Page 58 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I press on anyway, gently steering her from whatever’s preoccupying her. “Best book title ever. I’ll go first—Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.”
A snort of a laugh escapes her, catching her by surprise, and she can’t resist responding. “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? Really? And here I thought you were a Very Serious Fisherman.”
I shrug. “Only on weekdays.”
That gets a genuine smile out of her. But then I see her mind retreating again, so I pounce. “Your turn. Let’s see if your favorite title is any less juvenile than mine.”
Helene bites her bottom lip as she thinks. “Oh, I know,” she says.“The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.”
“Never heard of it.”
“But it’s so good, right? You can’t hear that title andnotbe curious how or why a woman would be married seven times. Is she a flake? A murderess? A serial widow?”
I flinch at the last question, because, well, that’s one way to sum me up: a serial widower. But I quickly paste a smile back on my face, so as not to lose the momentum we’re building, moving away from brooding and toward cheerful instead.
“You’re right. Thatisa great title,” I say. “Okay, what about the most iconic book cover of all time?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Helene says, scooting to the edge of her sofa.“Twilight.”
“Please, no.” I cringe. “The most iconic book cover would have to beThe Godfather,or maybeA Clockwork Orange.”
“Ew,” she says. “Those are both so…I dunno. Simple?”
“ButThe Godfather’s cover was so striking it also became the movie poster. How often does that happen? Almost never.”
“I see your point, but I still don’t like that cover. Okay, my turn to ask you something. Who was your first book crush?” Helene picks up a cannoli and takes a big bite as she waits for my answer. I interpret that as a sign that she’s starting to relax. Good.
“Book crush?” I sip some of my espresso. “What’s that?”
“The first time you fell in love with a character.”
I make a face. “People do that?”
“Sure, all the time. My sister Katy’s first book crush was Holden Caulfield.”
“Holden Caulfield?”
Helene grins. “Katy’s a strange one. So come on, tell me. Who was your first book crush?”
I suppose I could say that I fell in love with a woman who later became a character, written about by everyone from Bandello to Shakespeare to Baz Luhrmann. But that’s breaking the rules of engagement—avoiding the topic of Romeo and Juliet—so I skirt the issue. “I don’t think men have book crushes.”
“Book lusts, then?” Helene asks, teasing.
I choke on my coffee, and I’m sure my face has flushed crimson all the way to the tips of my ears. All I can manage is a cracked “Pass,” as if I’m a teenage boy again.
She laughs.
When I stop coughing up the espresso, I turn the question back on her. “Who was your first book crush or book lust, then?”
Her laughter falls away suddenly, and I get the sinking feeling that I’ve pushed the joke too far. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Let’s skip the question.”
“No,” Helene says as she sets her cannoli back onto the plate.“I posed the question, so it’s only fair that I answer. But I didn’t think it through before I asked. Because the thing is…the first character I fell in love with was you.”
Joy and fear ripple simultaneously through me. I knew she’d made up a character who looked like me for her stories, but I hadn’t realized the extent of her feelings for me. If I’d only been an imaginary friend, that alone would’ve been enough for Helene to be flummoxed by my appearance in real life. But if she loved my character, then perhaps it’s only a few more inches before she falls for the actual me.
Only…there will be consequences to that. The curse was why I tried to conceal myself from Helene, to hide away in a frozen town on the edge of the world. And still she found me, because I tried to evade the curse last time, but it’s inescapable. Maybe the curse let Avery Drake go, but Helene’s knowledge of our bygone relationships makes it that much harder for me to break our bond.
Neither of us knows what to say after Helene’s confession. We’re not supposed to talk about our backstories, and yet they’re there, no matter how hard we try to bury them. Does free will exist at all? Or are our futures dictated by the pasts that came before them?
