Runaways: A Romeo & Juliet Story

Chapter 13

"Nothing I'll ever say or do

Will be as good as loving you

You make me high"

- 4th of July by Kelis

ROMEO

Juliet fell asleep in my arms hours ago. I haven't slept. I can't. Every time I close my eyes I see death.

When the dawn breaks I gently move from under her and head downstairs. There's a lot to do.

First, I go to the car. I pull out that bloodied shirt. In the backyard, there's a fire pit. I light it and drop the t-shirt in there.

I call the delivery guy and order some essentials. He arrives within the hour via helicopter onto the landing pad by the outer gate.

I put the groceries away as quietly as possible. If Juliet can get some sleep then she should. One of us should.

I'm worried about her. I don't know if she's going to be okay here with just me for solace.

I haven't cooked in this kitchen in years. Usually I bring a chef with me. But when we were younger my mother would make a big breakfast herself on Sundays. A treat for herself in many ways. I'd watch her from one of the barstools. She was so beautiful and elegant. Always patient with me. She must be so hurt right now.

I make breakfast and assemble it all on a tray. There are flowers growing wild just outside the kitchen window. I push it open and pluck a few and stick them in a small glass.

I take the tray up the stairs carefully. When I walk in I bump the tray on the door jam making a loud noise and Juliet wakes with a fright. I put the tray down quickly on the floor and run to her.

"You're okay." I say, holding her, "You're okay."

She looks around disoriented and then remembers where we are. She's okay.

"You made breakfast?"

I go back for the tray, some orange juice has spilled on the toast. "Ah shit. Sorry." I say as I present her with breakfast.

"Wow. You did all this?" She picks up a flower and smells it.

"And whatever else you need for the house we can get delivered. Just let me know."

She looks down at the plate and notices the bowl of strawberries.

"Oh I can't eat those."

"What?"

"I'm allergic to strawberries. My throat will close up. We should probably put an Epipen on the shopping list."

She's allergic. Why didn't I ask her what she likes or what might kill her?

"Hey," she says, touching my arm, "It's the thought that counts. Thank you."

She moves the strawberry off the plate with a butter knife. She picks up a piece of toast. "Yum."

"It'll get better. I'll get better at this." I promise.

"Better at being a husband?"

"Better at everything."

"I don't think either of us need to be anything but us. Okay? I don't know who else to be. I don't want to pretend like we're 40-year-olds."

"You're right." I look around, "But what are we going to do?"

"I want to learn how to use that gun of yours. I want to practice driving. And I want to get stronger."

"Juliet..."