Page 101 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Later in the week, as we stroll through Park Güell—a whimsical, Dr. Seuss–like wonderland sprung from fantasy—a bald head gleams in the sun among all the rainbow-colored mosaics. I shade my eyes to get a better look, and I swear it’s Aaron Gonchar. My stomach flips, and the baby starts punching me, reacting to my sudden panic.
When I blink and look again, though, nobody’s there—not Aaron, not a different bald guy, not anyone at all. Just the squiggly, snakelike benches and wacky-shaped buildings that dot the entire park.
Weird.
“Can we go up to the top?” I point to stairs that lead up a hill to a platform. I want to get a better vantage point of the park to see if the Aaron lookalike is lurking somewhere, or if I’m just seeing things in the heat haze of the Spanish summer.
“Sure,” Sebastien says. “I was just about to suggest that. The view is fantastic from up there.”
We walk toward the bottom of the grand staircase, flanked by colorful, ten-foot-tall animal statues. Flowering trees burst out of checkered planters, and a labyrinth of shady caves provide respite from the sun. When we arrive at the top of the hill, Sebastien tries to point out all the gingerbread house–like buildings that fill the plaza below.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, distracted, looking for that shiny head again.
I do find a few bald men, but none I could have mistaken for Aaron.
“Hey, are you all right?” Sebastien asks, coming up next to me.
“Yeah, sorry. I thought…Never mind. Pregnancy hormones are making me loopy.”
He laughs. “I think Park Güell just has that effect on people, too.”
After Barcelona, we go on to Madrid, Seville, and Granada. But instead of enjoying the sights, I keep checking to see if Aaron Gonchar will reappear.
He doesn’t, and eventually I start to relax again. I even try to work on my manuscript a little in the afternoons, when the heat is too much and everyone retires for siestas.
Mostly, though, I nap during that time. I’m five months into the pregnancy now, my breasts swollen like small cantaloupes, sweating in the relentless Spanish sun. I wear loose dresses when I can, but on laundry days I have to wear my shorts unbuttoned with a waistband extender. I am an accordion permanently expanded.
One particularly hot and sticky day, after falling asleep on my laptop, I wake to find Sebastien smiling at me from the sofa.
“What do you say we get out of this infernal heat? We can rent a small boat and go island hopping in Greece. There will be open horizon. Cool ocean breezes. The sound of the wind in the sails.”
“Oh god, that sounds like heaven,” I say as I wipe a slick of sweat off my cheek. There’s a damp, face-shaped imprint on my keyboard, too. “When can we go?”
“How about today?”
I jump up and start throwing clothes into my suitcase.
SEBASTIEN
Summer is peak tourist seasonin the Greek islands, and the usually picturesque towns—whitewashed buildings against a backdrop of sparkling blue ocean—are overrun by sightseers, swarming like ants up and down the narrow staircases that meander through the seaside cliffs. But the boat I rent allows us to spend the days exploring coves and fishing for our own lunch. We only dock in the evenings, when the day-tripping cruise ships have departed and left the towns more tranquil.
We spend a couple of weeks like this, absolutely free of all constraints and responsibilities. I am glad to be on the water again, and even more so to be at sea with Helene, who looks like anocean goddess with the salty wind in her hair, her loose white dress billowing against the beautiful round belly where our baby continues to thrive.
I immerse myself in this time. Most people have regrets when they lose someone they love. They wish they’d done more together, asked them their life stories, kissed them every moment of every day. But I don’t have those regrets. I have plenty of others, but not those; it’s a strange side effect of knowing your soulmate is going to die sooner rather than later. I touch Helene every time I pass her. I give her my full attention whenever she speaks. Because I’m always aware that this could be the last. The last time I make love to her, the last time we laugh together, the last time we sit beside each other, saying nothing but understanding it all. If our destiny is sealed, then at least we’ll earn the happiness of being together for these fleeting moments that we have.
And I have had Helene for six months. I can almost convince myself now that it’s enough. I don’t always get Juliet for that long, and six months is a line where I could, if I had to, say to people, “I had her for six wonderful months,” and that would sound substantial—more substantial than two days or two weeks. It would possibly even sound sufficient.
Of course, the truth is, it’s never enough. But the point is, I can tell myself that if I have to.
I hope I don’t.
HELENE
“I don’t ever want thisto end,” I say, smiling at Sebastien’s hand clasped in mine across the white tablecloth. We’re having dinner at a cliffside restaurant in Imerovígli, overlooking the blue waters of Santorini’s caldera. The sun sets over the ocean in a soft sherbet sky of pinks and oranges, and a violinist plays a love song in the background. I’d seen pictures of the Greek islands on posters and in movies before, but I never thought the real thing could live up to them. I was wrong, so very wrong, and I’m happy about it.
“We could live here if you want,” Sebastien says, and I know he actually means it. This man would do anything for me.
“I’d miss Mom and Katy too much. But it’s tempting.” I squeeze his hand.
