Romeo, Juliet & Jim

by Larry Schwarz

  Romeo knew it was true—he was lucky—but part of him wished for a life where he and his girlfriend could be people who’d never set foot on a yacht, much less ones who did it to make headlines.

  I don’t want this life, he thought to himself.

  (A smaller voice in the back of his head asked him, But is that true, Romeo?)

  * * *

  Benny was drunk before they even reached the Pont Henri IV—how tacky was it that the launch bore the dead Capulet’s name?—on the right bank of the Seine. The Montague town car’s stash of whiskey always called to Benny, and Romeo didn’t have the energy to tell his cousin it was kind of idiotic to board a boat already wasted. Romeo couldn’t even remember the last party his cousin had arrived at sober, but what was he, Benny’s AA sponsor?

  Besides, his mind was on Juliet. He’d covertly checked the news on the way over and had seen that she’d be getting to the funeral right about now.

  He’d called on a few friends from school but had left most of the guest list to his mother’s behind-the-scenes PR orchestrating. If it had been last week, he would have invited Jim. What kind of disaster would that be? He still couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to trust him. He’d wanted to blame Juliet for ever letting them go with Jim in the first place but Romeo eventually decided the Jim thing was his own fault. All the trouble he took to hide his and Juliet’s relationship and then he let them get on a motorcycle with a stranger.

  He’d left a message in the drafts folder yet again to say something about Henri, but he’d gotten no response. And could he blame her? He’d debated sending secret flowers and contemplated how he might get a message to her, but nothing seemed right.

  Everything was broken. What idiot let the love of his life suffer alone while he was on a yacht with social climbers and celebrities?

  He felt caged already, a feeling made worse because he knew Rosaline was here and he’d be forced to act like they were something to each other. He wanted to run from the dock. A sense of duty bound him. The sense was made even deeper by the fact that he felt like he’d screwed up with Jim. He had to be on this boat and do what his family needed.

  The yacht, a luxury boat frequently chartered for private parties of the very rich, was already teeming with models, actors and actresses, and the most up-and-coming of up-and-coming French pop stars and hip-hop artists. The boarding music, though, was a chill Air track that bubbled over the proceedings the same way the pink champagne already overflowed from glasses.

  Romeo didn’t even like champagne, but he took two glasses from a passing waiter and downed them. The feeling he hated, that warm burn in his chest, didn’t matter. He took two more.

  Why did he have to be so careful to be the good son?

  He drank down the next two. His legs felt loose and uncertain and the boat hadn’t even moved.

  The day was warm and the models were clad in bikinis and sheer cover-ups that only served to draw attention to their curves as the sun blazed through them. An attendant had just thrust another glass of champagne at Romeo when Rosaline catwalked up on her totally yacht-inappropriate sandals.

  “Bonjour, sexy,” she said, kissing his cheek. It felt so wrong that he almost backed away.

  “Hi,” he said. “I have to go say hello to some people.” He didn’t want to talk to her. His indifference, however, only made him feel even more that Rosaline was watching him as he went.

  Benny was already in a circle of guys and models. At the center, two dancers who’d toured with DJ Kash were tangled together, swiveling their hips and swirling their long, thin arms in the air like they were casting a magic spell.

  In a way, they were, because the guys watching were mesmerized. Benny looked at Romeo and said, “We’re so lucky, man.”

  Lucky. That word again. He didn’t feel it. He downed another champagne in one gulp and smiled at his friend.

  But he hated him at that moment.

  He hated everything he knew, except Juliet.

  The yacht left the dock and he wanted to puke over the side.

  He couldn’t look at the water.

  His family wanted him to have a good time. What was wrong with them? Even if they hated the Capulets, wasn’t it a sign of pure evil to live it up when the Capulet family was mourning the death of a loved one?

  Romeo wanted this over with. The best way to get it done was to lose himself in a blur of alcohol. Not thinking was better than thinking too much.

  Photographers were everywhere—after all, that was the point.

  Romeo glad-handed them all. He bombed every photo.

  He tore off his shirt.

  He danced in a throng of models, showing off terrible dance moves that made no sense to his limbs.

  He jumped around with Benny and the guys when a particularly raucous rap song came on. He screamed at the top of his lungs.

  He nearly got in a fight with Michel DeRolu, an actor who was in a French remake of The French Connection. But he fell on his face trying to throw the first punch.

  He acted, in short, like an asshole.

  He hoped this was good for the brand.

  Two hours in, he was hurling over the railing of the ship as they passed Notre-Dame. Even drunk, he couldn’t help but think of Juliet and that day they’d met Jim. He was trying to decide how he’d see her again. He was imagining what the world would be like if he could just be with her the way he wished he could.

  Rosaline tottered up beside him just as the ship approached the Île Saint-Louis Bridge. Her eye makeup was smeared as if she’d been crying, and she was clearly very intoxicated.

  They matched. He wondered if his mother would like that.

  He turned to her, putting a hand on her arm to steady her. “Rosaline,” he said. He was as physically wrecked as she was, and they both leaned against the railing.

  “Why are you avoiding me?” she asked, pressing into him with the full weight of her body. Romeo had to put a hand on her waist just to keep her from falling over. Or himself. He wasn’t sure anymore.

  The remnants of the puke in his mouth tasted awful.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I have to circulate. It’s my party.”

  “But I want to be with you,” Rosaline whined. Her breath was sour, like she might have thrown up, too.

  “You are,” he slurred, letting her wrap her arms around his neck like they were slow-dancing.

  Rosaline’s waifish figure was heavy against him and he continued to steady her with a hand on her waist.

  “Look, I have to tell you something,” he said, emboldened by his drinks and the fact that everything felt wrong today, so why not throw caution to the wind? “I can’t be with you. I love someone else. And it’s hard. And we can’t be together. But I needed to tell you.”

  He was almost crying. He felt like shit on every level and now he was explaining himself to someone who only cared about herself.

  But Rosaline seemed to gain clarity as the words made their way to her perfect ears. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, and her gaze was actually sweet, not angry. “You poor thing,” she said, with real sympathy. “It explains so much. I just wish you had told me sooner. You should go to her.”

  He’d expected a slap, or yelling. Drunken, jealous anger.

  She’d surprised him.

  He loved her in that moment, for understanding and for being right.

  It was the perfect photo op.

  (Really, you’d think they were in love.)

  If only the person who said pictures don’t lie could have been inside Romeo’s head, they’d have gotten the rest of the story.…

  CHAPTER 31

  JULIET

  “I’D LIKE TO stay a bit,” Juliet said to her parents as the last of the cars left the cemetery.

  Her voice wasn’t hers. It belonged to some sophisticated, jaded actress, someone who’d seen more and done more than Juliet and who’d know what mistake to make next.

  It was the voice of someone playing the part of
Juliet.

  She expected her mother to argue. Leave her daughter in a graveyard? After what had happened to Henri, especially?

  But her mother’s eyes were faraway, glassy. Juliet suspected something chemical had whisked Hélène from reality. And her father could barely look at her, probably because he was fighting tears. She knew they were so consumed by grief, so numb, that they might let her do anything at this point. She could almost be hurt by the fact that they weren’t worried she would get killed.

  Could she hope for such a reprieve? Death seemed to her almost better than the tears she craved.

  “We’ll send a car for you when you’re ready.”

  As the limo pulled away, the sky grew darker and the silence of the cemetery flowed over her.

  She walked away from the mausoleum and sat down on a grave, still bare of grass. The dirt was soft beneath her and she stretched her legs along the top of the plot. There had to be some symbolism to sitting on a freshly made grave, but she didn’t think she needed to go that deep.

  She just wanted to die.

  CHAPTER 32

  JIM

  JULIET’S BROTHER.

  He’d liked him.

  And he was dead.

  Murdered, they were saying.

  The grisly news was everywhere, as were people speculating over what had happened, who would want to kill Henri Capulet, and whether this was a trick and he was still alive. Most of the theories suggested a drug problem and an angry dealer and that, yes, he was indeed dead.

  The family had not been reached for comment. The House of Capulet hadn’t even released an official statement. It made sense to Jim. What did you say? “Our son is dead; business will go on as usual”? Because that was the truth, really, for all these rich families, but who wanted to admit it?

  And what should he do in this situation? What did you do when the girl of your dreams, who no longer trusted you, whose boyfriend (or was he her ex now?) wanted to kill you, who was a target of your father’s, now was at her brother’s funeral?

  Jim opened a beer and slouched on the couch, watching the news. Juliet at the funeral. He couldn’t see her eyes beneath her wide-brimmed hat as she bent her head, but her lips were set in a tight line. He’d never had a sibling, so he had no idea what she could be feeling, but he knew from experience that she was capable of some powerful emotions.

  He had to stop thinking about that night.

  “Henri Capulet, he was pretty hot,” Jennifer said, shaking him out of his thoughts about the almost-kiss. She sat down next to him, tapping away on her iPhone, like she hadn’t just commented on the hotness of a dead guy. Her hair was damp and she was in her weekend clothing, jeans and a tight white T-shirt. She’d been at the house more and more.

  “What’s this?” His dad came out of the bedroom. He was freshly showered. Jim had the feeling that there’d been a nonbusiness transaction between him and Jennifer.

  “Oh, well, look at that,” James said, with a glance at the TV. “Timing’s perfect.”

  “I know,” Jennifer said. “I’m sending those financials over to our people in the States. You know what they say. R.I.P. and thanks for the family secrets.”

  What were Jennifer and his father saying? Maybe Jim watched too many movies, but it sure seemed like they were talking about Henri.… What secrets? And what did “timing’s perfect” mean? If Jim was really part of the family business, why hadn’t he been told about this?

  Jennifer tapped his shoulder. “Let’s not watch this,” she said. “Can you put on Bravo?”

  * * *

  He was riding his motorcycle to the cemetery he’d seen on TV when it began to rain. Maybe she’d still be there. Maybe she wouldn’t.

  Probably better for everyone if she wasn’t.

  But he still hoped she was.

  CHAPTER 33

  ROMEO

  HE WAS GOING to her house.

  He didn’t care.

  He was going to see her.

  The Capulet family would open the door to find him, Romeo Montague, enemy combatant, archrival heir, and the man who loved their daughter.

  Since they’d become a couple, he’d always taken pains not to walk by her house, even when he needed to go that way. They were only a few blocks apart on the same street, but he feared being seen, or giving something away just by the way he stepped on the sidewalk in front of the Capulets’ door.

  The rain was drenching everyone as they came off the yacht. Models were shrieking like banshees who would melt if the water touched them.

  He was wobbly and feeling nauseous from the champagne and the boat ride, but he only cared about seeing Juliet.

  Benny called him. “Car’s here,” he said, standing next to the black sedan that had pulled up next to the dock to meet them.

  Romeo shook his head. “Nope, I’m gonna walk,” he told Benny.

  “Are you nuts?”

  Romeo ignored him and set out. The rain wasn’t going to stop. It was beyond rain that rated a little extra coverage on the news. It was some kind of ancient rain. God-sending-a-message rain. Get-to-your-true-love-now-or-the-world-will-drown rain.

  That he’d left his jacket at home was inconsequential. He needed to be soaked. He needed to suffer. His black shirt grew blacker as the downpour coursed over him.

  He would suffer gladly, because once he reached her, he’d suffer no more. They would suffer no more.

  God, he was drunk.

  He tried to walk faster, but he was slipping on the sidewalk. Water ran into his shoes. Farther up the Seine, he spotted a guy climbing on a moped. Romeo ran for him.

  Romeo pulled out his wallet. It was fat with cash. He still hadn’t had time to ask someone to fix the issue with his credit card from the night at the warehouse party, so he’d withdrawn two thousand euros from the bank. Most of that was still in his wallet. It was idiotic, carrying it around, but he hadn’t had the energy to be anything more than an idiot this week. At least now he was an idiot with a destination.

  Waving his wallet, he hollered through the rain at the moped owner. “I’ll give you all the cash I have in here for your bike.”

  Even in the rain, he could see the guy’s facial expression turn incredulous, then fearful. But then, as Romeo drew closer, he could see on the biker’s face—even through the blur of rain—sudden recognition that it was Romeo Montague about to buy his crappy-ass moped.

  To show he meant business, Romeo extracted the wad of cash and started running toward the guy. He needed the bike and he needed it now.

  “It’s yours,” the guy said, taking the cash and giving him the key. “Why would you even want it?”

  But Romeo was already speeding away.

  CHAPTER 34

  JIM

  SHE WAS THERE.

  The rest of the funeral had left but she was still there, rain beating into her coat, her hair soaked, her hat from TV gone. Her face was turned upward, her fair profile statue-still against the steel gray of the sky.

  It was so fucking wet outside that on the way over Jim hadn’t even seen the vendors who sold umbrellas to tourists. The rain was that violent. He didn’t know if he believed in God or anything, except when the weather did things like this. The rain the night his mom had hung herself was just like this.

  He always thought of it as killer rain, rain to die by. And Juliet looked like she was glad to be its victim.

  She looked like someone hoping to be struck by lightning, or crushed by something falling from the sky.

  She looked like someone who wanted to die.

  Jim knew that look.

  He’d worn it and he’d seen it. And when she looked up at him with those death-filled eyes, it felt like home.

  He reached for her.…

  CHAPTER 35

  ROMEO

  HE WAS A man possessed.

  He was flooring the piece-of-crap moped, barely able to see his own hands in front of him, much less the road.

  The stupid bike wobbled and jerked and sk
idded. A single raindrop could have probably knocked it over, and Romeo was fending off a storm that pummeled him with sheets of water as if he were a puny target for a nasty hunter.

  He wasn’t like this. He always took time to think beforehand, to determine his course of action and make a beautiful gesture.

  Riding over there on a bike that barely ran, soaked through, drunk, angry, crazed …

  Nope, nothing beautiful about this gesture.

  But the only person whose opinion mattered wouldn’t care if he was a mess.

  He sped through a red light, seeking heaven. But daring hell to claim him first.

  THERE’S AN ALLEY in the Marais, just off the Rue du Temple, just out of the lamplight, just beyond the reveling throngs. It’s where couples go to feel those ghosts of Paris past. It’s the place for when they want to be scared just enough to fall deeper into one another’s arms.

  In the streaming rain, there is no one.

  Just water, running down the cobblestoned gutters. So much water right now that you have to wonder, if they fill up enough, would it call forth something ancient and powerful?

  Or is the rain just the right cover for the lone figure walking toward a door carved by hands that died centuries ago?

  What business is so important that someone is visiting the Knights Templar at this hour? In this weather? Did James Redmond’s right-hand woman suddenly have an interest in ancient artifacts, or had she developed some deep religious fervor? The Templars were known for their deep ties in those areas.

  Or was it their deep pockets Ms. Reynolds was looking to access? After all, art and religion wouldn’t be what they are without money and power, and the Knights Templar certainly had plenty of both. They’d funded some of the best and worst pages in history, if you want to know the truth.

  So, of course Jennifer Reynolds could bear a little rain when what the Templars control has seen others brave hellfire, damnation, and certain ruin.

  The footfalls are soft but hurried. The umbrella serves to put the stranger inside a capsule of running water.