Juliet Immortal

He said you’d taken poison to fake your death and allowed yourself to be buried in—”
    “How do you know Romeo?”
    “He’s my first cousin,” he says, allowing the change of subject the way Ben always does. Underneath those new clothes and eloquent words, he’s still Ben, the same boy I fell in love with hundreds of years in some other future. “I’m Benvolio Montague.”
    Benvolio. I’ve heard his name before, when Romeo and I first …
    Romeo. Did he realize that Ben looked exactly like his cousin? That they were the same person, somehow occupying two different places in time? If he did, I never saw any sign of it, not a single flash of recognition. But then, maybe this is a different past, a separate time, one of those places Nurse talked about where new beginnings and endings are possible. And somehow I’ve come here on my own, with the specter’s help.
    Suddenly her urging to love, her assurance that things would be better, make a miraculous kind of sense.
    Ben is definitely miraculous. And he’s here. And that’s all that really matters.
    “I was at your parents’ party.” He blushes, looking more and more like his old self as embarrassment colors his cheeks. “Without an invitation, of course, but …”
    “I don’t remember seeing you there.” I take a step closer. He allows it.
    “I was in costume.”
    “I was a fool.” I take another step, until I stand so close we will touch again if I lean forward.
    He smiles down at me. “What do you mean?”
    “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
    His smile fades, but when I lay my hands on his chest he doesn’t pull away. “No. I don’t.”
    “Me either,” I say. “I think we’ll need at least three days.”
    “Three days?”
    “To fall in love.”
    His smile—his real smile, the crooked one that lights him up from the inside out—breaks across his face. He throws back his head and laughs. When he finishes, his arms are around me again and a familiar gleam is in his eyes. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
    “No, I’m sure of you.” I curl my hands into his coat. “Of us.”
    “I warn you,” he says, his head tipping down, down, until our breaths mingle in the space between us. “I’m nothing like my cousin.”
    “Thank all that is good.”
    Soft laughter puffs against my lips, making it nearlyimpossible not to press my mouth to his. But I can’t. Not yet. But soon. He is Ben, he is my love, and it won’t take long for him to remember what we are. I know that deep in my clean, uncluttered heart, where there is no room for doubt.
    “But I
am
a Montague.” He brushes my hair from my face, letting reddish-brown strands curl around his finger before dropping them back into place.
    “You are.”
    “Our families would never approve.” I loop my arms around his neck. “It would make courtship difficult to say the least.” I press up onto my toes. “We would face opposition from every—” I find his lips with mine, deciding that three more days—even three more minutes—is too long to wait.
    He hesitates only a moment before pulling me close, arms tightening around me, mouth meeting mine the same way it did before. Purely, sweetly, wickedly, perfectly. He sighs against my lips, a sound of such relief it echoes through my skin, making me smile and our teeth bump together. I know exactly how he feels. How it feels to come home, to find sanctuary, to be handed that missing piece that makes life not something to be endured, but something to be celebrated.
    “I was wrong,” I whisper, my eyes still closed, relishing the memory of his lips. “I don’t think it will take three days.”
    “No. Not nearly.”
    I open my eyes to find him smiling down at me—wonder and confusion mixing in his features. I smile back at him, helping wonder win the battle.
    “Perhaps your parents will be so glad to see you alive that they’ll forget this ridiculous feud once and for all,” he says. “Perhaps they’ll be so grateful for my hand in saving you they’ll invite me to stay for dinner.”
    “Perhaps. I’ll talk to my mother, see if I can bring her around to looking at things our way,” I say. “But if not, we shall simply have to run away together.”
    “I’ve heard it’s the fashionable thing to do if you’re a Montague,” he says, his grin fading. “Did you really … marry him?”
    I meet his eyes, unflinching. “Does it matter?”
    The question makes him pause for a long, thoughtful moment