Page 57 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
This really happened, didn’t it?
My vignette was wrong, concluding with two strangers skipping off to tea, as if a happy first meeting is the prophecy of a happy ending. My version of the story was too chirpy, too trim, too conveniently happy.
But this…oh god, this. Something unlocks in the deep recesses of my brain, like a creaky old vault door, and the truth of this story rushes out, stale and dusty but sincere.
No. It’s too much. I want to slam the vault in my head shut.
And yet, I can’t resist…
I pull other journals from the shelf. Like in the Gallery of Me and the Hall of History, some of them match with characters I’ve written—Lucciano, Albrecht, Simão, Felix, Marius, Nolan, Matteo, Sir Charles, Jack…The only difference is, all their last names are Montague; I hadn’t made that connection in my vignettes. I’d given all my characters different surnames, although now that I think about it, none of them had ever felt right.
“I brought some chocolate back with me,” Sebastien calls from below when he returns from the kitchen.
I’m still reeling from the fact that there are very old, very genuine diaries up here that match my own stories.
“Helene? Did you get lost up there?”
Did I get lost up here?
Maybe.
I wasn’t supposed to think about Romeo and Juliet, about the curse, about Sebastien and me. Tonight was supposed to be about taking a break, about drinking espresso and eating cannoli.
But life rarely does what you want it to.
Now I’m faced with a very real possibility: Maybe I don’t have power over destiny anyway.
And, for me, destiny could very well spell doom.
SEBASTIEN
Something’s changed. Helene looks faraway when she comes down the stairs. Physically, she’s here, but mentally, she’s elsewhere.
What happened during those ten minutes I was gone? Did she find my old journals in the corner up there?
If she didn’t, I don’t want to bring them up. But even if she did, I can’t say anything. I promised not to mention our histories. I promised to treat Helene as herself, in the present, and not mire her in the Juliets of the past.
So what should I do?
She clutches the curved railing to keep herself steady on her injured ankle, but perhaps also to keep herself steady for other reasons. I get up from the couch and wait at the bottom of the stairs, where I offer my arm for support.
Helene’s body is warm, the soft curves beneath her sweater pressing against me. As I hold on to her, I sigh, content for that brief instant to be reunited with her, like the right combination has been spun on a lock.
It’s fleeting—just the span of a few steps—and then we’re apart again as we sit on opposite sofas with the table of espresso and cannoli and whatever she discovered upstairs between us.
I want that closeness back. I crave the ease that I usually have with Juliet. But at the same time, I want to respect that Helene is her own person entirely. It’s always tricky to perform this feat—knowing your soulmate’s entire past yet accepting that you know nothing at all. I suppose, in a way, that’s how it is with all relationships. You fall in love with one person, and then they keep changing, because that’s what people do. If you love them enough, though, you try to keep up.
“Do you want a cannoli?” I ask, picking up the plate. “Or chocolate?” I hold up the small basket of confections I have shipped from Switzerland and Belgium every month. I may be American now, but I’ll always prefer European chocolate.
Helene shakes her head. That’s how I know something is reallyoff. No matter how different my Juliets are, every single one of them has a sweet tooth.
I make it my mission to rescue the evening. It started out so well, and I don’t want us to lose the little ground we’ve won. Between the two of us, Helene is the more talkative—as a general matter, I prefer to listen and let others speak—but I’ll have to pick up the conversational mantle tonight. I can’t talk about my journals or our pasts, but I can honor Helene’s request to focus on who we are now.
Tonight, I think, is a bit like a first date. We’re starting over from a blank slate, and we’re sitting awkwardly around cups of coffee, not sure what to say. Because of that, I launch into first-date conversation.
Rather than “What’s your favorite color?” though, I say, “What do you think is the best book title you’ve ever heard?”
“Huh?” Helene blinks at me, like she’s confused why I’m trying to chat about inconsequential things.
