Page 39 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Cautious Old Helene rears her head again.You could be walking into a serial killer’s den.
I’d texted Mom and Katy last night to let them know where I am, but what can they do from L.A.? Nothing. I’m in this on my own.
But Sebastien just opens an ordinary-looking door and holds it open for me, and the chivalry, I have to admit, is flattering. I knowa lot of women these days would find the gesture antifeminist, but for someone like me who hasn’t been respected enough in past relationships, it’s awfully nice to be treated like I’m worth waiting for.
“Is this…your bedroom?” I ask, on guard again. But this doesn’t look like how I think a serial killer’s room would. Light gray walls, a platform bed with a simple (but likely expensive) wooden headboard and crisp, military-tight white sheets, and a leather bench at the foot of the bed. There are two nightstands that match the headboard, but it’s clear that only one of the tables is ever used, because it has a small analog clock and a landline-connected phone on it, whereas the other is completely clean.
Sebastien stands at a distance to avoid hovering while I look around, and he leaves the path to the door clear, so I can sprint for it if I need to. I appreciate him trying to help me relax.
Framed wildlife photographs line the walls. They aren’t standard shots of prowling lions and fleeing wildebeests, though. Instead, whoever took them had an eye for quiet moments—one picture is of a pair of gorillas in the jungle, dozing with heads resting against each other. Another is a long exposure of the northern lights, with the one constant being a mother seal and her pups on the ice, a family huddled together watching nature’s rainbow unfurl. And the most striking photograph is of a mourning wolf, midhowl with his paws protectively over the body of his dead mate.
“These are incredible photos,” I say. “Who took them?”
Sebastien hesitates before he answers.
“A woman I loved.” He pauses. “Her name was Avery.”
A pinprick of jealousy stabs at me. Which is stupid, because of course he’s allowed to have a history. Of course Sebastien isn’t exclusively mine, just because I’ve daydreamed him before.
He seems to pick up on my discomfort, because he says, “It was like another lifetime ago.” But there’s a hitch in his voice, and he clears his throat to hide it. “This isn’t why I brought you here, though. What you need to see is this way.”
Sebastien walks into a closet the size of my bedroom back at the cottage. He pushes aside a bunch of dark jeans—all neatlypressed and hanging like they belong in an expensive store—and there is a locked door. It’s metal (maybe fireproof?) and there’s a security panel above the handle.
He lifts his hand to type in the code.
My fears about being murdered in a serial killer’s den come flooding back. “Wh-where are you taking me?”
“It’s better if you see it for yourself.”
My heart is in my throat. “Actually, I think I’d rather not.” I begin to back toward the hallway.
He sighs, a weighty sound I’m starting to think is a key expression of his. Either that, or I’m particularly exasperating.
My temper flares. “Do you think it’s unreasonable of me to distrust a man who’s about to take me into a locked room with a reinforced door, hidden inside a closet?”
At that, Sebastien’s expression softens.
“The code for the door panel is July tenth,” he says. “The date of the Capulets’ ball.”
My jaw drops. I remember every detail ofRomeo and Juliet,because those performances are so entwined with my memories of my dad. Juliet’s parents threw a party “a fortnight and odd days” before her birthday (mybirthday, too, coincidentally)—July 31, otherwise known as Lammas Eve. Which does indeed put the Capulets’ ball around July 10.
But that doesn’t explain why Sebastien thinks the ball would be significant to me, and why he’s using the date as a pass code.
I forget worrying he might be a murderer and instead, my brain starts churning out theories, each wilder than the next: Juliet was his childhood literary crush (the equivalent of a celebrity crush, for nerds). Or, Sebastien and I are soulmates brought together by a common love of Shakespeare. Or, because I invented Sebastien while I was in theRomeo and Julietplay, that’s how he sprang to life—fully formed withRomeo and Julietas his origin story.
Meanwhile, Real Sebastien enters July 10 into the security panel in European fashion, with the day preceding the month: 1-0-0-7.
The lock on the door clicks open.
“See?” he says. “Now you know how to get into the room. Andthere’s no need for a code to get out because the door just opens from the inside. Does that help you feel safer?”
Being scared is several emotions ago, so I just nod.
“But before you go in,” Sebastien says, “I need you to take a deep breath.”
“Why, what’s inside?”
“Just take a deep breath. Please.”
