase in the kitchen. That was sweet of you. They're fiery."

Like you. I saw them and thought of you. Everything makes me think of you. But I can't say any of that, or I'd be a dick who can't back up those words. Instead, I keep my reply simple. "The guy ahead of me in the store was getting flowers. That reminded me the market had them."

There. I'm not totally revealing I'm obsessed with her.

"I like them. And the body spray and the bath bomb. And I know I'll like the sandwich."

And that was a lot of gifts. Might as well slap a billboard on me that says I'm too into you. "Funny story. The guy who was buying the bouquet was also buying a box of cereal," I say, deflecting once more.

"Someone was optimistic," she says, amused.

"That's exactly what I thought when I saw it," I say, then kiss her forehead. Fuck it. "And I couldn't wait to tell you."

Soon, I undo my slacks and take off my shirt and stay the night with her.

In the morning, when she's off doing yoga, I finish painting. Then, I get ready to take her on a date as Dashiell.

That guy has no idea how lucky he is.