Page 55 of Broken Romeo

“Fine.” I sighed and forced myself to sit up. “Calling it a love story is bullshit. It’s a play about two horny teenagers who think love is about waxing poetic versus putting in the hard work to make a relationship last. Three days together and they take their own lives? That’s not love. That’s emotional instability and codependency.”

Professor McCay flipped her dark brown hair out of her face. “Interesting. That’s certainly one way to look at it. And while you may think you’re an outlier in your opinions of the Bard’s most well-known play, you’re not. Lots of people feel this way about Romeo and Juliet.

Behind me, Kate mumbled, “Yeah, jaded people.”

I might have been seeing things, but I could have sworn Professor McCay’s expression soured as Kate spoke. “Ms. Harris, do you have something to add?”

“Yeah,” she snapped. I didn’t have to turn around to know that her leg was bouncing—a habit of hers I’d noticed when she was agitated. “There’s a reason so many great love stories center around teenage love and first loves. It’s angsty and dramatic, but it’s also defining and pure. You’re not as likely to be clouded by past scars and bad relationships. These are the stories that either make it—go on to be long-standing romances—or they’re the relationships that shape us… and create those walls and barriers that we spend our entire adulthood fighting.”

I spun in my seat and glared at her. “And what exactly do you know about any of that?”

I stopped shy of calling her a virgin, but the implication was there, thick with tension between us.

God I was such a fucking asshole.

And a hypocrite. Mocking her publicly about being so innocent, but behind closed doors, that same innocence got my fucking rocks off.

Her chest heaved with each heavy inhale and exhale. “Don’t confuse inexperience with ignorance, Holden.”

Professor McCay clapped her hands. “Holden… Kate. Please come up to the stage. And bring your scripts.”

My spine went rigid, each vertebra replaced with steel. “Why?”

“Because you two are going to act out Act two, Scene two. Or better known as: The Balcony Scene.”

Kate’s objection was like a dagger piercing my heart. “No!”

“Yes,” Professor McCay said, her tone stern. “I noticed your chemistry on the first day of classes. It’s rare to see a connection so strong between two people initially. So, get up. I want to see how this intense argument plays out on the other side of the coin.”

“What other side?” I snapped. “What are you talking about?”

Begrudgingly, Kate and I stood and slowly made our way to center stage.

“Love and hate, of course,” Professor McCay said.

“We don’t love each other—” Kate said.

While at the same time, I responded with, “We don’t hate each other—”

From where I stood, only a few feet separated us on the stage. Grit scuffed beneath my shoes as I moved closer to her. Three feet of separation became two… then one.

We froze, a mere twelve inches between us. It was both too close and too far, all at once.

“Okay, then,” Professor McCay said. “Skip the big monologues at the beginning of the scene. We all know both of their soliloquies. I want to see the communication. The dialogue. While I’m sure everyone here has read the entire play, as you were assigned to do, let me sum up their feelings. At this point, Romeo and Juliet have met at the party and it was love at first sight. They’ve since realized their families are mortal enemies, but Romeo, you can’t stay away. Nor, Juliet, do you want him to.”

The professor paused, taking the steps to the stage slowly so that she stood there in the corner with us. Like a piece of set in the scene. “You know how wrong this is, but you just can’t help yourselves.”

A lump lodged in my throat as my eyes locked with Kate’s. They were wide and wet, and she looked almost as terrified as I felt.

“And… go.”

As I curled the script back in my hand, the spine snapped against my fingers and, with it, so did my resolve. I cleared my throat, reading the first lines at the top of the page. Romeo’s lines. Or rather, my lines.

“By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am.” Something felt off. Not looking at her, not seeing her eyes as I recited to her felt wrong.

I lifted the script higher so that my gaze could bounce back and forth between the words on the page and her flashing sapphire eyes. “My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee; Had I written it, I would tear the word.”

She licked her plump lips and the sheen of glossy moisture that clung to them had my own mouth watering. “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?”

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