21. “A pair of star-crossed lovers”

21

"A pair of star-crossed lovers"

Now

Selby dumps a store-bought potato salad into a large blue-and-white bowl and hurries us out the door. "Come on, come on, we're going to be late," she cries.

We get to Ollie's, and I'm immediately enveloped in a cacophony of arms and chests and fist bumps and cheek kisses. Ollie and Dan have visited me separately in New York, and the three of us met up in Vegas for a long weekend a couple of years ago. I haven't seen either of the Olivias for years, though, and this is the first time I've met Dan's girlfriend, Leigh.

"How awesome is she?" Dan says out of the corner of his mouth immediately after introducing me. "Seriously, how awesome?"

I nod and do things with my eyebrows to suggest that the woman I've known for all of two seconds is indeed awesomeness personified.

"Not being funny," he says as he hands me an icy beer and leads me out to the backyard, "but I think she's the one. I can't feel my face when I'm with her. Or my hands. Or my legs. It's scary as shit, but I like it."

I laugh and throw my arm around his neck. Fuck, it's good to see him. Especially like this. Impersonating a grownup, living in a place that only looks a little like a frat house, and so in love he can't feel his face.

The evening quickly devolves into a blur of hilarity. Booze flows freely and so do anecdotes from the past. It's a trip down memory lane in a good way for once, and I must admit, I'm having a great time. Being here, seeing these people and catching up, reminds me why I loved living here. These people aren't just friends. They're family.

"Remember that time you got sent out of class for calling Mr. Wallace an asshole?" Dan laughs.

"I didn't call him an asshole. I called him an ass, and I was right. I stand by my assessment of him. You can't whitewash history and get mad when someone calls you out on it," I reply.

Romeo nods and his mouth curls up at the side. I know he's remembering what happened that day—I packed up my things after I got sent out of class and he packed his too. Mr. Wallace lost it.

"Why are you packing your things, Romeo?" he yelled. "You haven't done anything. "

"I may not have done anything," Romeo said, taking care to speak politely like he always did when addressing an authority figure, "but that doesn't mean I didn't think it, and if you don't want people who think you're an ass in this class, then you definitely don't want me here."

The entire class erupted in screeches of laughter. Mr. Wallace floundered and made a fatal mistake. "Look," he said above the din, "if you don't like the way I teach, you can see yourself out. I don't mind. This is a class for people who want to be here."

I guess he didn't think the entire class would take him up on his offer.

"Remember his face when he finally caved and came out to the quad and told us to get back to class?" Dan laughs. "It was priceless."

"Talk about having your tail tucked between your legs," says Ollie, showing his teeth and the white around his eyes as he mimics the look of fury on Mr. Wallace's face that day.

We all laugh, and Ollie pours us a round of tequila. The shot goes down like a homesick mole and so does the next one. My thoughts slow and compress and my arms and legs start feeling overly bendy. Things that were funny are flat-out hilarious now. Even things that aren't funny at all are funny as hell. Everyone's loud and talking over each other. After a good long while, Ollie remembers he's the host. "Shit," he mutters to himself, "if I don't get barbequing, who the hell will?"

He and Dan battle it out with lighters and briquettes and, by some miracle, manage to produce a pretty decent offering of steaks. Ollie's outdoor table is small, with only four seats, so we offer them to the women and sit side by side on the porch step as we eat.

I'm happy and present and oddly removed at the same time. Now that there's been a lull in the conversation brought on by chewing, it strikes me that Romeo has been here for years, and I haven't.

I watch the three of them interact and feel distant, aware that I'm not from here anymore. Romeo isn't on the periphery of the group like he was as a teen. He's in. He belongs here. He's a local. I'm the tourist. I watch Romeo with them and feel all the things: pride that he's finally comfortable enough with himself to be comfortable with other people, and pathetically, regret and a deep sense of loss that I'm not the only one who knows him anymore.

When the meal is over, we mingle and talk over each other. Selby and Leigh start calling out songs they want to hear and Ollie plays them. Some truly terrible dancing ensues, and when I look around, I notice Romeo is absent. I don't go looking for him exactly. Not consciously anyway. I extract myself from the group and wander through the house, and when I don't find him inside, I do a lap of the garden. I find him tucked away to one side of the shed.

"Are you hiding?" I ask, though I don't need to. I know he is. He has a limit to how much peopling he can handle in one sitting.

He gives me one of those classic Romeo shrugs. One shoulder raises and twists forward, his chin dips down, and shadows dance across his face, hollowing out his cheekbones and reminding me he's the night, the moon, and the stars.

I sit on the low wall of the flower bed planted alongside the shed and watch him, jaw hanging loosely. It's dark. The patio and house are lit up. Soft gold light splinters and fans out behind him like a halo when I blink slowly.

A halo for an unlikely hero.

"Rewrite the Stars" by Zac Efron and Zendaya starts to play. One of the Olivias squeals and yells, "Whooo! I fucking love this song."

The music travels from the house to where we are. The melody rides a gentle wave toward us and the piano sets a commanding beat that rips up the grass and enters me through the soles of my feet. It reaches into me and holds me steady, then it makes me sway. A smooth tenor sings about want, fate, and two hearts being kept apart by forces out of their control. The song tells a story of a love that's impossible. Odds that can't be beaten. A tragedy that's been written into the sky. Into the stars. I feel it so deeply I can't talk. Romeo feels it too. He probably feels it differently from me, but he feels it. He must because his eyes slide shut and stay closed a little longer each time he blinks.

I don't blink at all. Not once. Not one single time. I look at him and at the rest of the people here tonight. I feel the same sense of incredulity I always do when I'm around Romeo and other people.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" A gentle husk in his throat spins and floats over to where I am. It finds me and burrows into my chest.

I open my mouth and shut it again. I'm having huge problems with cognitive function, and I'm aware of it. A believable lie seems out of range, so I go with the truth.

"Oh, just wondering." I smile, slurring slightly. "You know, just always wondering how the hell they all do it." I laugh a little laugh that has an unhinged twist at the end and wave unsteadily toward the house and the people standing there. The gesture is a little too broad and my hand flops limply onto my lap when it's done. Shit. Shit, shit. I'm drunk.

I'm drunker than I thought I was and definitely way drunker than I should ever be anywhere near Romeo .

"Do what?" he asks.

I giggle in mild, brain-numbed panic. The shards of light behind Romeo spray out and start to spin. Fuck. There goes my filter. I feel it slipping, but I'm powerless to do anything about it because he's moving toward me, dislodging and discarding the very last scraps of whatever it is that keeps me from speaking my mind when I'm with him. He sits next to me on the wall. Close, but not touching. "I never…I've never understood how they do it. You know, how everyone else acts normal around you, like…like, you're not the most beautiful thing they've ever seen."

My words land and I hear them. The base stupidity of them makes me feel winded. I breathe in and out slowly, centering myself, preparing myself for the pale, blistering gaze I know I deserve. A gaze that will fry my skin and leave me scarred and stark naked.

It doesn't come.

Instead, when he finally looks at me, his eyes are damp, wet in the corners, and his gaze ripples rather than burns. I sink into it. Melting as I surrender. My bones are lava. Molasses. There's no fight left in me.

He looks at me for the longest time. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime. And then his hand moves. Mine is on the stone wall we're both sitting on. My palm is flat, fingers spread out on the cool, rough surface. Holding on like a man desperately clinging to his last shards of sanity. He moves his hand closer in increments so gradual I feel myself evolving as he does it. The side of his hand touches mine. It's a brand. A hot, sizzling brand. His pinky climbs over mine, curling around it and tightening. Strangling me, stealing my air as sure as if he were holding his hand over my mouth and nose.

"What happened to us, Romeo?" The words fizzle out of my mouth in a frantic gasp, followed by the panicked exhale of a man who's been held underwater for so long that he didn't think he'd survive it. "Why did you do it? Why? We were good. Why did you break us?"

The muscle in his jaw bunches. The finger he has wound around mine tenses and releases.

He unleashes a long, pained sigh. One that skips over the paved garden path and takes off, flitting into the air and telling the night sky all about what a dumb fuck I am.

"You have a funny way of remembering things, Jude."