Page 82 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
As she retreats inside, new awareness dawns. For this last date, she chose a man almost exactly like me.
30
A PIECE OF MY MIND
Juliet
Thank god for Eleanor’s house. There’s so much to do on Saturday that we don’t need to interact much.
I handle packing up clothes in the Closet of Wonders, putting my blinders on as I sort through feather boas, sequined dresses, and fabulous corsets. Chin up. Move on. Just like Eleanor’s moving on from this house into her bright and bold new romance.
Monroe’s out of the home most of the morning, handling yard work, then finishing up minor handiwork in the poker room. Good thing because I don’t think I could handle seeing much of him. It hurts too much now. It probably will for a while. But it’s better I face these truths now, and I can’t even be mad at him. He was honest with me from the start right up until…
As I stuff a sparkly sapphire boa into a box, I blanch inside. I don’t even want to finish the sentence in my head. The echo of the words, the end, is too painful.
Swallowing down all these feelings that have no place to go, I close the box, stuffing the costumes inside, then dust off my hands. I leave and head to the storage room down the hall full of mirrors.
I don’t want to face that either. But I need to organize it, even if the images of the other day bombard me. Before I reach the room, my phone buzzes, so I grab it. It’s probably one of the girls, letting me know they’ll be picking me up soon. I packed a canvas bag with my dress and shoes for tonight, so I’ll grab it when Rachel arrives. I booked a makeup artist for all of us at The Ladybug Inn, and I am definitely going to need both the girl time and some cover up for all these emotions before the party. I’m so glad my friends are here. But when I click on the text, it’s not from Rachel, Elodie, Fable or Hazel. It’s my mom.
Mom: Are you okay? You didn’t respond to my last text last night? Now I’m worried, and now I’m really wondering too if I need to give this guy a piece of my mind.
A sad smile tugs at my lips. She’s so Mom.
Juliet: Sorry! But no, you don’t need to do that.
Mom: Well…what’s going on then? We’re dating wingwomen after all. Tell me, tell me!
I slip into the room with the chaises, sinking down onto the rose-colored one, facing my mom’s text in this house full of…costumes.
Full of reflections.
On a day where I’ll be turning to makeup and pretty clothes to gird myself for a party with Monroe.
Am I just dressing up all my feelings and hiding them? Oh god. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been playing. Playing at dating, playing at love, playing at feelings.
Not just with Monroe. But with everyone, especially myself. I scroll back up to my exchange with my mom from yesterday, I should be honest.
With her, yes. But also with myself. She said she wanted me to have sparks and butterflies. For the longest time, I thought the algorithm was against me. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never truly let myself be vulnerable. I thought I was putting myself out there. But I didn’t even fully do that with the man I was stupidly falling in love with a second time.
With a shuddery breath, I answer Mom at last, practicing honesty with her.
Juliet: No, we won’t see each other in the city and I’m sad about it.
Mom: Oh no! I’m sorry to hear that. Want me to call? You kids always like it when I text before I call. So I’m asking.
Juliet: Thanks, but I’d just cry if you called.
Mom: Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry you’re sad. But it sounds like Monroe was helping a bit? Sort of like a dating coach, which made me think…Why don’t I hire you one in the city? I did a Google search, and there’s this married couple who’d be great for you. I just know the one is out there for you.
Tears slip down my cheeks, my throat tightening, my chest squeezing. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, not wanting to ruin the chaise. I pop up to hunt for a tissue, flashing back to the moment in Monroe’s car. He didn’t even have any.
Really, that was the sign I needed. Not the photo of the tree house, but the lack of tissues. He doesn’t need them because he doesn’t let himself feel. But me? I feel too much all the time and I hardly even know what to do with this mess of emotions.
I’ve never known what to do with them. I’ve thought I’ve been chasing sparks and butterflies, but I’ve just been looking for the comfort of a relationship, like my parents had, rather than opening my heart to the magic of fully loving and letting myself be loved.
I race to the main bathroom, yank at the toilet paper and tear off a chunk, then dab at my watering eyes.
After a minute, the tears ebb enough for me to reply to Mom with a no thanks, when the sound of footsteps grows louder. “Juliet? Are you okay?”