“You hurting yourself worse than this isn’t exactly the winning tale you think it is,” Juliet shot back, but her voice didn’t have any real heat in it.
“I didn’t hurt myself,” she corrected. “The idiot I was working with shoved his box cutter at me with the blade out when I asked to borrow it.”
“Well, I hope he got fired,” Juliet muttered, her eyes narrowing.
“He did not,” she assured with a long-suffering sigh. “Well, not for that. He was giving a lot of free drinks to women, so that did the trick.”
Juliet narrowed her eyes. “I have aloe in the fridge.”
“Juliet, I’m really fine.”
“It’s going to be really uncomfortable when you’re playing guitar,” Juliet mused, her eyebrows furrowing with obvious concern. “You’re going on tour next week.”
And… despite the wringer of emotions Darcy had gone through regarding Juliet this past week, she couldn’t help but soften. So, she allowed herself to indulge in it. She let Juliet bring her to the wooden bench at the kitchen table, then put aloe on her hand, and then a Band-Aid.
“Sorry,” she quietly apologized as Juliet’s fingertips gently pressed down the adhesive edges, her touch making Darcy shiver. At Juliet’s questioning glance, she explained, “If I woke you up. I figured it would be fine to come down to the kitchen.”
“Itisfine to come down to the kitchen.” Juliet sighed, leaning back slightly where she sat straddling the bench, facing Darcy. “You didn’t wake me up.”
She bit at the inside of her cheek, looking down at her hand. Flexing it, testing out the pain level. It wasn’ttoobad; she’d experienced a lot worse at the bar multiple times over the years. Broken bottles, drunken elbows being swung around without any depth perception, the time someone had bumped into her when she’d been cutting the citrus slices. She’d probably be fine for the tour.
Juliet huffed out a sigh, garnering Darcy’s attention. She aimed an intent look at Darcy as she asked, “So, how haveyoubeen sleeping? I mean…Jukebox Calamityis officially a hit. That should lessen the anxiety you’ve had.”
Her tone was definitely weird. Like she was trying to sound normal, but Darcy knew all of Juliet’s real “normals” now, and this wasn’t.
She considered the tack Blythe had encouraged her to do. Blythe had been very intense about Juliet all week, and she’d given Darcy her full permission to “do something that would even piss Eliana off.”
Darcy definitely didn’t want to do that; she’d fallen into Eliana’s good graces ever since she’d started hooking up with Juliet and she wanted to remain there.
“Not well. And not because of the anxiety,” she admitted, the words slipping up and out of her mouth, even though she’d told herself that she wasn’t going to do it.
But how could she sit here and avoid it? How could they do what they needed to do – to write a song together from scratch, to dig deep – and avoid their personal shit?
They couldn’t, and she’d been kidding herself to believe it was possible at all. She and Juliet hadn’t avoided a single landmine since before they’d ever even met. They left no stone unturned.
Juliet hummed, narrowing her eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to get into this.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I don’t know what I want,” Darcy found herself snapping back, before she took a sharp breath, the aching feeling in her chest returning and gentling her words, “Other than… it really hurt. You talking to me like I was someone you don’t evenknow.”
To know that Juliet was capable of it, even, without blinking an eye. That was something she’d been grappling with all week.
She stared at Juliet closely, taking her in. Taking in how her skin was glowing from her bedtime routine, but… she looked tired. Taking in her the tightness in her expression and her posture, even under her silk pajamas.
“Why did you bring my shirts down here?” Juliet asked, repeating the question that had started this whole mess of a late night. Her gaze was laser-sharp, trained onto the arm of the sofa, where Darcy had put the small stack of folded shirts she’d stolen from Juliet over the last couple of months when she’d come downstairs.
She’d felt like they were mocking her from inside her suitcase.
Darcy followed her stare, swallowing heavily. “Because I was going to leave them there for you. Don’t worry, it’s all been laundered.”
“I don’t want that,” Juliet stated, forcefully – almost petulantly – swiftly turning to face Darcy again.
“You didn’t want me to wash your clothes before giving them back?”
Juliet glared at her. “I don’t want themback! You’re a little thief, and I like it that way. Clearly. Why are you giving them back?” She demanded to know, the tension vibrating through her body as she stared Darcy down.
“Because…” She trailed off, searching Juliet’s eyes with her own. Those dark eyes were so dark, blisteringly intense. “I can’t sleep with you, anymore. It’s not meaningless or impersonal to me. At all.”
Wasn’t that a part of Juliet’s little rules, anyway? If she caught real feelings, it would be over? Maybe it wasn’t, but it should be. Because she couldn’t think of anything with more potential to be messy and painful.
