She had a rough few days of things getting worse before the medication finally seemed to break through. Jules felt like a shipwreck, battered and bruised by a raging ocean. She hardly emerged from her bed unless she absolutely had to, gravitating back endlessly as if she were magnetized to the perfect spot she had burrowed into beneath her duvet and amongst her pillows. She slept most of the time, and Charlie stopped over from work regularly to check on her and make sure she took her medication on time. Leah had stopped by once a day with soup from her mother, much to Jules' eternal joy because this was the closest comfort she could receive- even if Sue Clearwater's amazing chicken soup was nowhere near her Mamie's consommé.
There was a certain air of misery that always seemed to linger when she was not feeling well. Jules did not feel homesick for France, nor the little townhouse she had called a home for most of her life. It was not her grandmother's cooking she missed, it was her. It was one thing to feel homesick for a place, but when your home was a person it felt so very fragile and mortal…and Éloise Bertrand had been her whole world. Ever since she had left, Jules felt like her anchor to the earth had been severed, as if she had floated weightlessly without purpose along with the current, content to drift on and ride each wave and the next, making the most of it before her inevitable crash upon the shore.
When she was sick she missed her the most. She missed her loud, unapologetic laugh. She missed the way she used to scoff under her breath every time her granddaughter did something amusing or annoying- Jules swore the two circumstances sounded different, even if it was the same huff of air. When she felt vulnerable she missed her the most. She missed their conversations over afternoon tea, she missed complaining that her grandmother cooked far too much and for far too many people. She missed arguing over religion and politics. She missed her.
It was around noon of Friday when Jules woke up to a text from Rosalie Hale. It was not a very remarkable text message, just a heads up that the blonde who caused her heart palpitations would be arriving some time after school to drop off her school work. Jules had felt relieved by the warning and the time she would have to prepare herself, but now that she was in a clearer headspace, she began to wonder more and more exactly why the Cullens seemed to have such an effect on her.
Jules knew she was not the only one to feel there was a strangeness about the Cullens. The whole school had noticed it on the first day- whether they were self-aware enough to recognize their own reactions however, was another issue. Jules had noticed the way everyone seemed content to commentate from a distance- but they did remain at that distance, as if something in their bodies were telling them they were in the presence of danger. The same something that made her hair stand at the back of her neck, and goosebumps erupt all along her skin. Jules felt like she had a built-in radar system that went off every time a Cullen was in her immediate vicinity. She could not comprehend why.
There was nothing immediately odd about them. They seemed perfectly polite, well-dressed and well-spoken. Jules had only seen them for one day, but she had noticed that much from them at least. Perhaps this was what was so odd about them, what made her skin crawl. They were too perfect. Like the airbrushed pages of magazines or the irritatingly two-dimensional character tropes on television- something about them felt fictional. Jules was not certain if she wanted to find out the new family's secrets. It was not her business, and she would be content to steer clear and never think about their unusualness again.
And then there was Rosalie Hale.
The words Mister Berty and so many others had so tragically used as a line when they first met her echoed through her ears. What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Juliette had always begged to differ. If there was one smell in her entire universe that she detested above all others, it was the sickly rotten sweet smell of a rose. And yet, she could not bear to part Rosalie's name from her surname, because it would never sound as sweet again if it would not conjure up the image of Rosalie Hale and her brief, bright smile.
Why did she care so much for a perfect stranger? Why did she notice so much about her, like the way she had not smiled but once, or how her expressive strange eyes shined with a bitterness Jules had never seen. Why did her heart want to do somersaults at the mere mention of her name? As if the mere sound of it summoned a stampede that stomped to the speed of her spiking pulse. Jules felt like there was something odd afoot, something bizarrely unnatural- she had never felt infatuation so intense in her entire life. And she knew next to nothing about the girl. Unfortunately, this made her want to know so much more.
Jules was painting when the doorbell rang, still singing along to the infectiously good Françoise Hardy record playing from her bedroom as she did a little two step en route to the front door.
"Et les yeux dans les yeux. Et la main dans la main. Ils s'en vont amoreux, sans peur de lendemain!Oui mais moi, je vais seule. Par les rues, l'âme en peine. Oui mais moi, je vais seule. Car personne ne m'aime." Jules sang along with a goofy little smile on her face as she made it at last to the door, wiping her paint stained hands on her paint-stained grey rag. Rosalie Hale looked radiant as ever on her porch step, shaking out a red umbrella that had guarded her perfectly styled hair all the way from the shiny, cherry red convertible BMW parked on the curb. Jules tried not to react to the sight of the ridiculously expensive car, the black soft top up to keep away the rain. It was easy to shift her gaze back to the blonde in front of her, absent of her smile once more, simply waiting with a stack of books tucked in her arm and a leather backpack over her shoulder.
"Hello." She greeted her softly, but her expression turned into one of furrowed confusion as her eyes dropped to Jules' bare feet, slowly tracing up the rolled up ankles of her faded, wrinkled light brown boiler suit. It had clearly been worn far too many times, the fabric thinned from use, pushed up to her elbows and left unbuttoned enough to reveal a low cut black cami underneath. Blue and yellow paint stained her fingers and splattered her forearms, flecks of infinite colours decorating the boiler suit. It was clear Jules wiped her brushes on her leg from where a matted patch of mixed and overlapped stains blocked out space on the top of her right thigh.
"Hello." Jules smiled at her, stuffing the rag and her hand into her pocket. "Well don't just stand there, come on in."
The goosebumps erupted just as before, but Jules chose to ignore them this time. Rosalie had been kind enough to collect her work all week for her, the least she could do was invite her in away from the rain and offer her a drink to warm her up. The blonde seemed equally curious, looking around the modest two story house she now called her home. There was something in her eyes that left Jules wanting to ask far too many questions, something wistful and heartbreakingly nostalgic. "Here, give me that. I'll set it to dry outside. You can put your things down by the couch- tea or coffee?"
"Oh, no thank you. I'll spoil lunch at home." Rosalie declined politely, crossing over in her heels to the living room.
"Lunch at three?" Jules furrowed her eyebrows, locking the front door habitually from living in the big city.
"Snacking during lunch period keeps us settled in time to have lunch together at home, with our father." Rosalie answered with a twitch upward of the corners of her lips. Jules tried not to blink at her, rendered speechless again. "Were you painting? I see you're doing much better than I saw you last."
"Oh, yes!" Jules blinked out of her stupor, before blushing and smiling ruefully. "And yes, much better- you'll have to thank your father for me."
"I will. He'll be delighted." Rosalie's smile grows in amusement as she watches the brunette move back across to a plain white door. "Is this your bedroom?"
"Yes, would you care to see it? Or are you headed home?" Jules challenged her, unsure of how to approach the confident girl in front of her without offending her- or worse, revealing her ludicrous crush.
"Depends on how long you're willing to let me stay." Rosalie shoots back, playful- jarring Jules who had not expected it.
"Depends on how long you're willing to stay." Jules chuckled, pressing down on the dainty faux-gold handle, swinging her door open to reveal her small bedroom, stepping to the side to allow Rosalie to enter. They were both tall, and so it seemed as though they took up the entire space within- or maybe it was just Rosalie that made it a little harder for Jules to breath. She swung the door shut, revealing a still wet detailed painting set within the frame of the door like a faux window, a gorgeous landscape of mountains and a European village set within trees, a light blue sky in the background and a field with red poppies and bluebells winding toward the forefront. It was very clearly still incomplete as she kept adding colour to the flowers and shading to the trees, the background and the mountains little more than swathes of paint yet to be defined. Françoise Hardy continued to play from the previously hand-painted bookshelf."Et voilà."
"Oh my." Rosalie looked awestruck, and Jules felt her heart swell. She decided this was her favourite expression upon her, the childlike joy clear in the way her eyes shined and her lips remained parted, walking forward toward the door while Jules leaned back against her neatly organized desk to allow her. She was filled with pride, the smugness clear in her crooked dimpled grin, arms folded under her chest. Rosalie reached out as if to touch a mirage, but Jules cut in then.
"I wouldn't." Her warning made Rosalie halt with a furrow of eyebrows, eyes remaining glued on the half-complete painting. "It's still wet. If you smudged it- I'd probably have to kill you."
"Well I don't know about that." Rosalie's eyes lit up with mirth. "You sound like you'd regret it."
"Oh I would, imagine getting rid of a blood stain in a Police Chief's house." Jules pointed out without missing a beat, and unexpectedly, Rosalie erupted with laughter. Jules didn't realize she had missed a far better joke than her own, but she grinned like an idiot at the honest-to-god magical sound of Rosalie Hale laughing. That's way better than any music I've ever heard- oh god Jules you're such a sappy little shit. Stop it. Stop swooning over the poor thing.
"This room is wonderful." Rosalie insists, looking around with a small smile as she helped herself to sitting gingerly down on the edge of Juliette's neatly made bed, complete with fresh sheets. Whenever Jules got bored she resorted in painting something or other- and when her room was as small as this one, there weren't a lot of options. Her wardrobe was painted to look like burnished copper, tiger lilies erupting over one corner in soft brush strokes, the delicate oranges and yellows and whites adding a brightness to the room. Her bookshelves were a dark and rich green, painted with vines spilling down with tiny flowers, pops of orange and yellow and white once more, only this time with the addition of violet. Her door was her latest canvas, and if things went well, Jules would most likely paint the one that led out onto the back porch as well.
She moved forward to the record player, turning down the volume as Rosalie took the chance to start a conversation."Have you always enjoyed painting?"
"Mmm, I would not say that." Jules hummed as she looked around her room, considering the organized chaos surrounding her. "There was a time I would rather be outside rolling in the mud than stuck indoors painting something."
Rosalie snorted, the pretty smile staying on her lips as she folded one leg neatly over the other. "I can't imagine you covered in mud."
"I should hope not- that sounds quite regrettably vulgar." Jules points out, but Rosalie does not blush, only raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I started painting in school, it became something I would do with my grandmother…painting this room and the next. It used to drive my father wild."
Back when the smell of paint was the only thing to get him to clear out of a room he spent days within.
At this, Rosalie's eyes softened. "I'm sorry- we don't have to talk about your family. I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't." Jules smiled softly, pushing herself up until she was sat on the corner of her desk- thankfully the corner not covered in paint. "Am I allowed to pry?"
Rosalie's expression dropped, eyebrows furrowing together. Jules was quick to speak before she could get any ideas. "Are you related to all of your family? It's just…you all look incredibly alike for a foster family. I found myself curious."
"Yes." Rosalie's expression remained unnerved. "Um, Carlisle is my Uncle, Jasper and I are related to his wife, Esme, our biological Aunt. Edward, Alice and Emmett are from Carlisle's side. We came to them at various times. Jasper and I were separated for some of our childhood, he spent time in the south with our mother while I spent time up in New York with our father. I like to tease my brother over his accent."
This was more information than Jules had asked for, but she nodded, soaking it all in. It all made sense and it all fit perfectly- and yet, something in the back of her mind would not let it go. "I was born here…we moved to Paris after I lost my mother. I was about two years old then. I lost my grandmother when I was thirteen, and my father last year. That's why I moved back here- Charlie's all I have left."
"I'm sorry." There was more to Rosalie's words than the simple condolence, some sort of weight Jules could not comprehend as she smiled softly and sadly back at the beautiful blonde on her bed.
"I'm sorry too." She offered back with care clear in her tone, cut off by an unfamiliar ringtone.
"Sorry, it's my mother." Rosalie got up, pointing at the door while she picked up the call. Jules reached out, holding the door open for her. Jules frowned as the sound of rain picked up, the raindrops significantly harsher as they slammed directly against her window.
She didn't have to wait long before Rosalie returned with a worried expression, her eyebrows furrowed together. Jules knew exactly what had happened. "Let me guess- she doesn't want you driving in this weather?"
"Yes." Rosalie frowned deeper.
"So…tea or coffee?"
Please don't be a really pretty murderer.
