Page 19 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

EIGHT

Keaton’s kiss haunted Jules even in sleep.

They jolted awake on Ollie’s too-narrow couch, heart racing as the memory crashed through their consciousness once more.

For a disorienting moment, they couldn’t place where they were—only that it wasn’t home.

Not their childhood bedroom with its fading posters, and not the apartment with Keaton.

Fleetwood Mac’s melancholy notes drifted from the record player, a gentle reminder that they’d fled here, seeking refuge from a moment that had shattered everything. The apartment they’d quickly settled into had felt cold and uncomfortable since that night, until finally, they had to escape.

Jules pressed their face deeper into the cushion, trying to outrun the memories that followed them even into sleep.

Three days hadn’t dulled the ache in their chest. If anything, the pain had crystallized, becoming something sharp and defined that they carried everywhere.

The scent wafting from the kitchen was either actual food or an impressively convincing candle.

Either way, they were too comfortable to move, too safe to face what waited beyond these walls, where Keaton existed with his perfect composure and apparent regret.

They blinked against the warm morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, the sofa beneath them barely wide enough for their lanky frame. A throw blanket clung to their legs and one of Ollie’s cats was curled against their hip, purring like a tiny motorboat.

It was the kind of morning that should’ve felt downright luxurious for the lack of anything that needed to be accomplished. Instead, Jules’s chest ached.

Keaton had kissed them.

And then bolted like Jules was a live wire and he’d finally made contact.

They hadn’t gone back to the apartment since the painful day after. If Keaton hadn’t regretted offering up his spare room to start with, it was obvious he’d give just about anything to take back that kiss.

But Jules couldn’t bring themself to wish it had never happened, no matter how their heart ached now.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Jules turned toward the voice, squinting at Ollie, who stood in the doorway holding two mugs.

His curls were mussed and his glasses slightly askew, giving him the look of a disheveled professor who moonlighted as a barista—which, in a way, was accurate.

Or it would be if he ever managed to finish his graduate studies.

“Black or oat milk?” he asked, wiggling both mugs.

“Oat, please. I’m not like you. I don’t drink coffee for the taste.”

“Heathen.” Ollie handed over the mug and dropped onto the armrest beside them. “Sam’s in the shower. She said you were talkative in your sleep last night, but don’t worry, she’s sworn to weaponize that information only if you ever ghost her.”

They loved the way their friends had rallied last night.

Sam had swapped for an early-out, and the two of them played games with Jules, never pushing for details of what had happened.

The evening had turned into a big slumber party, the very thing Jules had needed to forget about everything for a little while.

Jules groaned. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything incriminating.”

“Mostly just mumbled about mug handles and something that sounded suspiciously like ‘cedar-scented betrayal.’” Ollie raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

Jules buried their face in the couch pillow. “I hate how well you know me.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Because there’s nothing to deny,” Jules said, voice muffled. “Except that I may have made a huge mistake.”

Footsteps padded down the hall, and Sam emerged wearing one of Ollie’s oversized tees with a towel twisted around her curls. Jules envied the way she made herself at home wherever she was. “If this is about Keaton, I’m gonna need a refill before we dive in.”

Jules peeked up. “How did you?—”

“You’re on day three in that shirt and look like death warmed over.” Sam refilled her coffee mug and curled into the papasan.

Jules sat up, cradling the mug like it could shield them from the conversation. “He kissed me,” they said flatly.

Sam blinked. “He what?”

“He kissed me. The night the power went out, we were sitting there talking when the lights went out, and the next thing I knew, he was kissing me.” Jules stared into their coffee, like they were reading tea leaves.

“And then he practically sprinted out of the room when the lights came back on. I haven’t seen him since. ”

Ollie let out a low whistle. “Keaton Anderson kissed you. That’s…unexpected.”

“Right?” Jules threw up their hands. “I mean, I thought maybe something was there—he’s been so sweet lately, and he painted that entire room for me, and we’ve had these…moments. But then he acted like it never happened. Like I’m the ghost of an awkward hookup instead of his actual roommate.”

Sam perched on the edge of the coffee table, face softening. “Jules, he’s not the kind of guy who does anything lightly. If he kissed you, it meant something. He just might not know what to do with his feelings.”

Jules shook their head. “I’m not doing this. I’m not falling for someone who needs a PowerPoint to process his emotions.”

“Too late.” Sam coughed the words into her fist.

“You already are,” Ollie said at the same time. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be hiding out in my apartment like a wounded bunny.”

“I’m not hiding,” Jules protested weakly.

“You left your charger, your sketchpad, and your self-respect at home.” Ollie sipped his coffee. “I’ve seen less dramatic exits in soap operas.”

Jules groaned again and slumped forward, forehead meeting knees. “Why am I like this? I fall too fast, and I always end up the one bleeding out while the other person figures out if they even meant to pull the trigger.”

Sam reached out and squeezed Jules’s arm. “You have a huge heart, sweetie. I know you’ve had your fair share of frogs in the past, but this is different. Keaton’s not some random stranger. He’s…complicated, yeah. But he’s also kind.”

“That’s not my problem,” Jules said, but their voice lacked conviction. “I’m finally at a point in my life where I want to put myself first. The one thing I’ve never done in my life is allow myself to be someone’s means of figuring out who they are and what they want. It’s his loss.”

Ollie tilted his head. “I think you’re full of shit. You’re sitting here, drinking my coffee and sketching his face on anything remotely resembling paper.”

“I only did that once.”

“Twice,” Sam corrected. “And one of them was very good.”

Jules looked between their friends, heart twisting. “I don’t want to be someone’s experiment. I’m not a phase. I’m not a curiosity. I’ve had enough people who just want to try being with someone with a penis or who think I’m interesting until they realize I come with actual feelings.”

“We know,” Sam said softly. “And you deserve more than that. You’re acting like he’s some closet case. He’s not. He’s just so mired in who he thinks his parents expect him to be that he probably doesn’t have a clue what he needs. If he kissed you?—”

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?” Jules’s voice cracked. “Why hasn’t he looked at me or talked to me or even left a note saying, ‘Hey, sorry I was a coward, my bad?’ It’s the silent treatment I can’t deal with.”

“Because he’s scared,” Ollie said simply. “ You scare him.”

Jules blinked. “Me?”

“Jules, you’re everything he’s not. You’re so full of life and do whatever the hell you want. You’re comfortable with who you are and don’t worry about what anyone thinks of you. That’s terrifying to someone who’s spent his whole life being measured and careful.”

Jules took the time to consider Ollie’s words. He was a smart man, and as much as Jules gave him a hard time about being flighty, he was actually incredibly well grounded. He had to be with everything he was trying to make work in his life.

“I’m not going to make myself smaller so he can feel safe,” Jules said, arms crossing tight over their chest.

“No one’s asking you to,” Sam replied. “But maybe don’t run before he gets the chance to catch up.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle scratch of the record player switching to the next track.

After a minute, Ollie nudged Jules’s foot. “So what now? You move in with me and become the ghost of emotional avoidance? We can hang up a curtain and call it your haunted corner.”

Jules laughed despite themself. “Tempting, but your couch is destroying my back.”

“You’re welcome to crash here whenever you need it,” Ollie said. “But maybe it’s time for you to go home.”

“Home,” Jules echoed softly. This situation with Keaton had them feeling completely untethered.

Their parents were packing the last of their belongings into a trailer that would be picked up in a few days.

They were closing on the house early next week, and then they’d really have nowhere else to go.

No home. Drifting aimlessly.

They thought of the sage-green walls, the bookshelf they’d rearranged three times, the way Keaton always left the light on over the stove when he knew Jules would be home late. The quiet comfort of sharing space, the slow unfolding of something that felt like maybe.

And the kiss. God, that kiss. Jules was a sucker for a man who knew how to kiss, and they weren’t sure anyone could do it better than Keaton. Damn the power company for getting the electricity back on so quickly.

There was a brief moment when they’d thought the kiss meant something. That Keaton had felt the simmering chemistry between them and finally given in, pushing aside whatever had been holding him back. And maybe he had, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d run right when things were heating up.

But they weren’t going to chase someone who didn’t know what they wanted.