Page 29 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
How did I not know his last name before?
It didn’t occur to me to ask. I was too wrapped up in my own drama—still focused on him as the many characters I’d invented—instead of seeing Sebastien as a real person with his own identity. But now I stare at the Sharpied spine of the book.
Montague Montague Montague.
I first imagined him as Romeo Montague in eighth grade.
This has to be a coincidence.
Lots of girls obsess over Romeo and Juliet when they’re younger, right?
And maybe Montague is a common last name.
Just because I made up an imaginary friend in my head to play Romeo, and just because he looks exactly like Sebastien, and just because both their last names are Montague, and just because he touched his lips at the harbor at the same moment I tasted honey and wine on mine…doesn’thaveto mean anything.
But it also could.
Mom says everything happens for a reason. I’m not exactly sure what the universe is trying to tell me, but I know this: I am standing here holding a book that Sebastien ordered, with his address printed on the invoice.
Brave New Helene steps up to the task—I’m going to hand deliver this book to his house.
—
The drive takes forever, becauseSebastien lives in the boonies—which is saying a lot, since Ryba Harbor is already pretty isolated. Plus it’s dark, the roads twist and wind, and it’s started to snow. I’ve never driven in the snow before. God help me.
Forty-five minutes into what’s supposed to be an hour trip, I glance over at the map on my phone to check that I’m still going in the right direction. The navigation assistant hasn’t spoken to me in a while.
The map screen, however, is frozen on the location from fifteen minutes ago. A rainbow wheel graphic spins in the center of the screen, and the bars at the top show there’s no signal whatsoever out here.
That explains why I haven’t heard any directions recently.
Fantastic.
I must be going the right way, though. There hasn’t been a fork in the road in several miles. I look away from my phone and back on the road. It takes a moment for my eyes to readjust to the dim headlights.
A looming shadow suddenly appears up ahead. I yank the wheel to follow the curve of the asphalt and hope it’s just a tree—
Fuck! A moose! It charges onto the road, over six feet of muscle and fur and antlers.
I scream and swerve. The tires skid, and I slam on the brakes, which is probably exactly the wrong thing to do. The steering wheel refuses to help, and I spin out, the whole world a blur of winter white.
My car smashes into a snowbank. The air bag smacks into my chest and face.
“Shit,” I moan when the airbag deflates. That really fucking hurt. In a daze, I irrationally try to stuff the air bag back into the steering wheel before I realize what I’m doing.
As my brain gets back online, I wrinkle my nose. The air has an electrical burn stink to it, related to the air bag deployment, I guess.
My vision clears, too. Through the windshield, the moose bellows and glares at me.
I lean on the horn. “Yeah, well, screw you, too!”
Pretty sure the moose rolls its eyes at my petulance. It crosses the road and abandons me.
I hate driving in the snow.
When I finally get my breathing under control, I take stock of my body. Other than the rude revelation of impact, I seem to be okay. No bleeding, no sharp pain of broken bones, only a little ache in the left ankle.
My next instinct is to grab my phone and call for help. It’s fallen to the floor, and I have to scramble over the gearshift to get to it.
