Page 69 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I turn to look out the window. It’s a beautiful day—the sun is shining, and the blizzard has left a soft white blanket over the forest like I’m living in a snow globe. Despite the clumsy silence in the truck, a smile spreads over my face, and it stays there as I watch the landscape go by.
After a while, Sebastien asks if it’s okay to turn on some music.
He has terrible taste. An eighties hair-metal band screams from the speakers, and I can’t read the name off the radio, because Sebastien’s truck is possibly even older than the band.
“Is this all right?” he asks.
“It’s not what I would have expected…”
“Which was?”
“A station playing sea shanties?”
He laughs, and thank god it breaks the tension between us. Wecompromise (I prefer Top 40, but he doesn’t like pop) and settle on a throwback station playing bands from the ’90s and 2000s. There’s still no conversation between us, but at least there’s music to fill the drive.
Eventually, we arrive at the edge of town. I start to give Sebastien instructions to my street, but he waves me off, because Ryba Harbor is tiny and everyone knows where I’m staying (since I’m the only wacky tourist to come to a remote Alaskan town in the middle of winter).
But when we pull up in front of the house, there’s someone sitting in the beat-up rocking chair on my porch. As we park, he stands up.
“Oh god.”
“Who is that?” Sebastien asks, already alert and on guard because of the tone of my voice.
“That,” I say, “is my ex, Merrick.”
HELENE
Sebastien starts to unbuckle hisseatbelt, as if he’s coming with me.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
“I can come and—”
“No. Please. Stay in the truck. Actually, you can just drop me off.”
“Helene, I’m not leaving you alone.”
I look from Merrick to Sebastien to Merrick again. Merrick’s standing on the porch, arms crossed over his Prada wool coat. I never liked his penchant for too expensive labels, but he looks dapper, and I hate that he still looks so handsome despite what he’s put me through.
“Merrick won’t hurt me,” I say. Not in a physical way, anyway. I’m not in any danger like that.
“Nothing good ever comes out of an ex showing up unannounced,” Sebastien says. “I’ll stay in the truck, but if you need me, just give me any kind of signal, and I’ll be there.”
I have to admit I’m relieved Sebastien is staying.
As soon as I’m out of the truck, Merrick spits, “You’re shacking up withhimnow?”
I guess that Prada suaveness isn’t going to extend to our actual conversation. While Merrick was charming when we first met, he’s long since dropped that facade with me. (He is, however, still slayingly charming with the interns, as well as with anyone he needs to butter up to further his career.)
“No, I’m not shacking up with anyone,” I say through gritted teeth as I stomp up the icy path. “I have my own place, which you clearly know because you’re standing on my porch. Not that what I do is any of your business.”
“You’re my wife, Helene. It’s all my business,” he says like a possessive vulture.
“We’re not married anymore, Merrick.”
“Au contraire. We are until the divorce papers are signed and a judge makes it final. And I refuse to sign.”
I scowl as I climb up the front steps. Face-to-face, he’s less intimidating. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and unlike Sebastien, Merrick’s not a muscular guy. The heaviest lifting he does is keeping that massive ego from wobbling on top of his neck.
