Juliet Immortal

by inch, shove by shove, until there is a space wide enough for a person to slip through. I blink against the sudden invasion of the light, so blinded by my timein the darkness that I can’t make out the face attached to the hands that reach down and lift me out.
    But I know those hands. I know the smell that swirls around me as he pulls me close, helping me stand with the strength of his body. I know that gentle voice telling me, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared.”
    My heart lunges into my throat. I
know
where I’ve heard those words before. In the car. That first night, when Ben and I met. Ben. It has to be! Still, a part of me is terrified to believe until I’ve seen him, until I’ve looked into his eyes.
    “Ben?” I ask, hands smoothing up his chest, finding his face with my fingers. I feel him flinch in surprise but relax quickly beneath my touch. Full lips, smooth cheeks with just the hint of stubble, and that perfectly crooked nose. It’s Ben! I know it, even before my eyes sting into focus, homing in on his face. I smile and a sound half laugh, half sob leaps from my throat. “You’re alive!”
    His brow furrows, and his nod is the barest tilt of his chin. “More importantly,
you
are. When I found the note, I was sure he’d gone mad. I couldn’t fathom such a thing but … here you are.”
    “And here you are.” He is. He really is. His hair is longer, covered by the hood of the green wool coat he wears, but it’s Ben. Sweet, perfect, impossible, undeniable Ben. I drink in the beauty of him, knowing I will never take the light in his eyes for granted, never let the heart inside him doubt how treasured he is.
    “Ben.” I sigh his name, a promise, a prayer, an offer of thanksgiving to whatever force has brought us back to each other. God, magic, love, hope—it can use any name it wants. All I know is that I am grateful. So very grateful for “Ben.”
    “My mother calls me Ben,” he says, voice soft, confused. As confused as the eyes staring into mine, as confused as the shake of his head a moment ago. “Did Romeo tell you?”
    My heart skips a beat. “Romeo?” How does Ben know Romeo’s name? Why doesn’t he seem to know me? And why … why is he speaking in Medieval Italian? The language is so familiar that I didn’t notice at first, didn’t realize—
    “I can’t imagine Romeo discussing anyone but himself in such depth, but I …” He swallows and relaxes his arms as if he will push me away. I cling to him, forcing him to stay. I can’t be away from him. I just can’t. “I’m sorry. I know he … and you …”
    “He means nothing to me.”
    Ben’s eyebrows arch. “Truly?”
    “Truly, truly, truly.”
    “Then I suppose this will be easier for you to hear than I’d thought,” he says, making me brace myself for the worst. “He’s left Verona. He’s run away with Rosaline.”
    I blink. “Rosaline?”
    “Yes, she … Apparently she’s not so resolutely chaste as we all assumed. She’s with child. Romeo’s child. They were married at her home this morning.” His words seem to remind him how close we are. Propriety demands he step away. This time, I let him. It’s obvious he has no memory of our past … our future … our life in another future’s reality. Whatever it was. He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t love me. In fact, he seems to think I’m out of my mind.
    “Do you understand me?” he asks, speaking slowly. “He and Rosaline are married. They’ve gone to Mantua to live with her aunt and uncle. They have a sizeable estate there, and after his exile, Romeo thought—”
    “Good,” I say. “I’m happy for them.”
    Now it’s his turn to blink. “You are?”
    “Yes. I am.” Romeo left me for another woman. It’s far preferable to what happened the first time I lived this moment, and spares me the trial of finding some way out of our marriage. Hopefully, this is really the end of it. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see his face again, so long as the prince rules Verona and Romeo remains a criminal of the state.
    “But in his letter …” Ben seems uncomfortable. I smile, hoping to make whatever he has to say easier for him. I only succeed in driving him another cautious step away. “Romeo said that you’d been married in secret. Friar Lawrence’s chambers burned last night—and the poor friar along with them—so there is no record of the union, but Romeo seemed to think you would insist it had taken place.