Page 65 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I lean down and kiss her. Only a soft graze, but the jolt of honeyed wine on our mouths is so potent it sends fire through every vein in my body. Helene gasps as the shockwave of our first kiss in this lifetime roils through her.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “Does that happen every time?”
I nod. “Every time.”
No matter where we are, no matter who she is, when she kisses me, it’s always like this.
HELENE
I kiss Sebastien again, andthe electricity between us is a coiled live wire, ready to spring. But, as if by unspoken pact, we force restraint, and everything moves in languorous slow motion.
Velvet mouths.
Sweet wine on the tongue.
Silken hair against flushed cheeks.
If I could bottle up time, this would be a moment to keep.
But then the thoughts I’d shoved away in the back of my mind burst out of their captivity in a rush, and I’m suddenly drowning in the implications of what it means if I’m really Juliet.
I jerk back from Sebastien. “I—I can’t do this.”
“Helene, please…”
Tears prickle my eyes again, and when I see the wounded expression on his face, I start to cry in earnest.
“If we try—” he says.
But I cut him off by shaking my head violently. “No. You have to understand, Idowant what Romeo and Juliet had. And Simão and Ines, Felix and Clara, Nolan and Mary Jo. Ever since I was in middle school and invented my imaginary Romeo, all I’ve wanted is to be loved for being me. But I…”
The tears come faster now, not sad, but scared.
“Sebastien,” I choke out. “I don’t want to…d-die.”
He closes his eyes for a long, pained moment, his whole body shuddering as if he’s trying to hold all his emotion in. When he finally opens his eyes again, the blueness looks as if it’s faded to gray.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t try to change my mind.
He simply takes my hand and says quietly, “Okay.”
HELENE
I am so worn, andI don’t think my ankle will support the weight of my emotional and physical fatigue, so Sebastien carries me to the guest suite. He draws down the covers, sets me gently on the bed, and tucks me in.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
But he just shakes his head and gives me a brave smile. “Rest. I’ll see you when you wake up, if you want. But for now, just rest.”
He leaves without another sound, miraculous for a man his size to walk so featherlight.
My brain, which has been sprinting like a hamster on a battery-powered wheel, finally loses its battle with exhaustion. The proverbial hamster falls off the wheel, my thoughts dissipate, and I immediately pass out and sleep until noon.
—
When I wake, my eyesare pink and swollen. It looks like I punched myself in the face last night. Which I kind of did, metaphorically speaking. Spending hours wading through centuries of Romeo’sgrief while also freaking out that I might be Juliet and condemned to die is pretty close to punching myself in the face about a thousand times.
