Page 22 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Jack pulls himself together and stops gawking. “I, uh, came to return this book,” he says, pulling a paperback out of his jacket pocket. “And I was hoping some new novels might have come in, but it looks like the same stuff as last week.” He gestures at the fiction shelves.
“Surely there’s something there you can read,” Rachel says with a teasing glint in her eyes.
“I could,” Jack says, “but unfortunately I’m not in the mood to reread anything, and I’ve already gone through all these books. I am, you may be surprised to find out, actually literate.”
Rachel laughs, and the sound is light as a tropical breeze through coconut trees. “Come with me, then. I have a book in the back you’ll like. Someone just dropped off a box of donations.”
“How do you know I’ll like it?”
“Because you seem rather pleased with yourself, and the novel I’m thinking of is all about a very self-congratulatory man and the adventures he goes on.”
“Ouch,” Jack says, but at the same time, his cheeks and ears grow hot. “I promise I’m not usually this proud. It’s just that I was promoted this morning.”
She laughs again. “It’s okay. Hubris doesn’t look good on most men, but it suits you, Lieutenant.”
“Please, call me Jack.”
“Actually, I think I prefer to call you nothing at all. Calling you boys by name is the first step in getting hooked. And from there, it’s simply a reeling in of the line and I’m just another trophy on your wall.”
“I don’t want to make you into a trophy.”
“And I don’t want to be one. So there, we’re in agreement. Shall we go find your book now?” Rachel smiles, revealing one cute little dimple on her right cheek.
And it turns out that she had it backward, because it’s not Jack who reels her in. It’s Rachel—and her mischievous dimple—that catches Jack. Hook, line, and sinker.
A lanky teenagersprints past me, jolting me from my story. He clutches a small, spiral-bound notepad in one hand—I am instantly fond of him, because I know the importance of always having a notebook around—and then he scurries up the ladder onto theAlacrity.
Meanwhile, Sebastien’s sea shanty comes to an end, and I swear that if an entire harbor could smile, this is what it would feel like. A swell of affection for Sebastien washes over me despite the fact that I’m only here because he stole my books. Maybe I’m feeling this way because of his song. Or maybe I’m projecting the warm fuzzies from Lieutenant Jack’s story onto Sebastien. All I know is that, at least for this moment, I’m not mad at him.
Sebastien comes into view at the stern of the ship, a bottle of wine in hand. The rising sun silhouettes him in soft orange light, and even though he’s wearing heavy layers, I can still see the strength and confident elegance in the way he moves. I can also see the adoration of his crew as they gather around him, all their attention on their captain.
“To merciful weather, a propitious catch, and the finest crabbers I could have the honor to sail with!” Sebastien says.
“Huzzah!” the men shout.
Sebastien pulls the cork from the bottle and splashes wine on the deck. Then he passes the bottle to the rest of the crew, and each member pours a blessing onto the boat.
Here on theAlacrity,Sebastien is entirely different from the man who was so awful to me. Despite my previous determination to hate him, I can’t help but see some of my Story Sebastien in this real one.
As if he feels me watching, Sebastien sweeps the dock with his gaze. I try to duck, but his eyes find mine first.
Instantly, sweetness blossoms on my tongue, like nostalgia and love distilled into warm, honeyed wine. I gasp at the taste, which is both familiar and not.
Then I remember. I tasted the same sweetness at The Frosty Otter, but I’d thought it was just a unique signature of the microbrew Betsy had served me. And I think the same flavor brushed my lips in Shipyard Books, except I’d been too distracted over crashing into Sebastien to notice.
I feel like maybe I’ve tasted this before Alaska, too.
How?
Sebastien presses his fingers to his mouth and closes his eyes, just for a moment, as if savoring it.
Does he taste the honey wine, too?
I fall a little bit in love with the possibility, and a little bit under the spell of this man who entrances an entire port with his song, who knew before I did that I’d come to the harbor for my books, whom I somehow feel tethered to, even though we just met.
I wish I could climb up the ladder onto theAlacrity.I wish I could ask Sebastien what this is all about. Because I suspect he knows a lot more than he’s letting on, that maybe that’s the reason he’s pushing me away.
But when he opens his eyes, all I do is hold upThe Craft of Novel Writingand mouth, “Thank you.”
