1. “His name is Romeo”

1

"His name is Romeo"

Now

Romeo always said there was a forcefield spanning the length and breadth of our town. A join in the tar, a slight step down that tracks across the motorway just near the Welcome to Alabaster Falls sign on the outskirts of town. He said that was where the forcefield started. He said that when car tires bumped over the seam in the road, time was altered. It changed. It moved slower and faster. Nothing happened for hours and days, but years passed in the blink of an eye. He said that in Alabaster, life was a dream that happened while we slept.

He was always saying things like that.

For all I know, he still does.

Blue sky and dappled foliage form a long, cloudy trail on either side of me as I careen down the highway. Now and again, the cloud is flecked with long, thin streaks of crimson. Sour cherries. Red, but not ripe. Not yet. My belly clenches as I round the bend and the sign comes into view .

Welcome to Alabaster Falls

Welcome.

Ha!

How long has it been since I've felt welcome here?

The sign is faded, but it's hard to tell if it's more faded than the last time I was home or if it's the same. It's possible it was already as faded as a sign can get long before I left Alabaster. It isn't just faded now though. It's crooked, too, and that's new. A subtle tilt down on the left. A screw that's come loose and hasn't been replaced.

I spot the tear in time, as Romeo used to call the seam in the road, about a hundred feet away. I wouldn't notice it if I didn't know it was there, but it was a big deal to us when we were kids, so I do. Romeo said we had to lift both feet, they couldn't touch anything but air when we crossed it, or the tear would rip. At some point, that little ritual evolved to include waving our hands around our heads wildly and yelling, "La-la-la-la-laaaa!" at the top of our lungs as the car thunked over the line.

We always did it. We were religious about it when we were little. As we got older, we stopped doing it when others were in the car with us. We didn't talk about it or make a conscious decision to do it. It just happened. When we were alone, we did it well into our twenties. At the time, it felt like one of those things that would never change. Something we'd do forever.

I slow the car, watching as the speedometer drops steadily from eighty to sixty, keeping one foot firmly on the floorboard of my Mazda while tapping the brakes with the other.

It's strange how a place can be the same yet feel completely different. The main street is just as it was when I left. Sure, there's a new fancy confection store, complete with larger-than-life twirled lollypops at the door, and Mo's Diner has become a coffee shop with a seven-page menu, but cars still park diagonally on either side of the street and kids congregate on the corner outside the hardware store while Mr. Matherson, the owner, shoos them away at regular intervals with an exasperated, "Go on. Git!"

The bell over the grocery store door sounds its tinny greeting as I enter. The lighting is better, and the place has been retiled with shiny white-and-gray checkered tiles, but the shelves and layout are unchanged.

I'm tired, worn out from the drive, and suddenly weighed down by the reality of being back, so I take a basket, not a cart, from near the flowers and potted plants and toss coffee, cream, and sugar into my basket before heading to the bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. The warm, yeasty aroma has me reaching for two loaves instead of one. I planned on ordering in tonight, but now I think some ham, cheese, and butter might be all I need.

And wine.

God knows I need wine.

To my surprise, I find a couple of bottles of 2019 Lang and Reed Cabernet Franc pushed all the way to the back of the top shelf. The bottles are dusty, but I'm so pleased with my find that I put them both in my basket.

Maybe things have changed in Alabaster after all.

Maybe coming home won't be as bad as I've made it out to be in my head.

On a whim, I decide to see if there are any cherries in the fruit aisle. It's early in the season, but only by a week or two. There's a chance an overeager crop has made its way into stock. I have sugar, I could stew them tonight and have them with yogurt in the morning. It's a sweet-and-sour concoction I've always loved. To me, it tastes like long days and short nights. Afternoons at the pool and lazy mornings spent sleeping in. Summer days that drag out and roll into one.

My basket hangs by my side, there, but not heavy or cumbersome. I pass the grain and canned goods aisle and hang a left. I see bananas and tangerines. Rock melons stacked high. A shopping cart and a pair of legs. Long, graceful fingers cradling a melon.

There's a sharp, harsh intake of breath. It isn't mine.

Long fingers go lax.

The melon slips.

It's one of those moments when time slows. When you see something happening, but you can't move quickly enough to stop it. I see it all clearly. Pale eyes widen in shock. A mouth does too. The melon falls in distinct stages, as if in slow motion. If time were normal, I'd step forward and reach out. My hands would move. So would my legs. I'd catch it with ease.

Time is far from normal, so I stand, paralyzed, as the melon continues its descent. Slowly. Slowly. I watch as it lands. Perfectly spherical one second, oval and bulging the next. A small crack appears on the surface. A jagged line that cuts deep. It grows deeper and deeper, splitting on impact and sending a spray of sweet, sticky juice and seeds into the air and all over the floor.

The perfect lines of the white-and-gray tile are altered. Changed. Splattered like the scene of a crime.

Graceful fingers clench as if bracing for impact. A pair of wild, watery eyes find mine and blink.

I thought I had time to prepare for this moment. More time. Of course I knew it was a possibility—a probability even—that I'd see him. Alabaster Falls is a small town. A tiny town. The kind of town where everyone knows everyone. I didn't think I'd be able to avoid him completely. It was bound to happen. I knew it would, I just thought there'd be more time. I thought I'd be ready. More ready, given how long it's been.

I'm not ready though.

And I'm sure as hell not prepared.

A familiar face swims into view. It's a face I know well. The face of the only man I've ever loved. Or hated. He takes a step back, his head and neck jerking as if he's walked into a solid surface and is reeling from the impact. His hands are raised now. Palms open, but not in surrender.

People around us stop moving. Mothers grab their children to stop them from stepping into the big mess between us. There's a short pause. A lull. And then normality resumes. People start milling around again as if nothing happened.

Not us.

We don't move.

We both stand frozen.

My chest caves and my heart stops beating. The words I manage to formulate are dry and cracked open. Foreign and familiar. They hang in the air between us as if they're suspended by the past and the present .

"Hey, Romeo."

He doesn't reply. He doesn't have time to. My mortal enemy approaches at speed. Such speed, I don't have time to react, to defend myself, or raise my guard. My enemy is slight, a slip of a person, a tiny thing with silky brown hair and large doe eyes. A sweet face and a bright smile.

Don't let that fool you.

Her capacity to cause carnage is endless.

"Jude!" she cries, throwing her arms around me. "I can't believe it! Oh my God, how long has it been?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Too long! It's been too long. Way too long." She fixes Romeo with a stern, chastising look. "And as for you, mister, why didn't you tell me Jude was coming to town? You know I hate surprises."

She steps aside, clearing a path between us, and looks at Romeo expectantly. He's well-trained. A dutiful husband. A husband who knows his wife well and understands what she expects. I understand too. She expects us to embrace. It's what good friends do when they haven't seen each other for long periods of time, after all. It's normal.

Romeo steps forward and wraps a single arm loosely around my shoulders, taking care not to touch me any more than he absolutely has to. The smell and feel of him slices through bone. There's steel in his spine. He's hard and cold, and he somehow manages to pull me toward him and push me away. I lean in even though I don't mean to. In fact, I mean not to. I mean to hold back just as hard as he does, but he's Romeo, and my spine is spaghetti, not steel. His cheek brushes lightly against mine as I embrace him. Sandpaper on skin. I wince from the impact and disentangle myself from him as fast as I can.

My heart beats like it's under attack.

Romeo's mouth tenses at the right corner and scoots to the side. One shoulder dips, hollowing his chest, and the other draws up high enough to form a shadow under his clavicle. It's a sexy as fuck, nonchalant shrug that makes years of tears scream. Wind whips through bare branches, howling, as what happened between us years ago rushes toward me.

I'm confused. I look at him, then her, and then him again. Even though no one's talking, we're having an in-depth conversation in a language I don't understand. It takes me a full five seconds to piece it together.

She doesn't know.

Selby doesn't know that Romeo and I don't talk anymore. She has no idea there's no such thing as Romeo and me anymore. We were best friends all our lives, and it's been five years since we've said a word to each other, and his wife has no clue.

He hasn't told her a goddamn thing .

I don't know why that surprises me. Maybe it shouldn't, but it does.

"Are you coming over for dinner tonight?" Selby swipes her fingers lightly across her forehead and shakes her head. "What am I thinking? Of course you're coming over."

"Jude's had a long trip. He's tired." Romeo's face is unperturbed, features relaxed. To the innocent bystander, he shows no sign of feeling anything untoward—or feeling anything at all, for that matter. There's a very slight heaviness of his brows though, something you probably wouldn't notice unless you know him like I do. Like I did. Other than that, he looks completely at ease.

He's good. I'll give him that.

He aims his perfect face at me and fixes me with a long, warning look that clearly says be cool . Be cool? The fuck if I will be. "We'll see him tomorrow though. We'll have chicken fajitas and toss a few beers back, just like the old days."

That upsets my footing, knocking me off balance and sending me reeling. Spinning, falling, or flying, I can't tell which. It confuses me and wakes a part of me I thought was long dead and buried. A small, stupid part that bases its happiness entirely on insignificant things like Romeo knowing my favorite food.