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Juliette whines but follows after me when I start to jog. I match her pace, which is much slower than my usual, and we settle into a comfortable silence. The only sounds shared between us are our heavy breaths and footfalls. It’s … nice. I always thought running was best alone, but it’s not too bad sharing the time with someone else. It feels less lonely than usual.
After the first lap, Juliette stumbles to a stop, bracing her hands on her knees.
“You okay?” I ask her and she shakes her head, her pink beanie falling off to reveal messy blonde hair.
“Running is like dying but without the relief of death.” Her words come out stilted in between short, panting breaths.
“That’s a disturbing analogy.”
“Disturbingly accurate,” she huffs, grabbing her beanie off the paved path and straightening to stand. The apples of her cheeks are bright pink and there’s a glowy sheen over her face. Even with messy hair and a tired grimace, she looks beautiful.
“You don’t feel like your mind is any clearer? More at peace?”
She blinks at me.
“Any semblance of peace I possessed disappeared as soon as we started. I think my lungs are collapsing.” She sucks in a breath and I chuckle, earning a glare in return.
“I know it’s not fun, but you should have been able to focus on the movement and have your mind quieted.”
“Your mind was quiet during that whole time?”
“Pretty much. Yours wasn’t?”
“I don’t even know what that would feel like.” She tilts her head to the side like she’s thinking. “But running is definitelynotthe way to get there for me.”
“I usually run four laps.” I pause when she balks at me. “ButI guess we could call it quits for today. You held up your end of the bargain.”
She smiles like I just told her she won a lifetime supply of her favorite tea. “You’re the best, Sunshine,” she says and I give her a flat look.
It’s all I can do to hold back the smile that threatens to take hold when she calls me that. I should hate it–if anyone else said it I would–but for some reason it brings me this warm feeling whenever I hear it. Having a nickname from Juliette is a solid, real thing that shows I have a place in her life. And while I’m afraid of what having a place might look like in the future, it still feels good to have one.
“Just for that, I think we should run another lap,” I smirk and turn like I’m going to run. She grabs my hand to stop me, laughing.
“Please, have mercy on my poor lungs,” she begs in a dramatic tone. Her hand is cold in mine, but the touch sends tingles of awareness up my arm.
“Fine, but only because your hand feels like a block of ice.”
She looks down at our joined hands as if she didn’t realize she was touching me at all. I follow her eyes as well. Maybe I don’t have any effect on her. I thought after I caught her staring from her porch that she was attracted to me. It’s best that she isn’t though. I’m learning how to be her friend right now, I’m nowhere near ready to take a title higher than that one.
When I look up, her cheeks are rosier than before. Our eyes lock and for a breath, we simply stare at each other. Until Juliette clears her throat and slides her hand out of mine.
“Sorry about that, I got a little overexcited.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, shifting from foot to foot. When I don’t say anything, she speaks up again. “Do you want to come up for tea?”
I should say no. I’ll be late for work if I agree. But one look into Juliette’s forest-green eyes has my reservations melting away like frost in the afternoon sun.
“Sure, that would be nice.”
I’m gifted one of her beaming smiles before we start off toward her house.
After a short walk in companionable silence, we arrive back at her house. She slides open her back door, and warm air rushes to greet us like an old friend. As soon as I cross the threshold I feel as though I’ve stepped into Juliette’s mind. Everything is so veryher. The scent of vanilla and tea leaves in the air, all of the blankets covering her soft cream couch, the antique mirror hanging on the wall. I take in every detail as if it was my assignment, not wanting to miss a thing.
“Make yourself at home,” she says as she walks into her kitchen. The layout of our homes is identical and confirming that in person carries a kind of weight I don’t quite understand. It shouldn’t feel intimate that I know the way to her living room because it’s the same amount of steps from the back door as mine is, but it does. I already know where her bedroom is at the end of the hall, too.
I take a seat on her couch and Murphy lifts his head in acknowledgment from the large fluffy bed he was snoring on. There’s no TV in the living room; instead, the wall across from the couch is covered in a collage of artwork that I’m sure my sister would appreciate. Next to me on the end table is a stack of books. I study the spines, memorizing the titles.The Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women,andThe Age of Innocence. All of them classics, all of them thick with tabs and worn from reading.
“I chose vanilla birch black tea. I just got it in so I haven’t tried it yet, but it smells amazing.” She walks into the living room holding a tray that she sets down on the weathered coffee table before sitting next to me. Teacups with golden handles and sunflowers painted on them sit in the center of the tray next to a matching cream and sugar set. The sight of the sunflowers makes my throat tight.
“I didn’t know how you took your tea, so I brought cream and sugar.”
