Juliette

eight

ᴛᴡᴇʟғᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀᴘʀɪʟ | ᴛᴇɴ ᴘᴍ

William has never had better pancakes in his life.

It seemed that once the diner considered him a patron, he could order anything on and off the menu (so long as it didn't completely deviate from its original offerings). And as they served waffles and crepes, William thought pancakes seemed like a reasonable request. Except for the fact that it was ten in the evening and it was an unacceptable dinner.

William blamed Juliette.

"HMMM," she moaned her sincere pleasure.

William looked at her momentarily before digging through his remaining pancakes, refusing to be caught staring at her again. "HMMM indeed," he said, and he wasn't talking about the pancakes.

Clayton, who had emerged from nowhere, tsked, and both startled in their seats. "If I didn't know any better, I would've assumed you were humping each other beneath the table."

William coughed. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said," the old man smirked and  clasped his hands together. "So, do any of you actually want to eat real dinner, or are you sticking to pancakes?"

"I'll have beef casserole if you have 'em," Juliette answered, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Clayton raised a remonstrating brow. "You're awfully hungry tonight. Didn't you have lunch?"

Juliette shook her head with a grin. "I had to make an appointment with Phil because he's blowing up my house phone. Deborah had to ask the telephone company to block his number and it was hilarious."

But the old man didn't seem to think so. "Why was Phil calling your house phone?"

Juliette smiled impishly and William was reminded of a siren. Beautiful but dangerous. "I might have—maybe—ignored his calls and ditched our appointments."

Clayton crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked, sternly, at Juliette. But before he could say anything else, William was already wording his questions, "Who's Phil? What appointments? What're you guys talking about?"

Juliette looked at him with a smirk. Not dangerous. Deadly. "I keep forgetting you don't know shit, Alex—"

"—Juliette—" Clayton warned. "Language, please. Keep it for general audiences."

Said girl rolled her eyes and then continued, "—Phil's a family friend. But he likes to think he's a therapist saving the depressed generation one person at a time. Frankly, I think he's overly ambitious. People suffering from depression don't, technically, need saving. They just need love."

Clayton snorted; but William didn't think he's ever heard the word depression so casually tossed about in a conversation—not to mention accurately used—that it made him gape: Juliette seemed like a person who knew what she was talking about, but she didn't seem like the person to suffer mental illnesses and become aptly experienced with them to actually describe them down to a singularity.

"You and your definitions," Clayton reproached, sporting a disappointed look. "Next time you want to go defining things, call the people from Merriam Webster's Dictionary and settle your shit with them. Until then, you better get your arse to Phil's Clinic or else I'm hauling it there without preamble."

Juliette snickered and flashed William a wink. "What happened to, 'Keep it for general audiences'?"