Heat Wave(23)

People are early risers here. I’m not sure if it’s because everyone from North America has to be suffering some kind of jetlag, or they just want to get up early and seize the day, but it’s not even eight a.m. and everyone seems to be heading to their cars, the beach, or the pool. I don’t think Logan has fixed the heater yet, so I hope they know they’re getting a rude awakening once they jump in.

As I watch the guests go to and fro, I can't help but think about the contract, even though it's all signed and ready to be dropped off at reception for Logan. My mind, lulled by the rhythmic waves, then turns to Juliet, wondering what she'd think about this whole thing.

The funny thing is, if Juliet were still alive, I'm not sure she'd be all too enthused about me moving here to work at her hotel. After all, she spent four years running this place with Logan, and not once did she invite me to visit, let alone offer me a job. I mean, I knew she knew I was happy at Piccolo. But that was based on assumption. She never asked me if I was happy with my job or the way my career was going. I'm not sure if I'm good at faking happiness or what, but it's like the thought to check in with my well-being never crossed her mind.

Not that it surprises me. Juliet always had a lot on her plate with a million things to think about. Wondering about how her little sister was doing was always very low on her priority list.

Still, I'm thinking back to the time she came to Chicago alone and stayed with me. I always thought that was odd in its own way. Normally my parents were the default, not me. But she asked to stay at my tiny apartment and so she did. I was thrilled, naturally, since she never showed that kind of interest in me before, not really.

That was when she came clean about what Logan was doing to her—all the heartache brought on by his cheating and affairs. I felt strangely privileged that she was sharing all this with me, something that tainted her, something other than perfect. Even though she wasn't at fault, it meant that her marriage wasn't the happy one we all were led to believe.

I finish the rest of the toast, wiping the crumbs off of the contract. I bet if Juliet were still alive, I wouldn't be here. I hate to think it, but if I hit a rough patch in my career and Moonwater was my only option and she knew that, I don't think she would have gone for it. It wouldn't have mattered what my mother told her or even Logan (there were a few rare occasions in the past where he stood up for me, but since he's such a dick now I tend not to think about them)—Juliet would have vetoed the whole situation.

Juliet always liked to keep me as separate from her life as possible. Even when growing up. She'd have secret clubs in her bedroom with her and her stuffed animals and dolls, meetings I wasn’t allowed to attend. When she went out to play, she preferred to do it alone. Even when our mother would force us to play together on some days, she was always off in her own little world. Leaving me behind. Sometimes I chalked it up to the age difference between us, but even so there was always something a bit off about our relationship.

When we got older, the distance between us was magnified. She'd go out with her friends all the time. At the dinner table, she rarely spoke to me, let alone looked at me. The most I would get from her was a yearly Christmas and birthday gift, always something generic, nothing that ever hinted that she knew me at all.

And yet people thought the world of her. She was beautiful enough to be a model—and she did do some teenage modeling, something I was always deeply jealous of—yet smart enough to get scholarships. She was valedictorian and homecoming queen. She spent her Wednesday nights at a soup kitchen and she never got in trouble for anything, even though I knew she would go out drinking on the weekends. More than a few times I found pot or blotter paper in her bedroom when I was sneaking around to borrow one of her dirty books or find her secret diary (I was always empty-handed). I'm sure I found something that must have been cocaine once.

But I never brought it up with her—she would only deny it and my parents would never believe me. Besides, I didn't want to get her in trouble. As much as I envied her, I craved her attention. I wanted nothing more than for her to like me, to love me. The more distant and mysterious Juliet became to me, the more of her approval I craved.

And so here I am, sitting on a balcony in a tropical paradise, the sun breaking through the morning clouds and lighting up the ocean in dizzying rays of light, and I still need her approval. She's dead, gone forever, I'm not even sure I've started to properly grieve—and yet all I can think about is whether she would have wanted me to be here.

“Hey, sweet thing!”

Charlie's voice breaks through my thoughts. I get off my chair and peer over the edge. He's standing beneath the balcony, shirtless, his surfboard tucked under his arm.