The dimly lit room, empty yet strangely full. The music floating in the air. The warmth radiating from Shawn's hand as it hovered next to hers. The click and whir of roller skates.
Clearly, Juliet O'Hara was dreaming. And since she was already dreaming, it wasn't complicated or awkward for her to admit to herself that the dream was familiar. It wasn't the first time she'd been in this place.
Well, okay, it was the first time she'd been in this exact place…alone in an empty roller rink except for Shawn…and Gus somewhere playing the tunes…how did he get those? But she'd been in this emotional place. It was warm and fuzzy and immediate and thoroughly, completely, absolutely insane.
Come on. She knew Shawn. He had the attention span of a five-year-old. He got bored twice as fast as anybody she'd ever encountered. He'd made out (or worse) with women he'd only just met.
No way he was actually interested in her. And no way, no way was she interested in him back. He was cute, yeah. But so were puppies. He made her laugh, yeah. But so did Seinfeld. Neither Seinfeld nor puppies required nearly the energy it took to deal with Shawn.
Who'd lose his attention span and get bored as soon as she showed interest, anyway. Assuming she had any to show. Which she didn't. She was too smart for that. By a longshot. Much, much too smart….
She wanted stability. Maturity. Somebody who didn't joke quite so often, as if his whole self-image hung on making people laugh. Somebody who let her see past the façade without needing a near death experience to goad him into it. Somebody who knew what he wanted out of life. Somebody who…wasn't him. Could never be him.
For now, she was skating. Smiling like an idiot. Brushing hands. Inhaling the smell of cologne. Imagining he took any of this—took her—seriously. She let herself do these things because, after all, it was so like a dream.
It wasn't like any of it was real.