He turns into me, hands sliding around my sides and wrapping around my back. “You better get going,” he groans, “or I’ll drag you back home and have my way with you all over again.”
I round the bend and head down our street. Leaves on an old red maple tree rustle overhead as I walk. Since Romeo moved to New York, leaves have turned, fallen, and sprouted again. I used to think all summers end. I was sure of it. I thought good things didn’t last.
I was wrong.
Seasons have changed around us, but summer hasn’t ended.
As I walk, a familiar figure comes into focus. A wisp of white with a smudge of pastel blue across the upper quadrant of an unforgettable face. He’s on the step outside our building, waiting for me. There’s a black dog at his heel, looking up at him in gooey adoration.
There’s nothing unusual about this. It’s happened every day since Romeo got here. Every single day, without exception, he waits on the step for me to come home after work. When it snows, he wears a puffer jacket and a red beanie. When it rains, he stands under a big umbrella. But every day, no matter the weather, he waits for me.
It may not seem like a big deal to some, and I’m not saying it’s hugely newsworthy or anything like that, but when I see him waiting, every time, every day, my heart starts to pound and my feet leave the ground. I don’t take a breath from the second I see him until he’s in my arms.
He comes to me easily, movements graceful and fluid. Like the tide rising. Like night drawing in. Every day, Tiger jumps up on us as we embrace, barking loudly, and Romeo and I take turns telling him off.
When we’ve managed to calm Tiger, we head upstairs, and Romeo unlocks the door to our apartment. It feels like stepping into a Renaissance painting. A moody, sensualpainting with muted colors and cracks in the paint. His things and my things have blended together. A perfect cocktail that smells like home and makes me happy.
I inhale deeply, taking it all in. “Mm, God, that smells good… Is that—”
“Chicken fajitas,” he says, beaming.
The pile of pages has been neatly stacked for the first time in weeks and a single candle flickers in the space cleared on the dining table. A bottle of wine and two glasses have been set out. I turn to him and immediately notice something about him is different. There’s a spark in his eyes. A secret.
“Are we celebrating something?” I ask.
He gives me a typical Romeo shrug, one that reaches inside me and shakes my spine gently. “It’s no big deal,” he says, holding a hand up to slow me. “It’s early. It’s not worth getting excited about…”
“Romeo!! For the love of God, what? Tell me!”
“Okay.” He steadies his breathing. “So, I heard back from that agent today. You know, the one I really liked?”
I nod, suddenly unsure I can trust my voice. “And…?”
“And she’s requested a full manuscript.”
Within days of Romeo moving in, it became clear that “making notes” had graduated to full-fledged writing. He wrote all summer long, determined and unstoppable,typing late into the night and starting well before sunrise. After much begging, he handed me the first three chapters. From the first word, I was transported. His words in black and white had the same effect on me they always had when he spoke them. The same but different. Better. Clearer. The hallucinations they invoked were both terrifyingly vivid and unspeakably brilliant.
“This is it, Romeo,” I cried. “This is what you’re meant to do. This is what you were made for.”
“But, Tiger,” he said sweetly, “I was made to love you.”
It turns out he’s writing a series. Five interlinked books about mythical creatures and unlikely heroes. Winged beasts and real-life events. Tragedies and misunderstandings. Losing people and finding yourself. It’s a story about magic and epic adventures, sure, but mostly, it’s a story about love.
By the time school was due to start late last August, I’d convinced him he’s writing a story that needs to be told.
He finished the first book recently, and I can hardly describe what it did to me when he placed the manuscript in my hands. I felt the weight of his words, a physical thing, and the lightness of the piece of his soul he imbibed it with. For the longest time, I just held it, looking down and reading the title over and over.
Inferno
“Don’t get overexcited,” he warns. “It’s a long shot and a long road with no guarantees, you know that.”
“Overexcited? Are you kidding me? This woman is about to read the best book of her whole goddamn life. Of course I’m overexcited!”
Romeo shakes his head and smiles tolerantly at me. “Oh, Jude, you only think that because I wrote you into the story.”
He’s wrong. You’ll see. I know it. I can feel it in my chest. A certainty. A sure thing.
The only thing I’ve ever been more sure about is that I was put on this Earth to love Romeo.
