Tryst Six Venom

“YOU’RE NOT ACTUALLY dating Trace Jaeger, are you?” Amy says to Krisjen somewhere off to my right.

Calculus fills up, students pouring through the doors, and I feel Clay somewhere behind me, but I don’t turn to look.

“Of course not,” Krisjen replies. “That would involve talking. And talking is the one thing we don’t do.”

I smile to myself. I like Krisjen, simply because most Saints wouldn’t admit to the world that they sleep at my house. Or any house in the swamp.

She’s proof that Clay’s a fucking wimp.

My phone buzzes with another text, but I keep it face down, underneath my palm on my desk. I don’t care how much she wants me. I don’t care if she ‘took the first step’ and told her mom about us, or how many times she’s called in the last forty-eight hours.

And it’s fine if she can’t march her ass over here right now in front of everyone and pull me into her arms.

I just won’t trust her again for anything less.

My chest aches, still feeling how much I’d wanted to sink into a hole forever when Macon picked me up the other night. I deserve better than her.

“Hey.” Chloe smiles at me as she hugs her books and walks to the seat behind me.

“Hey.”

My phone vibrates underneath my hand, and I press the power button, turning it off completely.

“I’m trying this on.” And I feel my leather jacket that hangs on the back of my chair slide out from behind me. “It’s the best jacket,” Chloe says. “I want one. Can you buy them aged like this?”

I force a little laugh, like I’ve done all week, so Clay knows she didn’t beat me. “Yeah, that one was brought to maturation in charred oak barrels.”

She goes wide-eyed.

“I’m kidding.”

I guess I’m the only one here who knows how to make bourbon, thanks to Army.

“It’s actually just years of wear and tear,” I tell her. “Gotta put in the work.”

She hops up, standing next to me as she slips her arms into my jacket, and I don’t even mind that she doesn’t ask permission. I want Clay to see me have as many interactions that don’t include her as possible.

I look up at Chloe, her blonde hair just grazing the shoulders as she grips both sides of the zipper and models the distressed leather. Her skirt flares as she spins, and she could almost be Clay.

“It suits,” I say.

“Definitely hot,” Curtis Harbor coos to my left. “Even hotter if you didn’t have anything on underneath.”

“Ugh,” Chloe gags.

But then her eyes turn on me, and something passes behind her eyes, almost like she’s wondering herself if I’d like how that would look.

But I picture Clay, instead. Lying in my bed as I peel the jacket open and kiss her body underneath.

I clench my thighs.

“All right, point me to your supplier,” Chloe tells me, slipping out of the jacket. “I’m getting one.”

But I stop her. “Wear it,” I say, hoping Clay hears every damn word, and I don’t care how childish I seem. “You can wear it today, if you want.”

I hear a crunch, a gasp, and then Amy’s yelp, “Clay!”

“Shit,” someone growls, and I can’t hide my smile, recognizing Clay’s voice.

Oops. Someone just spilled their Starbucks.

“Are you sure?” Chloe asks me.

“It looks good.”

She puts the jacket back on and takes her seat, and it’s funny that I was jealous of Clay talking to her, and now I’m using her to make Clay jealous.

I hate it. I hate acting like this.

It’s over with Clay. Why do I want to make her suffer? Why does it feel so good for her to know that I could hook up with anyone today like she doesn’t matter?

But as Ms. Kirkpatrick starts class and the hour goes on, I can’t seem to forget she’s in the room. Behind me.

I have no doubt she’s been completely honest. I know her heart is mine.

But she ruined it. She made what happened between us dirty, and now, every memory of feeling her and holding her is covered in shit, because now I know I can’t trust her. I’ll always be waiting to be kicked to the curb again, because I’m only good enough when it’s on her terms. After hours. When no one’s around.

My mother let herself be slowly eaten alive by whatever went on in her head. The dark places. The despair. Clay hurt me hard. She won’t get a chance to kill me.

I leave the room when class is over, every step away from her down the hall, to the next class, and all the way to the end of the day feeling harder than the last, but eventually, I make it home.

I make it home without letting her corner me and convince me that we’re in love and she’ll tell her friends soon. Not today but soon.

No.

I turn my phone back on, a rolling storm of texts, missed calls, and voicemails buzzing and dinging, and I immediately go to Clay’s number, my thumb hovering over the Block option.

I haven’t read any of her texts today, but I’m dying to. I miss her. I want to know she’s dying for me.

I drop to my bed and lean back against the wall, my finger shaking over the screen. Finally, I tap it, blocking any more calls, and I erase the text thread, so I don’t look.

Forcing myself not to think, I cut us off from each other on every social media account I have. It’s not like she won’t see me or have opportunities, but maybe now realization will set in that I’m serious.

She’s not good enough for me.

A knock hits my door, and before I can look over, Army peeks his head in. “Tickets?” he asks.

Tickets?

Oh, the play. Oh, shit. How did I forget that? I’m only an understudy, so I won’t be performing, but I made the costumes, and Army and Iron like to be supportive. I quickly check my missed-call list to make sure there’s nothing from Lambert.

“On the desk,” I tell him.

He steps in and finds tickets for all my brothers. I get one for everyone, even though only two or three of them ever show up.

I don’t see anything from the theater director about performing tonight. I would’ve loved it if Callum kept his word, but on the other hand, I’m kind of glad he’ll now be off my back.

I look up to Army. “You don’t have to come.”

“We want to come.”

I smile coyly. “Dallas doesn’t want to come.”

“Dallas will be a pain in the ass until the day he dies.”

Yeah.

Army plops down next to me, a full head-and-a-half higher than me, and I don’t bother to strain my neck looking up.

Digging something out of his pocket, he hands me a key on an old ring.

I take it. “What’s this?”

I examine the silver key that looks vaguely familiar.

“Call it Macon’s belated birthday present,” he says.

It takes me a minute, and then I remember. “The Ninja?”

The bike he bought when he was in the Marines and had only himself to support. He hasn’t driven it in years, though. It’s been in the garage under a tarp.

“I thought you’d be jumping up and down,” Army says when I don’t smile or do cartwheels over finally having my own transportation finally.

“When do I ever jump up and down?” But I smile. “Why didn’t he give this to me himself?”

“Because you know why,” he retorts. “And don’t thank him. He’ll just get pissy about it.”

I chuckle as he slides off the bed. I’m pretty sure he’s right.

So instead, I tell Army, “Thank you.”

He winks at me and leaves, taking tonight’s tickets with him.

I stare at the key—my key to my very own bike—remembering what Clay felt like hanging on to me that time she rode with me.

My phone rings, and for a split second I close my eyes, the urge to answer too much to deny.

But then I remember, I blocked her number. It’s not her.

And then it occurs to me… Ms. Lambert.

My heart kicking up speed, I answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Olivia?” Lambert says. “Hi, it’s Jane. I need you to come in now.”

My stomach sinks just as an electric charge warms my blood—dread and euphoria hitting me at the same time.

“On my way,” I almost whisper and then hang up.

He did it. I’m on stage tonight.

I’m playing Mercutio.

A text rolls in, and I look down, reading.

Congratulations. I can’t wait to see your performance.

And my mouth goes dry, Callum’s double meaning of ‘performance’ hitting me like a steel rod to the kneecaps.

• • •

“I wanted to thank you,” a voice says to my right.

I look up, seeing Lizbeth, our Juliet.

She steps forward. “I was so over the old costumes,” she says. “Every little girl wants to be Juliet with her romantic hairstyle and princess dress, but…you know.”

“Shit changes.”

She breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly.”

We stand backstage, a whirl of activity up and down the hallway as people rush to get their makeup on, repair last-minute tears or lost buttons, and pace back and forth, practicing their lines. I lean against the wall, trying to get my head straight. Trying to push Callum and Clay to the wayside for the next two hours, because this is my time. I’ve begged for this for four years, and I’m not going to let them take it.

Lizbeth’s gaze falls down my body, taking in my gothic, black coat and black leather pants and boots. “Now I’m kind of wishing I was Mercutio.”

“Yeah, me too.” My heart won’t stop racing, and I feel sick. I can’t seem to channel him all of a sudden. God, I’m nervous.

She smiles, much cooler than me, but she’s been on stage several times before. I need to do this no matter how much I’m dreading it, though. How can I expect to do this for life?

“Well, break a leg,” she tells me.

I smile tightly, too afraid I’ll puke if I talk. She passes by in her black jeans and flowing, white peasant’s blouse, a black military jacket with gold buttons covering it, and her hair spilling down her back. I wish I could’ve rewritten the script like I rewrote the set and costuming, but that was a fight for another day.

I look down at my phone as if I’ll see something from Clay, but I won’t. I still have her blocked.

Walking back into the dressing room, I pass the nurse—Evie Leong, taking over my role—and tuck my phone away, heading out to the curtain. Lifting the flap, I peer through the peep holes, watching the house get seated as the lights dim.

The snow begins to fall, a perpetual night as the backdrop of the Kingdom of New York looms on the horizon, and the swords are changed out for bows and kung fu.

The audience quiets, the narrator enters from stage right, walking past the audience, finishing her monologue just as she disappears into stage left. The theater darkens, thunder cracks, and lightning glows behind the cathedral and skyscrapers as the houses of Montague and Capulet enter crowded Central Park.

Sampson and Gregory speak, bantering with each other. “Therefore, I will push Montague’s men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall!”

And then the other, “The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.”

“’Tis all one,” Sampson replies. “I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be civil with the maids; I will cut off their heads.”

That line alone was what first got me thinking I wanted this role. I’d enjoy entering stage and playing one of the production’s most enigmatic, male characters and showing them that the ‘weaker’ sex would get a few cuts in herself.

But standing here, watching the story play out, and my entrance grow closer, it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

I’m not even nauseous anymore. I peek out to the audience once more, smiling when I see my brothers slouched and clearly bored, Army and Iron sitting quietly, and Trace already asleep. Army will wake him when I come on.

And then the door at the back opens, and I notice the large frame that fills the doorway before it closes.

My heart swells a little. Macon. I watch him hide back by the wall, standing quietly, because as hard as he acts and as worried about him as I sometimes am, I know he loves me.

But still, I can’t help but scan the crowd again, searching for someone else.

The drums beat, Juliet and her mother talking about the party tonight, and I watch Lizbeth in the new costuming, wishing Clay was here. Hoping she’s here, because I want her to see this. I want her to be proud of me.

Romeo and Benvolio enter stage left, and I draw in a deep breath, close my eyes for a moment, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.

Clay.

My head swims, and somehow all the tears and anger and bitterness of years of hurt and a freshly axed heart swirl like a whirlwind, and for the first time I know that Mercutio isn’t dynamic at all. He’s lost. He’s missing that one thing that being loved gives you, and that’s why he needs Romeo. That’s why he’s protective of him. He lives through him.

Romeo must be protected at all cost.

And now, I get it.

“Nay, gentle Romeo,” I call out, stepping onto the stage. “We must have you dance.”

I hold my friend’s eyes, the spotlight on me and following me to him, and the adrenaline burns down my arms, something inside showing me the way.

I pull off my friend’s jacket, Benvolio and other maskers dancing around, and whip it off to the side, but Romeo resists me. “Not I, believe me,” he says, continuing.

I attach myself to him, his sidekick, because Mercutio adores his best friend. Needs him.

The audience laughs as I joke and jump around, and I can feel her eyes, the sadness of loss so obvious as I dive into his Queen Maab monologue. How his humor and passion are just a shield for the pain.

And he gives you that tiny peek inside before…he closes it up again. The curtain falling once more.

Tears spilling down my cheeks, breathing hard, my friends pull me to the party, and I clutch Romeo’s hand, meeting his eyes so I never have to look in the mirror and see myself.

The scene concludes, we leave stage, and I hear my brothers throw out whistles in the audience as people clap.

“You were great,” Clarke says.

But I can’t look at him. I swallow hard, something making my heart feel like it’s getting too big for my chest.

I enter the stage again for the party, for the scene with the nurse, for my battle with Tybalt… My death.

I scream, tears streaming down my face as I fall to the ground, and Mercutio realizes that this wasn’t worth it. He’d tried to protect his friend’s life, but he failed to protect his happiness. He made it worse. Just a domino in the tragedy who failed to see how short our time was.

How it wasn’t going to end unless someone changed the game.

And how, for the first time, I realize that the glaring plot hole in this story was never a plot hole at all. Whether Juliet left her parents’ home under her own two feet or in a casket, she still had the same endgame, so why fake her death at all? She just should’ve left when her father gave her the option.

But she didn’t. Because she would’ve rather her parents seen her dead than a Montague. Because she loved them and didn’t want to disappoint them.

And now, maybe, I finally understand Clay’s fear isn’t because she doesn’t love me. It’s because she loves them, too.

I don’t want what happened to Alli to happen to her. I’d rather see her from a distance than never again.