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“Mind if I walk with you?” Juliette’s soft voice comes from my right side. She’s fallen in step with me, sipping her iced tea like it’s not forty degrees out. Her green eyes are vibrant today, emphasized by the emerald sweater she’s wearing.
I make an affirmative noise in the back of my throat then turn my attention forward. The trees are mostly barren, their golden leaves littering the path ahead of us. A car rolls past at a snail’s pace and I step behind Juliette then to the right, switching sides with her. Protective instincts, nothing more. I’d do this with any woman walking beside me.
Juliette side-eyes me, an impish grin tilting her pink lips, but she says nothing. I’m honestly surprised she’s gone this long in silence. I’ve not had many interactions with her, but all of them have been filled with words.
An old man wearing a beret and matching suspenders hobbles toward us, his face scrunched up like he just ate a lemon whole, peel and all.
“Julie!” he barks and Juliette flinches. I scan the elderly man, not noting anything threatening in his demeanor beyond his attitude. “Are you coming to the community meeting next week?”
“Yes, Mr. Kipton,” Juliette says with a polite smile. She doesn’t seem to be afraid of him, so I wonder why she flinched at his initial greeting.
“Good. I’m counting on you to be the deciding vote on getting rid of those pesky ducks around the lake. They are always making a ruckus when I’m trying to sleep!”
“I’ll be there,” she says, not giving any opinions on the duck situation.
Mr. Kipton nods and passes us, grumbling incoherently.
“You don’t like him,” I observe aloud as we cross the street. The lake comes fully into view now, not obscured by any of the buildings. The peace this place emits is truly amazing. I can’t help but breathe a little deeper each time I take it all in.
“Mr. Kipton? He’s a bit of a grouch, but I don’t mind him,” Juliette responds with a shrug.
“You flinched when he said your name.” It’s a risk to let her know I was watching her so closely, but I can’t help the desire to satisfy my curiosity.
She grimaces and the expression seems out of place on her.
“He called meJulie, not Juliette. I don’t like that nickname.” There’s something about the way she says Julie that leads me to believe it has more to do with her simply not liking the name. It must have a connotation attached. But I can’t be so forward as to ask her.
“I see.”
“It probably seems childish of me to dislike a nickname so much,” she sighs. “But that name was used by someone I don’t like to think about.” She fiddles with her straw, twisting it in between her fingertips. Then, she shakes her head as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Anyway, I’d much rather be called Jules. I’ve always thought that was a pretty name. But you can’taskpeople to give you a nickname. They have to decide to call you it all on their own, or else it’s a nickname you gave yourself.”
I bite back a smile at her rambling story. Usually I find people who talk this much to be overbearing, but Juliette is different. She makes oversharing … endearing.
“I can’t comment on nicknames, since I don’t have any, but I understand what you mean.”
“You’ve never had a nickname?” she asks in a tone that says she’s not surprised at all. I give her a flat look that she responds to with a wide grin.
“No.”
“Don’t demote me back to one-syllable answers.” Her tone is that of an exaggerated plea. “I won’t tease you. I’ll be good.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” I reply drily. She laughs and it’s like the first day of spring after a harsh winter, bright and hopeful and sweet.
Our cottages come into view, looking like a matching set. The only difference being that mine is gray while hers is a pale blue. I pause with her at the end of her driveway.
“Thank you for a pleasant walk,” Juliette says with the formality of a royal.
I dip my chin in a nod. She smiles in that secretive way again, the kind that makes me feel like she knows something I don’t, before turning and walking to her door. My eyes trail over her, the delicate curve of her hip, her black tights stretched over her legs. Each time she takes a step the hem of her plaid skirt lifts and falls in the most tempting way. She pauses at her front door and looks over her shoulder with a smirk. Heat burns the tips of my ears and I swiftly turn on my heel to walk to my own driveway.
I keep my head down as I stride for my front door, going inside my cottage without so much as a glance in her direction. Being around Juliette is like keeping a candy jar on your desk: you know you shouldn’t reach for more, but it’sright there, taunting you. Every interaction with her ends up with me doing something out of character. I need to stay away, but it’s difficult when she lives barely ten feet away from me.
I shed my coat and throw it onto the couch, then immediately pick it up again and walk it to my closet. My muscles are twitching with pent-up energy. I scan my house, looking for anything I can clean or organize and come up with nothing. It’s not difficult to keep a tidy home when it’s just me.
I yank open one of my drawers and pull out a pair of joggers and a Georgia Thrashers Football sweatshirt. I’ll go for a run around the lake. Surely the feeling of the cold air numbing my face and burning in my lungs will get rid of whateverthisis.
After changing, I slip out of my back door and cast a quick glance to the right to see if Juliette is out with Murphy. Deeming the area neighbor-free, I jog down my wooden porch steps and out to the path that winds around the lake.
I run harder than usual, chasing the burn. After one lap of practically sprinting, my lungs are aching from inhaling the frigid air, but my mind is no better off than it was when I set out. I slow to a gentle jog, letting my eyes bounce around the lake.
