“It will be different,” I say. “But good different. Real different.”
She looks out at the city. “I wantthis to work.”
“It will work. We’ll make it work.” Because I’m not losing this. Not losing her.
It’s late when we finally leave. I keep her tucked against my side as we walk.
“Our last night,” she says quietly.
“Only for Toronto. Tomorrow in Seattle is the beginning of everything else.”
Back at the hotel, I take my time with her. Slow and careful, like we’re trying to hold onto this moment before everything changes.
25
JULIETTE
Monday, February 17th
The plane descendsand my stomach drops with it.
Not from the altitude change. It’s the countdown ticking in my head: twenty minutes until wheels-down in Seattle, and I still have no script for whatever comes after “The End” rolls on our Toronto movie.
Romeo’s hand is wrapped around mine. He’s barely let go since we boarded in Toronto. His thumb traces lazy circles on the back of my hand and I wonder if he realizes he’s doing it. If it’s conscious or if touching me has just become automatic.
I look out the window at Seattle spreading below us. Gray sky, gray water, the Space Needle small and distant. Home. Except it doesn’t feel like home right now. It feels like the place where this fantasy ends and reality begins.
“You okay over there?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
I turn. He’s watching me with that soft, steady look that makes me feel seen in places I usually keep locked.
“Just realizing I left my crystal ball in Toronto,” I say. “No idea what happens next.”
His fingers tighten. “Whatever we want to happen.”
“That’s… terrifyingly vague, Romeo. I’m just thinking.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking about then. List them out and I’ll tell you why you don’t need to worry about any of them.”
I’m thinking about how a week ago I was terrified to go to Toronto. About how now I’m terrified to leave. About how six nights ago we were fake dating and now I don’t know what we are but I know it’s not fake.
“About how everything has changed,” I say instead.
His hand tightens on mine. “It’s not over, JuJu. It’s just different.”
“Different how?”
“Better. Real.” He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. “No more performing. No more fake dating. Just us figuring out what we are.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We have to figure it out. We have to define this thing and put labels on it and deal with the reality of our lives intersecting in ways that are complicated and messy.
The plane touches down and I feel it in my bones. Toronto is over. This is now.
We don’t talk muchduring the drive to my apartment.
Romeo knows the way without asking. Of course he does. He’s driven me home a dozen times. But that was before. When I was just the girl he was pursuing. Now I’m the girl who spent six nights in his bed and I don’t know how to go back to my tiny studio and pretend that didn’t change everything.
Romeo pulls up in front of my building and puts the car in park but neither of us moves.
