10. “Be but sworn my love”

10

"Be but sworn my love"

Now

The thing about making oaths when you're seventeen and dumber than a box full of rocks is that sometimes they can't be undone. That's the only way I can explain what happened to me. I see other people falling in and out of love all the time. Other than the fact I threw oaths around like confetti as a teen, I have no idea how to explain why I fell in love and can't fall out of it no matter what I do.

It's Monday, and the construction workers are here. Demo day, they call it. It's louder and messier than I thought it would be. It's upsetting in a way I'm not at all prepared for. Men with big hands and mud-caked boots trudge through our house in a steady stream. Kitchen cabinets are smashed onto the floor and the island is hacked apart and carried out of the house in pieces.

My dumbass can't seem to stop being underfoot, moving here and then there but still somehow managing to be in the way. I'm stricken, using all my power to block out the memories that come flooding back as our home is slowly dismantled.

Romeo used to sit on the kitchen island. When we were kids, he always sat on it. Not at it, on it. My mom used to roll her eyes and give a little shake of her head when he did it. If I'd done it, she'd have told me off, but she never asked him to get down. Not once. He sat on it after school most days while waiting for one of us to make him something to eat.

He sat on it the day he first fucked me. He swung his legs back and forth and watched me make nachos for him. My legs were shaking so badly from what we'd done that there was a persistent tap of the hem of my jeans against my ankles as I moved around the kitchen. My heart raced for hours after he left. I was so happy I felt close to bursting. Like nothing could hurt me. Like Romeo was right and life really was a dream.

The vanity unit from the downstairs guest bathroom comes out next. There's a short but loud altercation between the timber and a man with a hammer. The hammer wins out. It only takes one man to carry it out. He hoists it over his shoulder and calls out a gruff warning as he barrels through the house before tossing it into the pile of debris in our driveway .

Romeo and I used to cram ourselves into the downstairs bathroom to clean up the summer I thought would never end. We used to laugh at each other when we made eye contact in the mirror and Romeo would flick little drops of water in my face after he'd washed his hands. I used to lean against the wall and use every ounce of my self-control not to grab him and force my tongue in his mouth when he did it.

By the time the workers leave for the day, I feel like a punching bag at one of those gyms that offers mixed martial arts classes to women in their forties who've decided to take their power back. Pummeled and bruised, with the unholy shit kicked out of me. I'm not sure how it happened, but I somehow managed not to give a single second of thought to the fact that by coming to Alabaster to oversee a renovation, I'd actually be living through a renovation.

Fuck.

It's a mess. My nose is blocked and my eyes are streaming. There's sawdust and bits of plaster everywhere. Gaping holes in the floor where the plumbing used to be and deep, jagged scars on the walls. I now recall my mom saying I'd need to plan alternate accommodation for at least a week or ten days. She mentioned it several times, but for some reason, I thought she was overreacting. I wrongly assumed they'd stagger doing the bathrooms, and I'd get by ordering in or going out.

"Hey, neighbor!" chimes a high voice I feel in my back teeth. Selby lets herself in and picks her way around the perimeter of the destruction, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "Mmph, they should have done a much better job of cleaning up. You'll have to speak to the site manager tomorrow, Jude. This is unacceptable. It's a matter of health and safety as well as common decency."

Her jaw is set, lips in a straight line. I can tell she won't take no for an answer, so I say, "All right," despite knowing I'd cheerfully rather eat one of my own shoes, without the benefit of ketchup or mayonnaise, than complain about something like this.

"I'll send Romeo over to help you with your things when he gets home."

"Wha—"

"Oh, it's no problem. I'd already made the guest room up for your parents when we thought they were coming. It's no bother at all. And I had Romeo meal prep last week."

Fuck. This day can't get any worse. As if being in Alabaster and seeing Romeo again wasn't more than enough, I've just landed the role of sleep-over houseguest in the home the man I love—and hate—shares with his wife .

Jesus.

A while later, a long, forced sigh announces Romeo's presence. I turn from my post, surveying what used to be the kitchen, to see him in the doorway. Long and lanky, he has a hand in one pocket, his torso slightly curved with a tight look of fury on his face. Tiger sits at his heel and looks up adoringly at him.

"I was told to come and help you with your things," he says.

I swing my backpack over my shoulder and motion for him to take my duffel. That thing weighs a ton. He lifts it, pretending not to notice the weight, and walks ahead without looking back as I fumble to lock the front door.

Tiger starts orbiting around us as soon as we get to the park. Tail up, whipping behind him as he bounds a few yards ahead before dashing back. Despite himself, Romeo smiles when Tiger drops a stick at his feet. He puts my bag down and throws the stick a few times for Tiger to retrieve. There's something so familiar about this place and this simple interaction that I feel myself slipping through the crack between the past and the present. I struggle to get out as fast as I can, but I'm not fast enough because when I look past the fountain toward the boulder near his house, I hear myself say, "Remember Inferno? "

He turns to me, eyes pale and lifeless, and says, "It was just a rock, Jude."

" Fuck you, Romeo ." The words come from my sternum and leave me with a force that startles me. It catches me off guard. I hadn't intended to say anything, much less anything like that.

He cocks a hip in my direction and considers me. My fists are clenched, chin drawn low. When I spoke, I spun around involuntarily to face him head-on. He hasn't moved. Neither have I.

There's a dull glint. Then, a slight flicker that turns into a flame. Fire and life burst from his eyes, changing his demeanor, his posture, and even the aura around him. He leans forward, pressing his lips together and parting them with a slow, seductive smile as his gaze dips from my eyes to my throat and settles on my lips.

" Fuck you too."

He says the word carefully, like he can taste it. Like he likes it. Like he remembers who he is and who I am, the same way I remember it.

His body arcs as he whips his arm around in a wide curve and throws the stick for Tiger again, then he leans down, scoops up my duffel, and walks to his house.

My spinal cord trembles the entire time we're at the table eating our dinner. Selby talks almost nonstop about people I don't know. Now and again, she reaches over and smooths Romeo's hair. She does it casually, without really thinking about it. She does it as if he's hers. Maybe because he legally is. I look away when it happens, but I feel whatever it is that keeps my soul glued to my body coming unstuck.

The quiver in my spine doesn't stop when we settle in to watch TV after the meal. If anything, it gets worse, even though Romeo and I sit on opposite sides of the big, U-shaped sofa, as far as possible from each other.

The flame in his eyes doesn't die out either.

It's three or four in the morning when I hear footsteps at my door. The guest bedroom they've put me in is downstairs. Romeo and Selby's room is upstairs. My breathing hitches as I wait for a knock with my heart in a spasm, but the steps don't pause. They pad past my room and head to the kitchen. I've been awake for hours despite the fact Romeo's guest room is about as comfortable as your average five-star hotel room. Against my better judgment, I get out of bed and walk barefoot to the kitchen. I take care to tread lightly so if Selby is the other person awake, I can backtrack and feign a trip to the bathroom.

It's not Selby. It's Romeo.

The fridge door is open, and he's leaning down, getting something out of it. I blink. The light from the fridge is overbright in the dark room, lighting one side of Romeo's body and casting spindly shadows around the room. He straightens slowly as if aware of my presence without looking back. He's wearing a pair of sleep shorts that hang low on his hips and a white tank that clings to him so tightly I can see the curve of his spine through the worn fabric.

Even though he can't dance for shit, Romeo has a dancer's body. Lean, defined muscle in all the right places. Articulated joints that lend a gracefulness to his movements and scramble my thoughts.

He turns to face me and I watch wordlessly as nimble fingers unscrew a lid and set it on the counter. He lifts the milk carton to his mouth, resting it on his bottom lip before tilting his head back and exposing his throat. His Adam's apple hovers and then travels effortlessly up and down the column of his neck.

I keep moving. I must because I was at the door when I saw him, but I'm close to him now. So close I can see the hair on his forearms.

I know that hair. I know what it feels like to run my hand up his arm. I know the slight roughness, the soft caress of it on my palms.

I know other hair too. The hair on his head, though, admittedly, it was long and unruly when I knew it, a tangle I used to knot my fingers in as I moved inside him .

I know the hair on the small of his back too. I know it's blond. Fine. Barely there, but it glows when the sun hits it. I know it covers his entire body. Even the places now covered with clothes. Especially those places.

"Milk?" he offers.

I nod and reach out, not trusting my voice. There's something different about him right now. I'm not sure what it is, but maybe it's because Selby's fast asleep and we're completely alone. Maybe it's because it's dark. Romeo's always been one of those people who comes alive at night. Some people slow down and curl into themselves when the sun sets. Romeo gathers force.

He tilts the carton again and takes another sip, spilling a drop, a slow-moving rivulet that runs down the box when he rights it.

Sweat on skin.

Sweat on hot skin.

Ropes of semen running down a taut belly.

Deep, uneven breathing.

No! Stop that.

Don't think like that.

His lips quirk. His eyes find mine, reaching into my soul and gutting me as he slowly runs his tongue up the carton, licking the spill and swallowing it before handing the container to me .

I've always been mystified that time hasn't dulled how I feel about Romeo. I've always been convinced that the way I ached for him a month ago was as bad as it was a year ago, and that ache was as bad as the ache from two years ago, and so on and so forth.

I was wrong. I must have been. Because as bad as that pain was, it has nothing on the way I ache for him now.