Page 118 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I climb in. There isn’t much space, but it’s better this way, Helene’s body and mine pressed against each other, and our daughter nestled on our chests, breathing sleepily.
“She’s an angel,” I say, stroking the baby’s downy hair. “A blessing.”
“Like us,” Helene says.
I look at her quizzically.
“These last ten months have been the happiest of my life,” Helene says. “Most people never experience love like this. But for us, we get to have it, again and again.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I don’t want this pristine moment shattered by reality.
But Helene twines her fingers through mine, gently resting our hands together on our daughter’s curled body. “I don’t think we were ever cursed, Sebastien. We were blessed. Getting to spend an eternity with your soulmate is heaven.”
I cast my eyes downward. “But all the terrible endings I caused.” I can’t help but notice that Helene is wrapped up in a white sheet, reminiscent of her white gown in the Capulet tomb, and I am here again beside her. “It all began with Romeo’s knife.”
“That was an accident. You never meant to hurt Juliet. Accidents happen.”
“And each life after that? Isabella drowning, Cosmina burning, Amélie at the hands of a revolutionary mob…”
“Not your fault,” Helene says softly, but with conviction. “That’s just the way of life, no matter how full it is. Joy always holds hands with sorrow. But the important thing is not to zoom in only on the tragedy of the ending. Because as I read through your journals and pieced together our past for my book, I realized something, Sebastien—the through line of our story isn’t perpetual sadness. It’s indestructible love.”
Is she right? I lie quietly beside her. I’ve believed in the curse for so long, believed that Mercutio’s dying words damned us. My primary impulses for centuries have been to either die or endure the suffering.
But what if Mercutiodidn’tcurse us? What if it was me—my guilt—that locked me into a never-ending cycle of grief, so focused on Juliet dying that it was the only thing I saw, no matter how many chances I had to change? And what if I was too scared of losing her for good, of not seeing her again, so I never let her go? Could that explain why she always returned?
I think back on every time I’ve loved her. The original Juliet was a tragedy, but Helene’s right: It was an accident. I was young and hotheaded, and the strict codes of honor of that era sent Count Paris and me into a duel in the middle of the Capulet tomb. Killing Juliet was not destiny. It was a circumstance of chance.
Broken, I fled to Sicily, and almost two decades later, Isabella appeared, like a carbon copy of Juliet. But after her ferry capsizedduring our honeymoon, my self-pity settled back in, and that time, it decided to stay.
After that, I loved…but I loved with fear. Whether it was Clara, Florence, Meg, or Kitri, there was always a part of me stuck in the past, like a fly caught in a long-dead spider’s web. I blamed myself for all that ever went wrong. And so the pattern continued, perpetuated by my own misery and remorse.
But what if the curse doesn’t exist separate from me? What if I canchooseto end it?
Our daughter’s eyes flutter open. They’re pale blue, like mine. But there’s also a glimmer of sunlight in them, inherited from Helene. I know newborns aren’t able to smile yet, but still…she does for me. And she reaches out and touches my face with her impossibly tiny fingers.
For the first time in several centuries, I begin to cry.
Becausethisis what I want.
To walk on the sunny side of the street with my beautiful wife and daughter. To see the blooming roses, not the wilting ones. Instead of pointing out storm clouds, I want to trace their silver—no,gold—linings.
I want to go back to Alaska and make things right with Adam. I want to watch my daughter grow up, teach her to drive, set her out into the uncertain world to pave a path of her own. I want to give my entire soul to Helene, to embrace the unpredictable, to map our happinesses and our miseries and everything in between with a lifetime of laughter, tears, and wrinkles.
I want to be unafraid.
And I want to stop blaming myself.
Change is never easy. But I want to try.
“Hope,” I say quietly.
Helene tilts her head at me, confused. Perhaps what I said doesn’t quite track with the last part of our conversation. But the past is no longer my focus. The only things that matter are this moment and the three hearts beating together in this hospital bed. There may still be tragedy, because no one can predict perfect happiness forever and we’re not past the two-year mark yet, but we can choose to move forward anyway.
I kiss our little girl’s cherub cheek.
“Her name,” I say. “I think we should name her Hope.”
A smile blossoms across Helene’s face.
She squeezes my hand.
And the broken watch on her wrist wakes and begins to keep time.
