Page 21 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

JULIET

By the time lunchtime rolls around, I’ve played my conversation with Luca over and over and over again, swirling around my brain until I don’t even know which way is up.

I’m a stalker. I’ve been stalking Luca Slater. Who even does that? Who develops a crush on a handsome man and ends up stalking him?

Me. That’s who.

I let out a noise of disgust at myself and blink hard to make my eyes stop stinging.

It’s just—I feel so bad . And so stupid and ashamed that I didn’t realize what I was doing, even though he’s been trying to tell me.

I can’t even complain about Quincey, who’s still a little uncomfortable to be around, because it feels like he’s always watching me. But at least Quincey isn’t breaking into my house. He’s not obsessively baking me desserts .

I glance around the storage room, which is where I’ve been eating lunch every day.

There was only a bucket to sit on Monday, but two folding chairs had appeared out of nowhere by Tuesday morning, thank goodness.

I’ve more or less gotten into the swing of things here—and by that I mean I’m going about my business with minimal interactions, because everyone seems to prefer that arrangement.

My janitorial coworkers talk incessantly with each other, laughing and smiling, but they don’t seem interested in chatting with me.

I don’t see Marianne from high school again, either.

I just work as hard as I can, by myself, until my body aches.

The aches and pains and sheer exhaustion are currently helping me keep my mind off of Luca.

I’m trying to get you to fall in love with me.

“Juliet,” I groan, hitting myself in the forehead with one hand as I reach for my food with the other. “How could you?”

Although I heard that casual wear is allowed on Fridays, I dressed normally this morning.

I figure I don’t actually work in the office, and I prefer my cute work clothes anyway.

So although everyone else is in jeans, it’s a pair of fitted black pants that gets covered in crumbs when I unwrap the slice of banana bread I brought as part of my lunch.

I brush the crumbs impatiently away and look down at my food.

It’s delicious, and I need to eat the whole thing. But despite my pep talk, those old anxieties are turning my stomach sour with an almost compulsive need to run.

I want to believe that this is a fluke, that tomorrow I’ll feel normal again—about food, about work, about myself. But I know that my situation right now is a breeding ground for the lies my brain tells .

Because I’m ashamed of myself for how I’ve been treating Luca. My life feels lost and wandering, out of my control. I’m torn between caring what other people think of me and not caring at all, and I’m also frightened of what the future might or might not hold.

In these circumstances, my mind can’t decide if it wants to barrel recklessly forward or freeze in place, until it somehow decides to do neither and takes a swan dive instead.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking myself through the exercises my old therapist taught me.

Reminding myself that no matter what I’ve done, I deserve to take care of myself in the most basic ways.

Food, water, rest. I think about the things my food does for my body, the ways it makes me strong, the ways it actually gives me more control because it allows me to participate fully in life rather than wasting away.

And although there are parts of my brain that don’t believe what I’m saying—the parts of my brain that might struggle forever—most of my mind is able to accept the logic I’m feeding it.

So I pick up the bread and eat it, bite by bite, even though I have to chew my anxiety too.

Three minutes later, all that’s left on my brown paper bag is a few crumbs.

Good job, Juliet. I pat myself on the back—physically reach over my shoulder and pat myself—because I think everyone should. Some of the hardest decisions I ever make happen when no one is watching. Things people would be so proud of me for—but no one ever sees, because I’m too scared to let them.

So I pat myself on the back. “You did good,” I murmur, swallowing down the lump in my throat, feeling the soft fabric of my blouse. My eyes still sting, and I’m not even sure it’s because of Luca now. “You did good. I’m proud of you. ”

And then, because I want to be brave, I tell myself one more thing: I’ll take the assessment tonight.

The rest of Friday drags by with no more glimpses of Luca, which is probably for the best. Little sparks of excitement rush through me every time I hear his name, though, which means that I’m a sparky, jumbled mess by the end of the day.

The office is buzzing with excitement about the breakfast Luca is hosting; as much as the employees complain and seem scared of him, they’re also clearly intrigued.

Now that Luca has given me permission to bring over my peach breakfast bars, I’m getting even more excited, too.

I’ll just need to make sure I can hobble around the kitchen well enough to bake.

Because everything hurts. Everything . My back hurts, my neck hurts, my arms hurt. I’m hoping I’ll get used to it soon; I have at least made peace with the dull monotony this job entails.

Since I’m not allowed to listen to headphones while I’m cleaning, for the last hour of work on Friday I retreat into my head and spend my time psyching myself up for what I’ll be doing tonight.

Whether you’re happy with the results or not, it will be good to know, I tell myself as the thought of the career assessment crosses my mind yet again. And there’s no rule that says you have to do what the test suggests. It will be fine.

But by the time I clock out, it’s pointless telling myself anything at all. I’ve reached the point where I can’t think about it anymore; I just have to go take the assessment.

It’s so stupid to be this nervous. Because I really do know that I’m not obligated to make any decisions based on the suggestions the assessment offers. I can chuck all the results out the window if I want.

But despite knowing these things, my insides flutter with anxiety anyway.

The fluttering worsens as I drive home, and while I adore my sisters, I’ve never been so grateful to find the house empty. When I get upstairs to the room India and I share, I close the door and lock it.

Is there any reason to lock it? No. But I do it anyway. Then I slump on my bed, make myself comfortable, and find the link Cyrus sent.

Then, with trembling fingers—trembling everything, really—I take the test.

It’s seventy questions, which seems like a lot, but I work through them in half an hour, my anxiety growing more with every click of the Next button.

Some of the questions I expect— Do you prefer working alone or with people?

Which subjects do you gravitate toward? —but some of them seem irrelevant to me.

I answer honestly anyway, and when I finally reach the end of question seventy, my hand hovers over the Submit button for a full ten seconds before I’m able to press it.

My hands clench in my lap as the screen changes, and I fight the temptation to slam the computer shut.

I’m being stupid; I just need to get this over with and find out what it says.

So when the results pop up, instead of closing my eyes or throwing the laptop across the room—a very appealing option on some level—I glance at the screen to find my answers.

And there they are. They’re impossible to miss, written in capital letters, bold, right at the top. Primary: SOCIAL WORK . Written beneath that is another heading. Secondary: PSYCHOLOGICAL SERVICES.

I stare at the words for a solid five seconds, my mind churning. Then, a little frown pulling at my lips, I let out the thought racing through my brain: “What the heck?”

“I took the assessment.”

Cyrus stares at me from his open door, one eyebrow cocked. “Why did you knock?” he says. “Why didn’t you just come in?”

“I’m a vampire today,” I say, pushing past him. “I need to be invited.”

He mutters under his breath as I stalk down the hallway, passing into the living room and throwing myself down on his little couch.

“Hi,” I say to Poppy, who’s already there, curled up with what looks like a textbook. She’s just finishing up her master’s degree, so she reads a lot.

But see? She and Cyrus are with each other all the time. They’re not even doing anything together—she’s just studying. How can they be like this and not fall in love?

I sigh and push that train of thought aside, because I need to focus on the reason I came.

At my entrance, Poppy sets her book aside, looking at me with interest. Her dark hair is in a wild ponytail, a few curls escaping.

“You took the test?” she says.

I’m not even surprised she knows. I just assumed Cyrus would tell her.

“I did.” I grab a pillow from the end of the couch and pull it over my stomach, making myself comfortable.

Cyrus lumbers back in and sits in his chair, his attention solely on me—which, for Cyrus, is rare. “And?” he says.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the tangled feelings in my chest. “And it says I should be a social worker! ” I say.

Cyrus’s expression changes into one of understanding. “Ah,” he grunts.

“Yeah,” I say.

Poppy looks more confused. “What’s wrong with—” But then she breaks off, and her face shifts, too, except her eyes soften with sympathy. “Right. Of course.” She clears her throat around a faintly uncomfortable pause. “It would be…rough.”

“It would be horrible!” I wail. “I sob at the commercials trying to get you to sponsor children from third-world countries.”

Cyrus snorts. “And you were weepy for a week when you saw that animal cruelty campaign on TV for the first time?—”

“The Sarah McLachlan one,” I say miserably as a lump rises in my throat. “With that song?—”

“We don’t need to discuss details,” Poppy says, shooting a reproachful look at Cyrus, who just shrugs. “But yes. I’m not sure social work would be ideal for someone with your—your—” She struggles to find a polite word and finally settles on “empathy levels. Your empathy levels.”

She’s right, though. I know it deep down in my soul. Being a social worker would tear me apart. I do not have the ability to emotionally compartmentalize like I would need to.

“Did it say anything else?” Poppy says. Cyrus’s eyes are on his laptop in his lap again, but he glances up briefly at the question.

“Psychology,” I say, my voice dull. “Counseling stuff. Which would require a lot of school and would still make me cry all the time. So.”

“So,” Cyrus says firmly. “You keep searching. You keep thinking.” He pauses, and his voice softens infinitesimally. “This is not the end, Jules.”

My eyes prickle, but I squeeze them shut. Then I take a deep breath and nod. “I know,” I say, trying to make my voice more enthusiastic. “I know. It’s just very anticlimactic. And very…”

But I trail off, even as my mind keeps going.

Frustrating. It’s very frustrating. Because I need to find out who I am. I need to find out what I bring to the table, and then I need to start bringing whatever it is.

I’m halfway to my feet when Cyrus speaks again. “You know it doesn’t matter. Don’t you?”

I swallow but don’t look at him.

“What some test says—it doesn’t matter. You’re still you.”

But I don’t even know who I am.

The desire to bake has my fingers dancing on the steering wheel as I drive home.

By the time I arrive, though, I’ve talked myself out of it, mostly because I don’t want to worry India and Aurora.

So I hurry upstairs instead, claiming the need for a nap.

They look questioningly at each other, but they don’t say anything else.

When I get to my room, I sit on my bed and think.

I need to be productive. I need to move forward. In at least one area of my life, I need to be doing something, or I’m going to scream so loudly Luca hears me all the way over in my parents’ old place.

A little sigh escapes me at this, and I know if I were looking in a mirror I would see a mortified cringe on my face.

Luca. There’s a good heart under that gruff exterior. I’ve always known it, but now I have proof. He gave me those clothes. He didn’t get mad that I was basically stalking him. He’s even letting me bring him a yummy baked good.

He could have reported me to the police. He maybe even should have. But he didn’t. So what can I do for him?

I straighten up as new excitement rushes through me. Here’s something I can do, something I can focus on. I need a plan . A plan to be a good friend. A confidant, a partner, someone Luca can depend on.

He even said I could try to get him to fall in love with me. He said it straight to my face. So maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make a plan to win him over. And if he’s still not interested?

I swallow and nod my resolve.

If he’s still not interested, I’ll finally let him go.