Determined to forget about it for now, she ran the box into her room and moved to pop the pizza in the oven. The problem would still be there. Right now what she needed more than anything was normalcy and support.
Twenty minutes later a knock sounded on the door. She removed the pizza and went to answer it. Spotting Hil, she grinned and opened the door.
“Just in time for pizza straight out of the oven.” They hugged and Hil walked inside.
“Good, I’m starving. I got caught up finishing my last two chapters of my book and next thing I know, it’s five o’clock.” Hil followed her into the kitchen and they sat at the table.
“Did you finish it?”
“Maybe… I want to take a few days away from it and read it with fresh eyes.”
“Congrats on another book finished!”
“Thank you. I feel like we should be toasting.” Hil laughed.
Juliette stood. “I have a bottle of Merlot.”
“Perfect.”
The doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get that if you pop the cork and pour the wine,” Hil said.
“Deal.” Juliette removed the dark glass bottle with the red label from the cupboard and gathered wineglasses.
Ten minutes later they were all gathered at the kitchen table, sipping wine and snacking on slices of pizza.
“I didn’t want to say anything before, but I got more flowers today.”
The girls tensed.
“From Peter?” Hilary asked.
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t from Shooter.” She sighed.
“What did this one mean?”
“I don’t know, it’s a dark-red rose. Doesn’t that mean love?”
“Let’s look it up,” Hilary said, whipping out her phone.
Shifting her weight, Juliette moistened her dry mouth. Seconds felt like minutes as silence fell.
Hil tapped her lips with her forefinger. “Maybe you should call Shooter.”
“What does it mean, Hil?” Juliette asked.
“It means mourning,” Hil whispered.
“Juliette,” Joey leaned across the table, starring her down. “You need to call Shooter.”
“No, he’s taking care of some business out of town and I don’t want to interrupt. Even if Peter did send the flowers, he’s not breaking any laws or threatening me. It’ll hold until Shooter gets back. In the meantime, I’m going to throw this in the garbage.”
“For the record, I don’t like this,” Hil added.
“Trust me, none of us do. I refuse to let him ruin our night though. We have an ’80s movie marathon to watch.” Presenting a brave front, she secretly wondered what else Peter had in store.
For once in her life, John Hughes and his brilliant writing in Sixteen Candles didn’t immerse her. Though laughing and smiling at the right places, she felt like an actor stuck on stage.