Page 9 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

JULIET

When my sisters come downstairs Sunday morning and find me baking cupcakes, they are—understandably—a little concerned.

“So…” India says, looking around the kitchen.

Aurora’s eyes just ping from countertop to countertop, and I don’t blame either of them for their facial expressions.

Last time I baked cupcakes, I made a billion, and they were all done in a tearful state of panic. I was stress baking, because I was worried about finding a job. But this time is different.

“I’m fine!” I tell them, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, because I’ve just gotten a little smudge of flour there. “I’m fine. I just felt like baking.”

When Aurora turns to stare at me for a solid ten seconds, I wave my hand in front of her face.

“Stop that,” I say. “What are you doing? ”

“Checking for your crazy eyes,” she says. Then she glances at India with a shrug. “She seems fine.”

“I am!” I say, rolling my eyes. “I really just felt like baking something.”

India, at least, seems reassured that I’m in a good state of mind, because she slouches over to the kitchen table and sits down.

India is slower in the mornings than Aurora.

Once Aurora wakes up, she’s good to go; you could plop her right in front of a conference table at work, and as long as she was dressed properly, you’d never know she just rolled out of bed.

Cyrus is the same way, although he’s maybe a little grumpier in the mornings.

Then again, Cyrus is always grumpy, so it’s hard to tell.

“You’re up early, aren’t you?” Aurora says now, glancing at the clock. It’s seven-thirty, which, yes, is earlier than my weekend normal.

“I didn’t sleep well,” I admit, and India nods, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Neither did I,” she says. She and I both look at Aurora, who shrugs, looking unrepentant.

The three of us fell asleep crammed on Aurora’s bed last night, right in the middle of our Veronica Mars rewatch.

I was hanging off one side when I woke up this morning, India hanging off the other.

Only Aurora was sleeping peacefully in the middle.

They definitely had more room once I got up.

When India and Aurora begin laying out their plans for the day, I turn my attention back to my cupcakes, because I don’t have any plans.

I’m baking and getting ready for my first day of work tomorrow.

So I neatly and methodically fill each cupcake liner with batter, trying to find the peace that usually comes with baked goods—inhaling the sweet smell, appreciating the thrill that comes with pure creation, making something delicious out of all the ingredients.

I wasn’t always a baker. There was a time when food made me anxious—a time when eating made me anxious.

As my academic life spun more and more out of my control, as dance became more clearly my greatest strength, I started clinging to the things I had power over.

Food was one of those. Regardless of what grade I got on a test, I could control what went in and out of my body, and I was praised for it.

I was praised for my beauty; I was praised for my dance skills.

It was easy to slip into that mindset, the need to maintain a perfect athletic figure. The need to maintain my beauty. I ended up losing too much weight, and my parents pulled me from the community college I was attending in order to get healthy again.

I fought them at first, but not for too long. I was miserable. Spiraling and frightened and miserable. I was scared of my mind. I was scared of food. I was scared of my body.

All that aside, I was still one of the lucky ones. I was able to recover; lots of people don’t. It’s a thought pattern I’ll have to fight for the rest of my life, but I’m doing my best. And baking?

Baking is the hobby I took up once I was ready—a middle finger to the brain that was telling me lies about myself.

Cyrus is the only one who knew what I went through. India and Aurora were away at college themselves, and I could never bring myself to tell them. Their love would have been stifling when I needed space to get my head on straight. But Cyrus was around, already graduated, and he saw.

More than that, though, he let me be. He didn’t ask me how I was feeling ten times a day; he didn’t look at me with poorly concealed pity or anxiety or concern. He just gave me a rare hug and then went about his business.

It was perfect, and I love him for it. I might even take him some cupcakes later.

“Are there any chocolate this time?” India asks from the table, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“In the oven,” I say as I finish spooning batter into the cupcake liners. The timer for the chocolate ones will go off soon, and then I’ll put this muffin tin in.

“Excellent,” India says. “Can I eat one for breakfast?”

I smile a little, because as much as my baking is for me, I love feeding my sisters, too. “Of course,” I say. “But if you eat it too soon after it comes out, I won’t be able to frost it. Do you want to wait?”

“Nah,” India says, waving her hand. “I’m more here for the chocolate anyway.”

“Do you want one?” I ask Aurora, who’s drifted over to look at the counters where I’m working.

“Not right now,” she says vaguely. Then she points to the bowl of batter and the measuring cups and egg shells and everything else. “You’ll clean all this up, right?”

“Of course I will,” I say, rolling my eyes. I might be a little messy sometimes, but I’m not a heathen. “Do you want us to save you a few?”

“You said there are chocolate this time?” she asks, and I nod. “Then yes,” she says. “Save me a chocolate one. Are you frosting them?”

“With sprinkles,” I say happily.

Sprinkles are my favorite. They add the best little crunch, and they’re so cheerful.

India and Aurora filter out of the room after eating—India a plain chocolate cupcake and Aurora a bowl of oatmeal—and I’m left to myself once more.

I line my cupcakes neatly on a wire cooling rack and then frost them, cleaning up in the meantime.

There’s a sense of peace in making order out of disorder, just like there’s peace in turning ingredients into baked goods.

But I’m having a hard time feeling it today.

This usually works. Baking usually helps me feel better, no matter what’s wrong. But all I can think about is tomorrow morning, when I’ll go to Explore and start working. The tangled mess of emotions inside me writhes some more, and I wipe the countertop more vigorously.

I’m glad to have a job, but I’m sad I’m a janitor. Then I feel guilty that I’m sad when I should just be grateful. What a cycle.

How stupid is it, feeling guilty over completely normal emotions? It’s something I’ve always struggled with.

“You’re going to be great at whatever you do,” I tell myself. One compliment; I hunt for another. “Your friendly personality will help you make friends no matter where you work.”

Two compliments to myself, and I almost believe them.

When all the cupcakes have been frosted and the kitchen has been cleaned, I head upstairs to find my first-day-of-work outfit. The room I share with India only has one closet, but I stand in front of my half for a few minutes, my gaze scanning the contents to little avail.

What does one wear for a janitorial job?

Don’t dress for the job you have; dress for the job you want. I’ve heard that before. Maybe I should try it. I can scrub floors in tweed just as well as in any other fabric. I can use a toilet brush while wearing a suit coat. And this way I’ll look professional .

I might even look good, which never hurts when Luca could see me at any moment. So I pull my favorite business outfit from the closet and drape it lightly over the back of the desk chair. I decide on a pair of shoes, too, and set them out. Then I flop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t want to be a janitor my whole life. I don’t want to be a dog groomer. But if I can’t teach dance, it’s up to me to figure something else out. Something to strive toward, even if it’s difficult. No one is going to drop out of the sky with a perfect career for me.

The book I took from my old bedroom is hidden under my pillow; I sit up and scoot around, pulling it out. It’s decently hefty, and it’s not going to read itself. I need to start there.

There’s one other thing I could do, too, one that’s been lingering in the back of my mind for a couple weeks?—

“Jules,” India calls from downstairs, and I shove the book back under my pillow.

It’s dumb. It’s so dumb that I’m hiding it. But I do anyway.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going on a ride. Hold down the fort?”

“Please don’t crash and die,” I shout with a shudder.

I don’t care how good India is at driving her motorcycle. I will never ever get on. Ever.

The faint sound of a door slamming shut filters up to me, and a couple minutes later I hear Betsy the Motorcycle rumbling to life.

Only when they’re out of hearing distance do I go downstairs, out the back door, and to the yard.

I sit in one of the chairs we keep back there, looking at the spring morning and letting myself breathe.

Colorado air is different.

I tilt my head back and let it rest against the chair, my eyes drifting closed. The breeze caresses my skin, and it smells like spring somehow—green and fresh and gritty like damp soil, sunshine on my face.

When I’ve gone over my plan in my head a few times, I finally pull my phone out. Then, with only a second of hesitation, I call my brother.

Cyrus is not big on phone calls. He’s even less keen on texts. But he answers anyway—possibly because he knows I’ll just keep calling until he does.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly. As per usual, he also sounds faintly distracted.

“Hi,” I say. “I had a question.”

“Yeah,” he says again.

Butterfly wings flutter in my chest, not the romantic kind but the nervous kind; still, I inhale deeply and make myself speak.

“Do you know if the school offers career consultations?” I say. “Is that something you would have to pay for? Would you be able to get a discount? Is it a students-only thing?”

I don’t know how all that works; Cyrus does research at the university in Boulder, so he could get reduced tuition, but I’ve never asked about anything else.

His answer is slow in coming, and I can hear all the questions he doesn’t ask. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “That would probably be through counseling, and you might have to be a student.” He pauses. “I can ask.”

“I looked online,” I say, the words coming out rushed in my nervousness. “I couldn’t find anything about whether you needed to be a student, or if it was available for anyone. I obviously don’t have an academic advisor. And it didn’t mention if you’d need to pay or if you just signed up. ”

“As a student you would probably just set up a time to meet with your advisor,” he says, his voice musing. “But—let me talk to a few people, all right?”

My breath whooshes out of me as relief bubbles in my chest. “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great. Thanks.” The word is fervent, because I know that I might be the only person Cyrus would help like this. He would tell anyone else to ask around themselves.

“Mm-hmm,” he says. “Anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Except I have some extra cupcakes I can bring over if you want?”

“Yeah,” he says, a grunt more than actual speech. “If you have some, I’ll take them.”

“I’ll bring them over this afternoon,” I say.

The tension is easing out of my body, and I find myself relaxing further into the lawn chair, exhaustion hitting me like a brick.

I shouldn’t be this tired this early in the day—it’s not even noon yet—but I slept horribly, and I think I was more nervous about talking to Cy than I realized.

“I’ll see you later,” I add as my eyes drift shut.

“Yep,” he says. “Later.” And he hangs up, without saying goodbye or anything else. I just smile, because I’m used to it.