Romeo's Ex

by Lisa Fiedler

  Mercutio chuckles. “’Tis better than boots, nay?”

  I cannot see Benvolio’s face, but methinks I see his shoulders stiffen, then slump. Surely he finds such lovesick prattle most disgusting.

  I now spy another familiar figure across the room leaning forlornly against a wall and cannot stop myself from gasping his name. “Romeo.”

  “Seems she knows us all,” Mercutio says, and I fear he means it as an insult.

  Benvolio’s spine goes rigid. “I will thank you not to tease the lady,” he says in a level voice.

  Mercutio snorts, plucks two goblets of burgundy from the tray of a passing servant, and hands one to Benvolio.

  “To honor,” he sneers, lifting the cup.

  “To honor,” echoes Benvolio.

  “To honor!” Mercutio slants me a wicked grin. “Get on her and stay on her!”

  Benvolio cringes at the crude toast. “Damn you,” he mutters, ignoring his wine.

  Mercutio yawns loudly. I fear he is growing bored and will take his leave of us, so I speak quickly.

  “How dost thou, Mercutio?” I ask sweetly.

  “I do well, lady,” he replies, after a lusty sip of wine. His gaze creeps slowly o’er me. He takes another sip.

  “My lady,” Benvolio begins, “it occurs to me that I still do not know your name.”

  At this, Mercutio nearly chokes on his mouthful of drink. “By the blood of the devil, Benvolio! You know not who she is?” He laughs, his eyes steely. “O, this is rich, verily. Comic and tragic and sickening and delightful.” He laughs again. “You wish to know her name! Marry, I have a notion—wherefore dos’t thou not ask Romeo? I’d wager he will be able to tell you her name. He may e’en sing it for you!”

  “I would be honored to learn her name by any means necessary,” Benvolio replies, “but would much prefer she give it to me from her own sweet lips.”

  Before I can answer, Mercutio catches hold of Benvolio’s chin and shakes it.

  “She is Rosaline, you fool! Romeo’s Rosaline! The goddess, the epitome of feminine perfection. The chaste one who has no use for him and yet causes him to weep and whine and waste away. She is that Rosaline! The one, the only!”

  Benvolio freezes in his place; then, after a lengthy moment, he tips his mask so only I can see his face. “Rosaline?”

  “Aye.”

  “Romeo’s Rosaline?”

  I frown. “Hardly.”

  “He is in love with you,” Benvolio reports grimly.

  “So I have heard.”

  Benvolio’s eyes go dark. He looks at odds with himself, conflicted. Or perhaps just sad. “Why didst thou not tell me?” he queries.

  “Because, if you’ll recall, I had only just overheard you callously assert to Romeo that I was surely no better than any other maiden in Verona.”

  “I was most incorrect,” he whispers.

  “O, Benvolio.” Rashly, I take his hands in mine and squeeze them. “Please do not be angry. We had such a lovely time—”

  “Lovely time,” Mercutio snickers.

  “And I feared you would want nothing to do with me had you known I was the cause of your cousin’s heartache.”

  “Nonsense,” drawls Mercutio. “Any man with eyes in his head would want badly to have something to do with thee!” He snorts again, rudely. “And I can tell thee just what that something is!”

  Benvolio sends Mercutio a searing look, then turns and stomps away—I suspect to keep from killing him.

  I remove my mask. My eyes sting and my heart aches, but I will not cry.

  “Why, Mercutio, dost thou say such hateful things to me? You must know the depth of my feelings—”

  “Deep feelings are of no interest to me, lady,” he says curtly, taking another goblet from an attendant’s tray. “However, should you wish to reveal to me certain other, more intimate ’depths’ of your person—”

  I believe I turn the color of the wine in his glass! “’Tis a most inappropriate thing to say!”

  “Aye, and yet you are still standing here.”

  I find myself wanting to crumple to the marble floor. Or slap him. ’Tis difficult to believe that he is the same gentle hero I met earlier this day.

  “You have drunk too much wine,” I surmise. “That is the reason for your boldness.”

  “The reason for my boldness is that I am bold,” he says easily, downing the beverage in one gulp. “I thought ’twas what you liked about me. But then, what dost thou know of me, other than that this afternoon when you opened your pretty eyes I was near to thee?” He wipes his wine-stained lips with the back of his hand. “You interpret me badly, my lady.”

  “Then show me the truth of you,” I challenge, stepping forward to brazenly place my palm against his chest.

  He starts as though I’ve branded him with a hot iron.

  “You play with flame, Rosaline,” he warns in a thick voice.

  “I shall take my chances, sir.”

  His eyes bore into mine. I wish I could say I see affection there. With a slow and measured breath, he grasps my wrist and roughly shoves my hand away, then whirls, a bit unsteadily given the extent of his intoxication. He takes two clumsy steps before turning back to glare at me once more.

  “Wouldst thou join me, if I invited thee?” he asks with contempt.

  “I would join thee, e’en if you didn’t,” I say, attempting a smile.

  Something flickers in his eyes, and I imagine it might be regret. He turns again and lurches away down the shadowy hall. Despite the terror tumbling in my guts, I follow. But when I round the corner, I stop at the sound of voices. Voices I know well.

  One is Juliet’s. And he to whom she speaks is Romeo!

  Oh, this cannot be good! Juliet and Romeo …

  … Romeo and Juliet.

  They have concealed themselves in a curtained alcove near the chapel. The crimson velvet of the draperies shadows Juliet’s pale gown with a bright, bloody hue. As I press myself to the wall and steal a look within, I see that she is removing her pearl-trimmed visor.

  And Romeo doth remove his mask as well.

  And I see them see each other for the very first time.

  Silence explodes around them, and they gaze upon each other as angels might, angels who have ne’er seen another of their kind. God’s truth, I can almost feel the heat that springs from them!

  My first thought is to rush in, collar Juliet, and drag her as far away from here as ’tis possible to go. My second thought is this: So much for liking Paris.

  Now they whisper something, and in the next moment, he has taken her chin upon his thumb and tilted up her face to his.

  Hell’s teeth! They kiss!

  And whisper more.

  And kiss again.

  Oh, this is bad; this is very bad, indeed!

  A hand upon my shoulder startles me. I whirl to find Benvolio. For a moment, I actually forget that nearby my cousin is kissing her sworn enemy.

  “I believed you had departed,” I say, smiling.

  “I was about to, until I recollected that you promised me a dance.”

  “Then you are no longer angry with me?”

  “I am many things with you, dear Rosaline,” he says, “but angered is not one of them.” He touches my cheek. “You offer me friendship, and I am honored to accept it.”

  “We shall dance then,” I announce, deciding to leave Juliet to her own devices for the present. Romeo is not dangerous. He is just … nauseating.

  Benvolio guides me to the dance floor and we take our place in the formation as the minstrels strike up.

  The dance is formal and complicated, and twice I near lose Benvolio in the shifting circles. He is not the most graceful of men, but his persistence is to be commended. At one point, he is required to raise his arm in order that the lady to his left may skip beneath it to join her partner on the other side. But he is looking only at me and miscalculates, thus catching the unsuspecting lady with both his arms around her waist. He apologizes from
behind the mask. The lady giggles, and I think perhaps she was not entirely unhappy to be wrapped, however briefly, in Benvolio strong embrace.

  When the dance has done, Benvolio and I take a seat upon the stairs and watch with amusement as the elders in attendance bicker o’er who, in their day, was the better dancer, heartier drinker, and most successful lover. And with no amusement whatsoever, we watch Tybalt skulking round the room, his hand upon his sword.

  “Perhaps he knows there are Montagues present,” I whisper to Benvolio.

  “Aye, ’tis likely the case.” He stands, pressing a kiss to my wrist. “Much as I hate to leave you, lady, I must remove Romeo from the gathering danger of this place.”

  “Wait!” I wring my hands. “Could you … might I …” Closing my eyes, I take a fortifying breath. “Will you tell me where later I might find Mercutio?”

  Again that rigid spine and no reply.

  “Never mind it, then,” I say, forcing a smile. “I shall find him myself I thank thee for your most delightful company this night … .”

  Before I e’en finish the thought, he has turned and stalked away. I am finding that he does that often. I suppose if we are to be friends I will simply have to become used to it.

  Glancing toward the chapel hall, I spot Juliet, who has at last seen fit to return to the feast—this due only to the fact that her stout nurse has captured her firmly by the arm and is all but dragging her along.

  Romeo follows them several paces after. When Juliet scurries away to join her mother’s table, I see him approach the nurse and ask a question. ‘Tis clear he does not receive an answer to his liking, for his entire stance goes slack, as though he’s been soundly socked, and e’en at this distance, I believe I see him tremble. The nurse goes to join Juliet, and I watch as Benvolio arrives at Romeo’s side, urging their departure. As they make for the door, the nurse comes swooping back toward them. She inquires something of Romeo. He answers and exits quickly. Benvolio glances back at me and waves, then he too is gone.

  Of a sudden, I feel inexplicably lonely.

  As the hall empties of guests, my eyes dart round the room in search of Juliet. She is leaving with her nurse and looking utterly distraught. I surmise that her nurse has discovered Romeo’s identity and has reported as much to Juliet. If she did not know him to be a Montague whilst she kissed him, she most certainly knows it now! With a hasty good night to those departing friends who call to me, I hurry up the stairs to meet Juliet in her room.

  After the truth she’s just been told, I am certain she will need me!

  I find Jules sobbing on the bed. Her gown is bunched into a yellow knot around her legs, and her hair is a cloud of darkness sprawled o’er the satin pillow cover.

  “How did I not know it? When I heard him speak, ’twas the voice from the garden. Yet I refused to believe it could be Romeo.”

  I sit down beside her.

  “Doff thy gown, cousin,” I say softly. “You will surely ruin it, rumpling it this way.”

  “What care I for a silly gown?” she asks into the feathery pillow. “I would much prefer to doff my name.”

  I sigh. “The word Capulet is offensive to thee now, is it?”

  “If it be offensive to sweet Romeo,” she wails, “then aye, it is repulsive to me as well.” She sits up, pushing aside her tousled locks so I might see her tear-stained face. “’Tis almost comical, is it not?” she asks on a laugh that is near hysteria. “You and I, who, in all modesty, could likely have our choice of any men in Italy, doomed to love two Montagues.”

  I allow a small smile. “I take this to mean that Paris is now out of the running.”

  “Do not tease me, cousin,” she begs.

  “Forgive me.” I touch her cheek. “But, Jules, you do realize the Romeo for whom you weep tonight is the same Romeo at whom you laughed this morning? I will admit, he is handsome, but dost thou not remember those hopeless, hollow declarations of love he showered upon me?”

  “He spoke quite differently to me,” she whispers. “I felt the truth of it, Roz. Every word came from his heart with full honesty.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  She shrugs, looking impossibly young. “I just am.”

  “O, Juliet. I do not wish to hurt you, but I must speak my mind to thee, whom I love like a sister.” I fold my hands in my lap, praying for the harsh words to come gently. “Dost thou truly believe that the boy can be genuinely in love with thee, when just this very morning he professed to be eternally devoted to me?”

  Her eyes narrow. “You are jealous!”

  “Because of Romeo?”

  “Aye, Roz, you are jealous. For all you spurned and scorned him, you are jealous that he has transferred his attentions to me!”

  “No, Jules,” I assure her. “I am merely wary. He loves me when the sun is up and adores thee after moonrise. He is too fickle by half!”

  “Is it not possible,” she says pointedly, meeting my gaze, “that he’s merely experienced a change of heart?”

  My words. She uses them against me, and I cannot help but think she makes a worthy point. Just this morn I believed myself immune to love, and now …

  Again, she drops face first into the pillow and cries. Absently, I rub her arm, thinking long and hard before I speak again.

  “If ’tis Romeo you love, then I shall do all in my power to help you have him.” Before she can react, I add, “But know you this, cousin. I am deeply worried for this match. You are both so very young, and unknown to one another. One kiss, for all the magic it carries, is little to go on. As I warned thee earlier with regard to Paris—”

  “Who?” she asks from the depths of her pillow.

  “My point precisely,” I mutter, then sigh. “I ask only that you move slowly, Jules. Take the time to know Romeo and allow him the privilege of getting to know thee in return. Will you promise?”

  She turns to me sharply. “I shall, if you agree to follow the same course with Mercutio.”

  I laugh. “Tybalt is right, you are an urchin!”

  “An urchin in love,” she croons with feigned drama.

  I rise from the bed, removing the sapphire necklace and placing it on the night table before heading for the door that leads to her balcony.

  “Should my mother send a servant round inquiring as to my whereabouts, have your nurse report that I am here with you, asleep, and shall spend the night.”

  I step out onto the balcony, which overlooks the orchard. Juliet follows me out there.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks in a nervous tone. “Jump?”

  “No, I am not going to jump.” I hoist up the skirt of my gown and throw my leg o’er the side of the wall. “I am going to climb.”

  “Roz! You will break your neck for sure.”

  “No chance of that,” I assure her. “Why, Tybalt taught me to scale this wall when I was but nine in years. We did it all the time. Did you not ever wonder how you came to awaken on the morning of your eighth birthday with half your hair cut short?”

  She gasps. “You?”

  “No, Tybalt. He was angry with thee for setting free his pet frog.”

  She plants her hands on her hips and glowers. “He told me my hair was sheared by minions of Satan as payment for the wicked beauty their dark lord had bestowed upon me!”

  “And thou boughtest it?”

  “I was but eight,” she grumbles.

  I hug her. “’Tis a most beautiful night. Why don’t you remain here on the balcony awhile and enjoy it? Mayhap some stargazing will take your mind off Romeo.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I must speak to Mercutio.”

  Lowering myself over the side of the balcony, I find familiar footholds in the rough surface of the wall. The trick still comes easily to me, and soon I drop deftly into an adjacent tree. In moments, I am on the ground and running for the gate, into the street in search of Mercutio.

  BENVOLIO


  She is Rosaline, and Romeo loves her.

  Alas, I love her as well, and mayhap more, but Romeo did spy her first. ’Twould be dishonorable to pursue her now. ’Twould be also pointless, for ’tis Mercutio she desires.

  Unjust, that, and stupid, for he is unworthy. But the lady hath chosen—poorly, aye, but chosen nevertheless.

  Fortunate, lucky, unworthy bastard!

  The Capulets’ house is empty now, but for those who dwell there. Romeo and I left some time ago, but I have since doubled back and loiter near the entrance to the grounds in the hope of seeing Rosaline when she makes her exit. Here in the street, the revelers disperse in high spirits, the jubilance of the night’s festivities still clinging to them as they stagger homeward.

  Now, in the periphery of mine eye, methinks I see the form of Romeo, running at full clip, toward the Capulets’ orchard. So he hath returned as well, has he? No doubt he too hopes to spy fair Rosaline, who loves Mercutio.

  Hah. We are both, Romeo and I, quite pathetic.

  Now someone calls, “Benvolio? Is that you?”

  I turn in the direction of the gravel-voice and find Mercutio, seated in the dirt, sprawled comfortably against the outside of the orchard wall.

  “Come sit with me, friend,” he slurs, “and share a drink. A flagon of wine stolen from the enemy’s table.”

  With a heavy sigh, I join him and accept the bottle, which is nearly spent.

  “Careful,” he warns. “’Tis mostly spit and backwash.”

  I toss the flagon; it shatters against a stone.

  “Was that Romeo?” I ask. “I thought I saw him come this way.”

  Mercutio shoots me a sly look. “Mayhap he is avoiding thee, having seen you, his good friend and beloved cousin, dallying with his girl.”

  “’Twas no dalliance, I assure thee,” I grind out through my teeth.

  “But not for want of trying, eh?” Mercutio laughs.

  “We’d best both give up,” I inform him coldly, “Romeo and I. ’Tis you she wants, though I have duly warned her of the peril inherent there. Still, she is determined to have thee at any cost.”