“Don’t. My name is Juliette. Better yet, don’t utter my name again. You lost that privilege.” I stand up straighter, grab Adriana’s attention, and quickly wave goodbye before storming out, needing to get far away from my dickhead ex.
Always calm, level-headed, and someone who rarely raises their voice, that’s how people would describe me, but the second you cross me, we’re done.
“Juliette, just wait! I’m sorry, okay?”
I whip around and narrow my eyes. “For what? What are you sorry for?” I ask, glancing over his tall frame, taking in his shaggy blonde hair and dark eyes. It does nothing for me, and I suddenly have no idea what I ever saw in him.
“F-For everything,” he stutters.
“Name one thing!” I yell, and I can see by his facial expression I’ve shocked him, but he’s caught me on a day of weakness, and I can’t stand to even look at his stupid face. “You can’t, can you? Can’t pick even one thing from the list?”
“You have to understand?—”
I shake my head venomously. “No. I don’t have to understand why my boyfriend only visited me once in the hospital when I was there for two weeks or why he stopped calling and checking in while I was in rehab. You disappeared, and then one day, I received a text saying it’s better if we go our separate ways. A text, Hunter.” I throw my hand up, annoyed. “Or are you sorry I saw pictures of you andhertogether on my birthday?” He stays silent, though I have to give it to him, he does look remorseful, but I don’t give a shit. “Now that I’m not the best, I’m not good enough for you, am I right? You had to move on to my replacement? Well, guess what? Have a good time with second best,” I spit. “She’ll never be me.”
Before he can answer, I leave him in shock and run down the busy street, weaving myself through the crowd toward Columbus Avenue, far away from that arrogant jerk.
All he cared about was status. I see that now. Hunter is a good dancer, great even, but he is nothing without his partner, so he latched on to me since we grew up together. When I got injured, I was no longer there, so he moved on to my replacement.
I was so blinded, so goddamn blinded.Ugh!
“Whoa, Jules. Slow down,” a voice rings out as I slam into a familiar body.
“Isaac, oh my god,” I pant. “I’m so sorry. I’m having a horrible day, and my head’s not on straight. Are you okay?”
Isaac is a top hairdresser located on the Upper West Side. We usually run into each other a few times a week, although never literally, like today.
“I’m fine. Though I’d be better if you’d finally let me give you that makeover you’ve been promising me for years.” He winks, and I smile at his forwardness.
He’s been begging me to chop off my long, dull brown hair. With always having it slicked back in a bun, I didn’t want to deal with shorter hair; it just meant more bobby pins and hairspray.
But now…
I turn and look into the shop window to see my reflection, and it’s as if I’m seeing a whole new person.
I’m not Juliette Caldwell, ballerina, anymore.
The million-dollar question is, who is she?
One thing I know is I’m not someone who likes to sit around and feel sorry for myself, and I’ve done enough of that over the last six months. I have too much on my plate to pity my situation.
I’m lucky to be alive.
You know what…
“Okay,” I say and shoot him a wide smile.
“Okay? Okay, what?”
“Let’s do a makeover.”
God, I’m so late.
Swerving through the busy streets of downtown, I yell a bunch of sorrys as I bump into people left and right. Even on a Wednesday at ten o’clock at night, New York, as always, is bustling, ready for anything.
The vibrance and liveliness pumping through this city are unmatched. You’ll never experience it anywhere else, and while I appreciate the buzz, typically I like to experience it from my bedroom so I can get an early wake-up to enjoy a morning in the park.
But I’ll trek downtown for a late dinner with my best friend, who works twelve or more hours a day and has always been there for me.
