“But have you tried—”
“I’m not sure there’s much point.” And the thought of talking to Peter again, of seeing that awful contempt on his normally gentle face . . . no. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.
“Can I ask you something?”
Juliet gave her sister a shrewd glance. “I think you’re going to anyway.”
“Why didn’t you just let things happen naturally with Peter? I mean, he obviously liked you—”
“He didn’t. Not that way.” The response was automatic, although Juliet couldn’t even say why.
“Juliet, he did. He brought you that rosebush. He came to see you. The only reason he agreed to come to the pub quiz was because you were going—”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but I think it’s a fair assumption. I might not be great with my own love life, but I can see what’s going on in other people’s.”
“I don’t even have a love life,” Juliet retorted. “Nothing has happened between us in that way.”
“But it might have, if you’d given it time,” Lucy countered. Juliet shrugged, not able to voice or even acknowledge what she felt. It hurt almost unbearably to think she might have messed up even more than a friendship. “Can I say something?” Lucy asked, and Juliet rolled her eyes.
“What, again?”
Lucy gazed at her steadily. “I think you didn’t let something happen with Peter because you’re afraid. Afraid of being rejected the way our mother rejected you. The way that married jerk rejected you.”
Juliet simply stared, trapped by the knowing compassion in Lucy’s eyes. Trapped and horribly, horribly exposed.
“It’s hard to try again, Juliet,” Lucy continued. “Trust me, I know that.”
“Do you?” Juliet managed, the two words squeezed from her throat with painful difficulty.
“Yes, I do. I’m not attempting to equate my experience of our mother with yours. I know you had it worse. But having her criticize me so terribly in public, having the entire world take notice and do the same?” Lucy let out a huff of sad laughter. “Yes, I know how rejection feels.” Juliet didn’t say anything, and Lucy took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. This conversation was almost as hard for her, it seemed, as it was for Juliet.
“I dated this man, Thomas, for three years back in Boston,” Lucy said. “He had two sons. I was trying hard with them, but they wouldn’t have anything to do with me, the turds.” She let out a long, shaky sigh. “Anyway, when the whole thing blew up in the paper, he called it off. Well, technically, I called it off. He said I shouldn’t come around for a while because the publicity would be bad for his boys. I told him I needed his support and all I got was silence.”
“And what happened then?” Juliet asked.
“I called it off, but I was really just bluffing. I wanted him to realize he needed to be there for me, and guess what?” She finally looked at Juliet, her face bleak. “He didn’t.”
Juliet thought about asking Lucy if she was thinking about trying again with Alex, but decided not to. She didn’t trust herself to manage a full coherent sentence just then.
“I’m saying all this because I can see how it would feel easier to keep yourself from caring about anyone, from putting yourself out there, even if it’s a little lonely.”
“A little lonely?” Juliet said, her voice torn from her, a ragged thing. “Lucy, you have no idea.”
“Then tell me.” Juliet shook her head, knowing she didn’t trust herself to put it into words. “Juliet . . .”
“I haven’t been a little lonely,” she finally said, her voice hoarse and grating. “A little lonely is a night at home with the TV. I’ve been . . .” She stopped, gasping for air as if she’d run a mile, or forgotten how to breathe. “I’ve beendrowningin loneliness. Or frozen in it, a great big ice block of isolation.” She drew in a ragged breath, hating that Lucy was seeing her like this.
“Oh, Juliet,” Lucy said softly, and she shook her head, vehement now, her voice choking.
“Don’t.Don’t.” She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes and she blinked them furiously back. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m afraid. Maybe I just don’t know how. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Ican’t.”
“You could try—”
“You don’t get it, do you, Lucy?” Juliet said, her voice sharpening. Anger was better than grief. “I’m not like you. I don’t bounce around making friends and sending little rays of sunshine everywhere like some kind of do-gooding fairy. There’s no trying with me. I can’t, and that’s that, and this discussion isover.”
Chapter nineteen
